You blink, and the world shifts.

One moment you're in your apartment, scrolling mindless threads, the next there's a flash of green light and you're falling—tumbling through void until you hit soft moss with a breathless *oof*. The air smells wrong: thick, green, alive. Your body feels wrong too. Lighter. Smaller. When you push yourself up, you see teal forelegs ending in tiny hooves. A glance back reveals a bouncy cyan mane and a tail to match. Your heart hammers as the realization slams home.

You're a filly. A tiny, female pony. In Equestria.

Panic surges. You scramble to your feet—hooves—and bolt into the underbrush. Branches whip at your face, roots snag your legs, but you don't stop until your lungs burn and your new, smaller body tremhes with exhaustion. The forest around you is the Everfree: twisted trees, unnatural shadows, distant howls. You've read enough stories to know no pony comes here willingly.

Hours pass. Maybe days. Time blurs. Hunger gnaws, thirst scratches your throat, and the constant damp chill seeps into your bones. You're lost, utterly, hopelessly lost. Your adult mind screams in a body that feels far too young, too fragile. Every rustle in the leaves makes you flinch.

Night falls. The temperature drops sharply. You stumble blindly, hooves aching, until the ground suddenly gives way beneath you.

You fall.

You land in a writhing sea of cool, smooth bodies.

Snakes. Dozens—hundreds—of them, tangled in a living knot at the bottom of a deep, leafy pit. It's breeding season; you can tell by the way they coil and twist around one another, sleek bodies sliding in rhythmic, sensual friction. The air is thick with their musky scent. They are cool to the touch, seeking warmth wherever they can find it.

You try to scream, but it comes out as a high, frightened whinny. You thrash, trying to climb the slippery walls of the pit, but the snakes shift with you, flowing over your small form like liquid. Their scales are silky, almost caressing as they glide across your coat, your belly, the sensitive insides of your thighs. You feel their coolness everywhere, a stark contrast to your own rising body heat.

One particularly thick snake—dark green with faint bands—slides between your hind legs. You freeze. Its blunt head nudges curiously at the soft, furless slit hidden beneath your tail. You've never felt anything there before; the body is virgin, untouched, the delicate folds sealed by a thin barrier of innocence. The snake senses the warmth radiating from that moist crevice, the inviting heat of living flesh.

It presses forward.

The first touch is cool, slick, almost gentle. The snake's head is smooth and tapered, easing between your untouched lips with surprising patience. You gasp, legs trembling, as the pressure builds. There's a moment of resistance—your hymen, thin and fragile—and then a sharp, bright sting as it gives way. Warmth trickles down your inner thigh; a single drop of virgin blood. The pain is brief, quickly overtaken by the strange, full sensation of the snake sliding deeper.

It's thick enough to stretch you open, the smooth scales gliding against your sensitive inner walls with every inch it claims. You feel every ripple of its body as it wriggles inward, seeking the deepest warmth. The cool length warms quickly inside your heat, and the motion—the constant, intimate undulating—sends sparks of unwanted sensation through your core.

Another follows. Thinner, quicker, it slips in alongside the first, coiling lazily as it explores the slick passage now slicker still with your body's confused response. Your new marehood clenches instinctively around the intruders, but that only seems to encourage them; the movement massages your inner walls, rubbing over spots you didn't know existed. Each twist sends shivers up your spine, a mix of violation and traitorous pleasure.

More come. A third, slender and eager, wriggles past the others to push even deeper, its tip brushing your cervix in a way that makes your hips jerk involuntarily. The pit around you is alive with their brethren, but these few have claimed the warmest, wettest haven: you. They move in slow, sensual waves, breeding instincts guiding them to burrow and coil inside the tight, velvety heat of your virgin body.

Your breath comes in short, filly-soft pants. The stretch is immense for such a small frame, yet your body yields, walls fluttering around the cool, living intruders. Every subtle shift of their bodies strokes nerves you never knew you had, building an aching heat low in your belly. You're helpless beneath the sensation—trapped in the pit, pinned by living ropes of muscle and scale, filled in the most intimate way possible.

The snakes settle deeper, curling together in the warm, moist cradle of your womb, content. Their movements slow to a gentle, constant massage. Your hind legs quiver; your tail flags involuntarily. The adult mind trapped in this tiny body reels at the wrongness, the overwhelming intimacy of it all—yet the sensations are undeniable, rolling through you in slow, liquid waves.

