Chapter 7: The Morning After
The first thing Vance registered was the familiar ache in his shoulders – the old sports injury from high school, not the deep, inner soreness of being relentlessly filled. He blinked against the Sunday morning sun streaming through his grimy window, painting dust motes gold. He stretched, a long, languid movement, his limbs unfolding easily in the narrow bed. Flat chest. Narrow hips. The wiry strength back in his arms. Relief, warm and dizzying, flooded him. "Oh thank god," he breathed, the sound rough but undeniably his voice. He turned, a grin already forming. "Molls, it’s over! We’re—"
The grin died. Molly sat bolt upright beside him, sheets pooled around her waist. Her dark curls were tangled, her face bone-white, eyes wide with pure terror as she stared at her phone screen. The stark light illuminated the delicate curve of her bare shoulder, the familiar swell of her small breasts. She was Molly again. But her expression wasn't relief. It was horror.
"Vance," she whispered, the name sounding strange, choked. She thrust the phone towards him. The harsh glow illuminated the calendar app. Circled in red: the next full moon. Three days away.
The relief curdled instantly, replaced by a cold, sickening dread that dropped straight into his gut. The memories didn't vanish with the changed bodies. They crashed over him simultaneously, a tidal wave of contradictions:
The rough bark of the oak tree under his palms as he climbed, the triumphant yell as he reached the highest branch he dared... tangled with the scratchy lace of a yellow dress catching on rhododendron thorns, the hot sting of tears on his cheeks as he hid, scraped knees burning beneath frilly white socks.
Molly’s nervous giggle in his ear that first time on the lumpy green couch, his clumsy fumbling, the profound sense of discovery... overlaid with the brutal certainty of being pinned beneath her transformed strength, the raw, tearing stretch of her cock, the helpless surrender that felt like an ancient truth.
The cracked mug with the grumpy cartoon cat he bought her... sitting on a kitchen counter that sometimes felt like his cluttered haven, sometimes like Vanessa’s curated space adorned with volleyball trophies he’d never won.
He clutched his head, the physical sensation bizarrely grounding. His own brown hair, the familiar texture, the single defiant green streak falling across his forehead. "The memories..." he gasped. "Both... they're both there. Clashing. Like... like radio static."
Molly finally tore her gaze from the phone. Her green eyes were huge, haunted. "It didn't just change our bodies," she breathed, her voice trembling. "It changed... us. Who we were. Who we are." She looked down at her own hands – slender, delicate, not Max’s thick, calloused ones. "And we... we fucked. Constantly. Last night. All day Saturday." Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "Because of the curse. Because it made us."
The implications slammed into Vance with the force of a physical blow. The curse’s demand. The relentless, mindless coupling. And Ophelia’s chilling words, echoing with terrifying clarity: "Fuck on the nights of the full moon while cursed... and Vance will surely end up becoming pregnant."
His hand flew instinctively to his abdomen. Flat. Firm. Absolutely male. But the phantom sensation lingered – a deep, residual ache, the ghostly echo of being stretched and filled, the terrifying, slick emptiness he’d felt whenever Max withdrew. And woven into that physical echo was the memory – no, memories – of vulnerability, of being the recipient, the one carried, comforted, penetrated. Vanessa’s memories felt as real as Vance’s.
"We did," Vance whispered, the words tasting like ash. He looked at Molly, really looked at her. The dark circles under her eyes mirrored his own exhaustion, but hers held a deeper terror. "We fucked like... like animals. Because the curse wanted us to. Because it was rewriting everything. And now..." His gaze flicked back to the phone screen. "Three days."
Molly flinched as if struck. "Pregnant," she choked out. The word hung in the stale air of the room, obscene and impossible. "But... you're... you're you again. Right? It can't... not like this?"
"Can it?" Vance countered, the frantic edge returning to his voice. He threw back the covers, scrambling out of bed. The cool air hit his naked skin, a familiar sensation, yet utterly alien after the constant awareness of different curves, different sensitivities. He paced the small space between the bed and the cluttered desk. His baseball glove lay discarded near a textbook – a remnant of his past. He kicked it aside, a surge of irrational anger flaring. "We don't know what the rules are! We changed back, but the memories stayed. The... the urge... it felt real, Molly! The need, the way my... Vanessa's... body responded..." He stopped abruptly, wrapping his arms around himself, a shudder running through him. "What if... what if the potential is still there? What if next time..." He couldn't finish.
Molly pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly. The sheet slipped, revealing a faint, purpling bruise on her inner thigh – a stark reminder of Max’s possessive grip. "We can't let it happen again," she said, her voice tight with a determination fighting against profound fear. "We have to lock ourselves away. Separate rooms. Chained to opposite walls if we have to."
A harsh, brittle laugh escaped Vance. "Did that work last time? The curse doesn't give a damn about locks, Molls. It changes reality. It rewrote our childhood!" He gestured wildly around the room. "One minute, this was Vanessa's place with her fucking volleyball trophies, the next it's back to this... mess. What's stopping it from just... popping us into the same bed again? Making the walls disappear? Making us want it so badly we tear the chains apart?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. The flickering candle from the night before had long since guttered out, leaving only the harsh, revealing sunlight. Dust motes danced in the beams, indifferent to their terror. Molly buried her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking silently. Vance stared at the circled date on her phone screen, still glowing faintly on the rumpled sheets. Three days. Seventy-two hours. A countdown to either another terrifying transformation or the unspeakable horror of a pregnancy blooming in a body that shouldn't be able to host it. Or both.
