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May. 12th, 2017 06:56 pmdated May 18, 2017
Jillie wakes up feeling . . . different. She doesn't move for a few minutes, watching her bedroom wall from between the covers and the pillow. It's daylight, and she's pretty sure it's late enough to be closer to lunch than breakfast. She shifts a little to get up, but . . . something feels wrong. She sits up suddenly, hand flying to her head.
And then to her chest.
It's flat.
Well, not flat, not flat like a countertop. There's some musculature there that gives it form, but it's— her tits are gone. Her tits are pecs. Her tank tops fit oddly without them, and she shifts to adjust them.
"What the fuck," she says, and her voice. She gasps and reaches to touch her throat. There's a knob at the front where there hadn't been before. She follows it up, to her chin. It's wider than it had been. Her skin feels rough with early morning stubble. Why the fuck does she have stubble?
She trips on her way out of the bed. Her feet are too big, legs too long. Her underwear is too tight, and she refuses to think about why that is. She stumbles into her bathroom and braces her hands against the sink, staring into the mirror.
Jack is staring back.
It's not exactly Jack. The Jack looking out at her isn't as lean as her brother, and it shows around his jaw and down his sides. She doesn't have his ink, either, so his arms are unusually bare.
The sound that leaves her mouth twists her brother's face comically, and under any other circumstances, she might laugh about it. As it is, when she stumbles back away from her reflection, a hysterical sound does bubble up. She makes her way back into her bedroom and sits heavily on the bed. She pops up like there's a tack under her as soon as she feels what else has changed, and she paces. She tugs on her hair, which is suddenly short at the sides and a little longer on the top.
"What the fuck," she says, in a voice that's so like Jack's it's eerie. "What the fuck. Jack? Dee!? Jackson!"
Jillie wakes up feeling . . . different. She doesn't move for a few minutes, watching her bedroom wall from between the covers and the pillow. It's daylight, and she's pretty sure it's late enough to be closer to lunch than breakfast. She shifts a little to get up, but . . . something feels wrong. She sits up suddenly, hand flying to her head.
And then to her chest.
It's flat.
Well, not flat, not flat like a countertop. There's some musculature there that gives it form, but it's— her tits are gone. Her tits are pecs. Her tank tops fit oddly without them, and she shifts to adjust them.
"What the fuck," she says, and her voice. She gasps and reaches to touch her throat. There's a knob at the front where there hadn't been before. She follows it up, to her chin. It's wider than it had been. Her skin feels rough with early morning stubble. Why the fuck does she have stubble?
She trips on her way out of the bed. Her feet are too big, legs too long. Her underwear is too tight, and she refuses to think about why that is. She stumbles into her bathroom and braces her hands against the sink, staring into the mirror.
Jack is staring back.
It's not exactly Jack. The Jack looking out at her isn't as lean as her brother, and it shows around his jaw and down his sides. She doesn't have his ink, either, so his arms are unusually bare.
The sound that leaves her mouth twists her brother's face comically, and under any other circumstances, she might laugh about it. As it is, when she stumbles back away from her reflection, a hysterical sound does bubble up. She makes her way back into her bedroom and sits heavily on the bed. She pops up like there's a tack under her as soon as she feels what else has changed, and she paces. She tugs on her hair, which is suddenly short at the sides and a little longer on the top.
"What the fuck," she says, in a voice that's so like Jack's it's eerie. "What the fuck. Jack? Dee!? Jackson!"