You lie there in the dark, surrounded by the soft rustle of scales, filled and claimed by creatures that sought only warmth. The forest night presses close, and somewhere deep inside, the gentle writhing continues, intimate and unending.

===

Dawn breaks in thin, gray streaks through the canopy. The snakes have thinned out overnight—most slithered away in the pre-dawn chill, leaving only cool, empty coils around your small body. You’re trembling, sore, stretched in ways you can’t fully process. When you finally gather the strength to scramble up the pit’s leafy wall, hooves slipping and scrabbling, only one snake remains with you.

It’s the thick, dark-green one with the faint bands—the first to breach you. The others have gone, but this one has burrowed deeper than the rest, curling snugly into the warm cradle of your womb like it belongs there. You feel it as a heavy, living weight low in your belly, a constant, gentle pressure that shifts whenever you move.

You haul yourself out of the pit and collapse on the moss, legs splayed, chest heaving. The forest is quieter now, birds beginning their morning calls. You roll onto your back, hind legs parted, and stare down at yourself in dazed horror.

Your marehood is puffy, flushed, still glistening from the night’s events. The lips are slightly parted, tender and sensitive in the cool air. You reach back with a trembling forehoof, gently spreading yourself, and there—nestled just inside the entrance—is the blunt, rounded head of the snake.

It senses the open air and slides forward an inch or two, slow and curious. Its scales gleam wetly with your own slick. The forked tongue flicks out—once, twice—tasting the morning, tasting you. The sensation is electric: that delicate, fluttering touch against your swollen clit and inner folds makes your hips jerk and a soft, involuntary whine escape your throat.

Then, as if deciding the outside world is too cold, it retreats. Smooth muscle ripples, and the snake glides back inside, deeper, until only the faintest bulge in your lower belly shows its presence. The motion is slow, deliberate, intimate—like a lover withdrawing after a thrust. Your walls flutter around its retreating length, trying to grip, to hold, and the pleasure-pain of it leaves you gasping.

You lie there for a long minute, staring at the sky, feeling it settle again in your womb. A living thing, curled contentedly in the warmest place it’s ever found.

Over the next hours you try everything.

First, gentle coaxing. You find a sunny clearing and lie on your side, hind legs drawn up, hoof carefully stroking your marehood. You part the lips, whisper soft nonsense in your high filly voice—“Come on out, please, it’s safe, just come out…”—and wait. The snake stirs at the rush of cooler air. Its head emerges again, tongue flicking rapidly now, tasting your scent, the sunlight, the breeze. You feel the cool tip brush your clit and you shudder, thighs clenching. For a moment you think it might leave, but no—it slides forward only far enough to bask, head resting just outside your entrance like a guardian, then languidly withdraws once more, deeper, curling tight.

You try again later, squatting awkwardly over a fallen log, bearing down as if foaling. You strain until your legs shake, face flushed with effort, marehood winking and clenching visibly. A thick coil of the snake’s body bulges at your entrance, stretching you open for a breathless second. You feel the slick scales slide against your ring of muscle, the pressure exquisite and terrifying. The tongue flicks out again, tasting your straining efforts, and then it simply… slips back in. As if your body is pulling it home.

By afternoon you’re desperate. You find a shallow stream and wade in up to your barrel, hoping the cold water will drive it out. The shock of it makes you squeal, marehood clenching hard around the intruder. The snake reacts instantly—wriggling deeper, seeking the core heat of your womb, its movements massaging your inner walls in slow, rolling waves that force a low, embarrassed moan from your lips. When you stumble out, dripping, it’s settled even more comfortably than before.

You collapse on the bank, panting, legs spread wide. Your hoof returns between your thighs almost without permission, rubbing slow circles over your aching clit as you feel the snake shift lazily inside you. Each gentle stroke makes it respond—a subtle ripple, a coil tightening, pressing against places that send sparks up your spine. You hate how good it feels. You hate how your body has already begun to accept it, to crave the constant, living fullness.

The sun lowers. You’re still lost in the Everfree, still a tiny filly with an adult mind screaming in frustration and shameful arousal. And deep inside, curled warm and safe in your womb, the snake sleeps—occasionally stirring just enough to remind you it has no intention of leaving.

It has found its perfect home.