He looked down at his hands – his own hands. Strong, capable, masculine. But the phantom sensation of Vanessa’s smaller, softer fingers, the memory of them tracing Max’s jawline with possessive affection, lingered just beneath the surface. The line between Vance and Vanessa felt terrifyingly thin, blurred by the curse’s indelible ink. The apartment walls seemed to pulse faintly, a silent threat. Waiting. Hungry. The full moon was coming.
The flat plane of Vance’s chest beneath his worn band tee felt alien, reassuringly solid yet somehow wrong after the phantom weight of Vanessa’s breasts. He traced the familiar ridge of his collarbone, grounding himself. Molly hadn’t moved, her face still buried in her knees, the sheet tented around her like a shroud. The circled date on her phone screen pulsed in his vision. Three days. Seventy-two hours ticking down to oblivion or something infinitely worse. He forced air into his lungs, the scent of stale sex and dust suddenly overwhelming. "We need coffee," he rasped, the mundane declaration absurd against the cosmic dread. "Strong. Black. And... plans. Bad ones, probably." Molly lifted her head slowly. Her eyes were red-rimmed, haunted pools reflecting the harsh sunlight. A shaky nod was her only reply.
The next two days dissolved into a disorienting haze. Vance’s fractured memories warred constantly, a relentless static drowning out the present. Monday morning dawned grey and drizzly. He stumbled towards campus, Vance’s memory insisting he had a shift at the campus tech lab starting at nine. He pushed open the door, the familiar hum of computers and chatter washing over him. His supervisor, Dave, frowned from behind the counter. "Vance? Thought you swapped shifts? Molly called yesterday, said you were covering her Lit seminar observation?" Vance froze. Vanessa’s memory surfaced: sitting in Professor Armitage’s stuffy lecture hall, diligently taking notes while Max… Max worked construction. The conflicting images – soldering a motherboard vs. scribbling about postmodernism – collided violently. "Right," Vance choked out, his face flushing. "Forgot. Swapped. Yeah." He fled, the scent of ozone and hot plastic clinging to him.
Tuesday was worse. Molly arrived at her advanced calculus tutorial only to find Vance’s lanky frame already occupying her usual seat, his brow furrowed over a differential equations problem set. Her own Vanessa-memory supplied the solution path instantly, while her Molly-self recoiled at the numbers. "Vance?" she hissed, sliding into the seat beside him. Students glanced over. He jumped, blinking rapidly. "Molls? What… why are you…?" He looked down at the textbook, genuine confusion twisting his features. "I thought… I thought I had calc now? Vanessa always hated mornings, so Max drove her…" His voice trailed off, the name ‘Max’ slipping out with terrifying ease. Molly grabbed his arm, her nails digging in. "Outside. Now." The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sickly shadows as she pulled him into the empty hallway, the scent of chalk dust and floor wax sharp in her nose.
Back in the apartment, chaos reigned. Vance’s baseball glove lay atop a stack of Vanessa’s imagined volleyball theory books. Molly’s favorite mug sat beside a chipped, greasy thermos flask Max would have carried. They tried to strategize, to fortify. Vance nailed planks across his bedroom doorframe, the hammer blows echoing like a frantic heartbeat. Molly meticulously researched lunar cycles and obscure curses online, ancient forums blurring before her exhausted eyes. "Ophelia mentioned binding rituals," she muttered, scrolling frantically. "Blood sigils, iron chains… utter nonsense, probably." Vance paused, hammer mid-swing, sweat stinging his eyes. "Nonsense is all we've got," he grunted, driving another nail home. The sharp scent of pine sawdust filled the air briefly, then faded beneath the pervasive smell of their fear.
Reality flickered. One moment, Vance was tightening a bolt on the reinforced hasp, the rough metal cool under his fingers. The next, he was adjusting the strap of a non-existent sports bra, phantom sweat trickling between breasts that weren’t there. He gasped, dropping the wrench. It clattered loudly on the hardwood floor near where a volleyball trophy briefly shimmered into existence before vanishing. Molly cried out, clutching her head. "Did you see—?" "Yeah," Vance breathed, leaning against the shuddering wall. "The trophy. Again." The apartment itself felt unstable, a thin veneer over the curse’s shifting landscape. They found bruises neither remembered getting – a dark smudge on Molly’s hip mirroring the grip of Max’s large hand, a faint ache in Vance’s jaw where Vanessa might have been playfully bitten. Each mark was a silent accusation.
Wednesday evening arrived, thick with impending doom. They sat on the lumpy green couch, untouched mugs of cold coffee on the scarred coffee table. The silence was a physical weight. Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of orange and white through the rain-streaked window. Strangely the Moon hasn't crest the horizon yet, but it was just a matter of time. The question was though, would it even effect them if they stayed inside, because it would need direct contact, or would still change them regardless. Either way they were ready for the inevitable. They decided to stay at separate places.
Vance at his apartment, and Molly at hers. That way they wouldn't be tempted to fuck. But how little they knew. For these curse are very strong.
The reinforced door felt flimsy against the curse’s pervasive hum vibrating through the floorboards. Molly clutched the greasy thermos Max would have used, her knuckles white, while Vance’s phantom breasts ached beneath his shirt as he stared at his baseball glove. "Separate apartments have to work," Vance rasped, the green streak in his hair catching the sickly light, his voice raw with a fear that tasted metallic. "No calls, no texts, no fucking window-peeking, Molls – just three nights locked down alone until this goddamn moon wanes."