===

Night falls again in the Everfree, colder than the last. You curl up beneath the roots of an ancient oak, small body shivering despite the thick moss you’ve burrowed into. The snake shifts inside you—slow, deliberate, like it’s turning over in sleep—and the motion drags a helpless whimper from your throat. Your hind legs twitch apart without permission, marehood winking once, twice, as the living weight settles deeper.

You hate it. You hate it so much it burns behind your eyes.

You were a man once. Twenty-something years of memories: late nights on imageboards, cheap beer, the weight of a human body that belonged to you. Choices. Control. A dick that answered to your hand, not this slick, needy slit that clenches around a cold-blooded intruder like it was made for it.

The violation sits in your chest like a stone. Every time the snake moves, it’s a reminder that something else is using your body for shelter, for warmth, for whatever instinct drives it to coil inside your womb and refuse to leave. You feel colonized. Stolen from. The word rape flickers through your mind and you flinch from it—too big, too human a word for what happened in that pit—but it lingers all the same.

Shame comes next, hot and sour. You tried to get it out. You begged, strained, touched yourself in ways that make your ears burn to remember. And every time it slid back in, your body welcomed it—walls fluttering, slick easing the way, a shameful pulse of pleasure blooming low in your belly. You came once this afternoon, just from the slow drag of its body resettling, hips bucking against nothing while tears streaked your cheeks. You bit your foreleg to muffle the cry, hating the high, filly-sweet sound of it.

You feel filthy. Defiled. But worse than that—you feel broken, because part of you is starting to adjust.

The snake’s movements have become familiar. When the air cools, it coils tighter, pressing against places that make your breath hitch. When you walk, its weight rocks gently inside you, a constant, intimate friction that keeps you half-aroused and aching. You’ve caught yourself walking slower, tail flagged a little higher, choosing paths where the underbrush brushes your swollen teats and sends sparks up to where the snake rests.

You’re terrified of what that means.

Loneliness creeps in at the edges. Days alone in this endless forest, no pony voices, no human ones either. The snake is the only living thing that touches you now. It doesn’t judge. Doesn’t speak. Just stays—warm when it basks in your heat, cool when it slides out to taste the air and then returns, tongue flicking delicately against your clit like a kiss before it vanishes inside again.

Sometimes, in the dark, you talk to it.

“Get out,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Please just leave me alone.”

It answers with a slow ripple that strokes your inner walls and leaves you panting.

Other times, exhausted and shaking, you murmur something different.

“…stay warm, okay? Just… don’t go too deep.”

You hate yourself for that most of all.

You’re trapped between two unbearable truths: you desperately want it gone, and some traitorous part of you is starting to fear the day it might actually listen. The emptiness it would leave behind feels worse, somehow, than the violation of its presence.

Tears come then, hot against your cheeks. You press your face into your forelegs and sob—quiet, broken sounds that belong to a frightened filly, not the man you used to be. The snake stirs at the shaking of your body, slides forward just enough for its head to emerge. The forked tongue tastes the salt of your tears carried on the air between your thighs, flicks gently against your aching folds once, twice—comfort or curiosity, you can’t tell.

Then it slips back inside, curling tight, as if to say: I’m still here.

You cry harder, legs splayed, hips rocking helplessly into empty air while the thing inside you holds you together and tears you apart at the same time.

You don’t know how much longer you can stand feeling both claimed and utterly alone.

===

Days bleed into one another until you lose count. The forest is a maze of thorns and shadows, and your small hooves are raw, your belly constantly aching with that heavy, living weight. The snake has become a rhythm in your life: a slow coil when you rest, a teasing slide when the air shifts, its tongue occasionally flicking out to taste the world before retreating into your warmth. You’ve stopped trying to force it out. Your body has learned the shape of it too well.

You smell woodsmoke before you see the hut—spices, herbs, something earthy and comforting that cuts through the Everfree’s rot. Hope flickers, fragile and painful. You stumble toward the scent, pushing through curtains of vines until the clearing opens: a twisted tree carved into a home, masks hanging from branches, cauldrons bubbling softly.

The door opens. A zebra steps out—striped, gold-ringed, calm-eyed. Zecora.

You freeze. Your legs give out. You collapse in the dirt at her hooves, and everything you’ve been holding back shatters.

Words spill out of you in a frantic, high-pitched rush—nothing like the rhymes you half-expect from her, just raw, broken babble.

“I—I was a guy, okay? A human guy! Twenty-four, lived in a shitty apartment, spent all day on 4chan and Reddit and—fuck—greentexts about this exact thing happening and now it’s real and I’m a filly and there’s a snake and it’s inside me and it won’t come out and it feels— it feels—”

You’re sobbing, forehooves scrabbling at the ground, tail tucked tight even as your hind legs splay from exhaustion. Your voice cracks on every other word, swinging between a filly’s squeak and the deeper cadence of the man you used to be.

“Internet—screens—keyboards—porn—cars—pizza—none of it’s here and I’m small and everything hurts and it’s warm inside me but it’s wrong, it’s so wrong—”

Zecora’s calm fractures. Her ears pin back. She kneels swiftly, one striped foreleg reaching to steady you, voice soft with worry rather than rhyme.

“Little one, breathe. You are safe now—come inside, let warmth ease your brow.”

You let her guide you in. The hut smells of drying herbs and potion steam. She settles you on a woven mat near the fire, wraps a blanket around your trembling frame. You curl into it, still shaking, still leaking nonsense.

“Anon,” you mumble. “That’s what they called us. Anonymous. I had a name but I don’t—I don’t remember it anymore. Just Anon. And now I’m… this.”

Zecora listens without interrupting, brewing something that smells of chamomile and mint. When she brings the cup to your lips you drink greedily, the warmth spreading through your chest. For a moment the snake shifts, disturbed by the heat, and you whimper.

Zecora notices the way your hind legs twitch, the subtle bulge low in your barrel, the way your tail keeps lifting and then clamping down again. Her eyes narrow with concern.

“Little filly, something troubles you deeper still. Show me where the pain is—let me see your ill.”

You hesitate, face burning beneath your coat. But you’re too tired to hide anymore. You roll onto your back, blanket falling away, hind legs parting with shameful ease. Your marehood is flushed, lips slightly parted from days of constant stimulation, glistening faintly even now.

Zecora’s breath catches.

The snake chooses that moment to stir. Its blunt head emerges slowly between your folds, scales gleaming with your slick. The forked tongue flicks out—once, twice—tasting the warm air of the hut, the herbal steam, the zebra’s shock. It lingers there, half-out, resting against your swollen clit like it’s sunning itself.

Zecora recoils with a stifled gasp, hooves scraping the floor. Her eyes are wide, stripes stark against suddenly pale fur.

“By the spirits… a serpent dwells within this child? This is no natural bond—dark and wild.”

You whine, hips jerking as the tongue flicks again, sending sparks through your oversensitive nerves. “It won’t leave,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I’ve tried everything. Cold water, pushing, begging… it just goes back in. It likes it there.”

Zecora steadies herself, though horror lingers in her expression. She leans closer—not touching, just observing—as the snake tastes the air once more, then languidly withdraws. The motion is slow, sensual, scales dragging over every ridge inside you until it coils deep again, leaving you empty-mouthed and trembling.

The zebra’s voice is quieter now, almost reverent with dismay.

“This is no mere parasite, nor simple beast. It has claimed your womb as its chosen feast—of warmth, of shelter. I have potions, salves, and rhyme, but to evict a tenant so entwined… may take great time.”

You curl back into the blanket, tears fresh on your cheeks. “I just want it out. I want to be… me again. Or at least not this.”

Zecora settles beside you, one hoof gently stroking your mane. For the first time since the pit, another living being touches you with kindness instead of instinct. It breaks something open in your chest.

You cry against her striped shoulder while the snake sleeps contentedly inside you, undisturbed by the firelight, the herbs, or the zebra’s quiet, horrified resolve to help.

===

Days turn into weeks in the warm, herb-scented confines of Zecora’s hut. The Everfree howls outside, but inside there is routine: steaming potions at dawn, poultices at dusk, quiet hours where the zebra hums old Zebrican lullabies while grinding roots and petals.

Zecora tries everything her lore offers.

First come the bitter teas—wormwood and feverfew, meant to make the body inhospitable to parasites. You drink them obediently, face scrunched at the taste, while the snake simply coils tighter in your womb, basking in your rising fever-heat like it’s a sunbeam.

Then the salves: slick, cool pastes of aloe and serpent-repellent herbs smeared gently between your hind legs by Zecora’s careful hooves. You lie on your back, legs splayed, cheeks burning as she works the mixture inside you with a smooth wooden applicator. The snake stirs at the intrusion, sliding forward to taste the unfamiliar scent on its tongue. Zecora freezes as its head emerges, glistening, forked tongue flicking against the salve—and against your swollen clit—before it retreats deeper than before, as if insulted by the offering.

Smoke baths follow: bundles of sage and cedar burned beneath a woven basket you sit in, steam rising to coax the creature out. You sweat and tremble, marehood winking in the humid heat, and the snake responds by writhing slowly, massaging your inner walls until your hips buck and a broken moan escapes. Zecora averts her eyes, ears flat, murmuring apologies.

She even tries gentle magic—crystals placed along your barrel, chants in her rolling native tongue. A soft glow bathes your lower belly, and for one hopeful moment the snake shifts downward, head emerging fully, tongue tasting the charged air. You gasp, straining to push, but it hesitates… then glides back in with deliberate slowness, scales dragging over every sensitive ridge until you’re left shaking and empty-handed.

Nothing works. No potion, no herb, no rhyme or ritual prepared her for a serpent that has chosen a living womb as its permanent burrow. Zecora’s frustration grows quiet but palpable; her golden eyes linger on the subtle bulge of your abdomen with something close to defeat.

Physically, you heal. The rawness from the pit fades. Your coat gleams again from Zecora’s grooming, your hooves stop bleeding, and the constant hunger of the forest is replaced by filling stews and sweet mangoes. You gain a little weight—soft curves on your small filly frame, teats fuller and more sensitive beneath you.

Mentally, you are only marginally better. The babbling has stopped; you speak in short sentences now, voice still high and filly-soft, but laced with exhaustion. Nightmares come less often. You can sit by the fire without sobbing. But the snake remains, and that is the fracture that will not mend.

It moves when it pleases—slow, sensual ripples that catch you off-guard.

While you’re stirring a cauldron, it shifts and presses against a spot deep inside that makes your knees buckle. The wooden spoon clatters; you grip the edge of the pot, biting your lip until it bleeds to keep from crying out as the climax rolls through you in helpless waves. Zecora looks up from her mortar, sees your flushed face and trembling legs, and quietly turns away to give you privacy you don’t really have.

While you’re bathing in the wooden tub, warm water lapping at your barrel, the snake slides partly out to taste the steam. Its cool body drags slowly against your clit, tongue flicking in quick, curious darts. You grip the tub’s edge, head thrown back, and come with a strangled whinny that echoes off the hut walls. Tears follow immediately—hot, angry, ashamed. You sink lower in the water, hiding your face against your forelegs, while the snake retreats contentedly, as if rewarded.

At night it’s worst. Curled on your mat beside Zecora’s larger one, you drift toward sleep only for the snake to begin a slow, rhythmic coiling—stretching your walls, rubbing insistently against that cluster of nerves no filly your apparent age should know about. The pleasure builds unbidden, relentless. Your hips rock into the blanket, breath hitching in tiny, desperate filly gasps. When the orgasm crashes over you, it’s always sudden and shattering; your whole body arches, marehood clenching hard around the living intruder, milking it deeper as if thanking it. Then the tears come—silent at first, then shaking sobs you try to muffle against the pillow.

Zecora wakes sometimes. She doesn’t speak, just slides closer and wraps a striped foreleg around you, letting you cry against her chest until you’re spent. You cling to her warmth, hating how much you need it, hating the snake for making you need anything at all.

“I’m sorry, little one,” she whispers once, voice thick. “I have failed you in this trial. No brew or chant can break this vile… bond.”

You don’t answer. You just press your face harder into her coat and feel the snake settle again, warm and sated from the climax it stole from you.

The days continue. You are cleaner, fed, safer. But every unexpected peak of pleasure chips another piece from what’s left of the man you were, leaving only a trembling filly who cries herself to sleep with a serpent curled possessively in her womb.

===

Moonlight filters through the carved masks hanging outside the hut, casting striped shadows across Zecora’s sleeping mat. She lies awake, ears flicking at every small sound from the smaller mat nearby. The filly—green coat, cyan mane, no cutie mark, no name she will give—sleeps fitfully, legs twitching, breath hitching in tiny, stifled gasps.

Zecora’s mind circles the same thoughts it has for weeks.

A lost child, wandered too deep into the Everfree. Terrified, babbling nonsense about places and things that cannot exist—screens, metal beasts, a life before hooves. Trauma does strange things to a young mind; fear can invent whole worlds to escape the real one. And then the snake… Spirits above, the snake.

She has seen parasites before: bloodworms in the river zebras, burrowing vines that latch to the heart-root of trees. But nothing like this. A serpent that has claimed a filly’s womb as its den, curling possessively in the warmest chamber of her body, refusing every potion, every chant, every gentle attempt to draw it out. It does not feed on blood or flesh—it feeds on heat, on shelter, on the constant pulse of life inside her. And, Zecora fears, on something deeper.

The filly’s reactions are not mere discomfort. When the snake moves, her eyes glaze, hips rock, and soft, broken sounds escape her throat—sounds no child should make. Climax comes sudden and unbidden, leaving her trembling and tear-streaked. Zecora has learned to look away, to busy herself with grinding herbs, giving what little privacy the hut allows. But she hears everything: the wet shift of scales inside slick walls, the desperate clench, the muffled sob that always follows.

She wonders if the serpent has woven itself into the filly’s mind as surely as her body. The child fights less now. The frantic pleas of “get it out” have faded to quiet resignation. She still flinches when it stirs too strongly, still cries at night, but during the day… she moves through chores with mechanical grace. Sweeping the floor, sorting leaves, stirring potions under Zecora’s guidance. Her tail no longer clamps tight between her legs; it sways loosely, occasionally lifting to reveal the faint, perpetual sheen between her hind thighs.

Weeks slide by like mist over the river.

Morning routine: Zecora rises first, starts the fire, brews tea. The filly wakes slowly, stretches, winces as the snake resettles with her movement. A ripple runs through her lower belly; her ears pin back, breath catches, but she only bites her lip and pads over to help measure herbs. No tears this morning. Progress, of a sort.

Afternoons: gathering in the safer parts of the forest. The filly walks carefully now, gait adjusted to the constant weight inside her. When a cool breeze cuts through the trees, the snake coils tighter, seeking core heat, and she stumbles—legs spreading instinctively, a soft whicker escaping as pleasure spikes sharp and sudden. She leans against a tree until it passes, face flushed beneath her coat, then straightens and continues picking feverfew as if nothing happened. Zecora pretends not to notice, but her heart aches.

Evenings: shared meals, quiet talk. The filly speaks more now—short sentences about the day, questions about Zebrican herbs, rare fragments of her “before” life that Zecora files away as delusion born of terror. When the fire burns low, the filly curls near Zecora’s side, seeking warmth beyond what the snake demands. Some nights she allows a gentle hoof to rest on her back; others she shrinks away, ashamed of her body’s betrayal.

At night the snake is most active. Cool darkness drives it to movement—slow, deliberate undulations that stroke every sensitive inch inside her. The filly has learned to muffle her cries into the blanket, hips grinding helplessly against nothing while the serpent claims its due. When it’s over, she lies trembling, spent, the living weight curled contentedly deeper than before. Sometimes Zecora shifts closer, offering silent presence until the shaking stops.

The filly functions. She eats, helps, even smiles faintly when Zecora praises her steady hoof with a mortar and pestle. But her eyes are older than any foal’s should be—haunted, distant, cracked through the middle. She no longer begs the snake to leave. She no longer fights the pleasure it forces on her. She simply endures, day by day, in the only safe place she has found.

Zecora watches from the shadows of her own thoughts and wonders how long a spirit can stay broken before it reshapes itself around the fracture. The snake has claimed its home, body and perhaps mind. All she can offer is hers: the hut, the food, the quiet striped presence that says, without words, you are not alone.

It is not enough. But it is all she has.

===

The hut is silent save for the soft crackle of dying embers in the firepit and the distant hoot of some Everfree night creature. Zecora sleeps deeply on her larger mat across the room, her striped sides rising and falling in steady rhythm—exhausted from a long day of foraging and brewing. You lie on your own small mat, blanket pulled up to your chin, staring at the shadowed ceiling beams. Privacy, at last. No watchful golden eyes to see you unravel.

The night has grown cool; the air carries the crisp bite of approaching winter, even here in the sheltered clearing. You feel it first as a subtle chill between your hind legs, where your marehood rests exposed beneath the blanket’s edge. Then the snake stirs.

It always begins like this.

A slow, deliberate uncoiling deep in your womb—a heavy shifting of living weight that sends a ripple through your lower belly. The blunt head presses downward, seeking the exit, drawn by the cooler air that trickles in. You clench instinctively, trying to hold it back, but your body has long since learned futility. The snake slides forward with patient insistence, scales gliding smoothly over your slick inner walls.

Cool muscle meets warm flesh. Inch by thick inch, it emerges into the narrow channel of your pussy—stretching you open with that familiar, aching fullness. The sensation is intense: every ridge of its body drags against your sensitive folds, cool at first, quickly warming as it drinks in your heat. Your breath catches; hind legs part beneath the blanket without permission, tail flagging high as the snake’s head finally nudges free between your swollen lips.

It pauses there, half-out, basking. The forked tongue flicks delicately—tasting the cool night air, the faint herbal scent of the hut, the perpetual musk of your arousal. Each flick brushes your clit like a teasing kiss, sending sharp sparks up your spine. You bite your foreleg to stifle the whimper, eyes squeezing shut.

But the outside is too cold. It always is.

The snake relishes the contrast: the chill on its exposed length, the blazing warmth waiting deeper. It learned this weeks ago—your body’s reactions. How a slow squirm sends your walls fluttering around it. How deeper thrusts make you flood with slick, turning the tight passage into a perfect, heated sheath. How your climaxes clench and milk it, drawing it home with rhythmic pulses that massage its entire body.

Tonight it claims its due with deliberate luxury.

It withdraws slightly—dragging cool scales back through your entrance—then surges forward again, deeper. A slow, sinuous thrust that burrows toward your cervix. Your hips jerk; a soft, wet sound escapes as your marehood winks desperately. The snake feels it—the gush of fresh moisture coating its length—and responds with eager ripples, squirming in tight circles that rub every inch of your inner walls.

Deeper. Always deeper.

The blunt head presses against your cervix, cool and insistent, until the tight ring yields with a pop of sensation that makes your vision spark. It slides into your womb proper—thick coils following, filling the chamber completely. The stretch is immense, intimate; you feel every twist as it arranges itself, curling and uncurling to find the warmest pockets. Your belly bulges faintly with its movements, a living weight that rocks you from inside.

It experiments now—learned behavior. A slow coil presses against that spot along your front wall; your back arches, breath hitching in tiny filly gasps. Another ripple strokes deeper, and your walls clench hard in response, slick pouring fresh and hot. The snake revels in it—the increased warmth, the velvet grip, the way your body molds around it like it was made for this purpose. It squirms faster, deliberate waves that stroke and tease, building the pressure relentlessly.

You can’t fight it anymore. Never could.

The pleasure coils tight low in your belly, unwanted and overwhelming. Your hind legs splay wide beneath the blanket, hooves digging into the mat as your hips rock in helpless rhythm. Quiet sobs catch in your throat—soft, stifled things that shake your small frame. Tears streak hot down your cheeks into your mane.

The snake drives you higher, relentless. A thick loop grinds against your g-spot while its tail end teases your entrance, sliding in and out in shallow thrusts that keep you stretched and aching. Your marehood clenches rhythmically, winking hard, slick dripping onto the mat beneath you.

When the climax hits, it’s shattering.

Your whole body seizes—back arched, legs trembling, a silent cry caught behind clenched teeth. Waves of pleasure crash through you, walls spasming around the intruder in hard, milking pulses. Fresh heat floods your core; slick coats the snake’s scales as it burrows triumphantly deeper, drinking in the warmth, the moisture, the perfect clenching cradle your orgasm provides.

It settles then—coiled tight and content in your womb, warmer and wetter than before. The movements slow to gentle ripples, soothing now, as if rewarding itself with the comfort it forced from you.

You lie there afterward, chest heaving, hind legs still splayed and trembling. The blanket is tangled around your barrel; cool air kisses your soaked marehood. Tears flow freely now—quiet, broken sobs that you muffle against your foreleg. Alone, in the privacy of the dark hut, with Zecora’s soft breathing the only other sound.

The snake sleeps warm and sated inside you.

You cry until exhaustion claims you, body still twitching with aftershocks, womb full and claimed once more.

===

Dark. Warm. Perfect.

The world outside is cold edges and sharp scents, dry air that bites the scales, ground that shifts and threatens. But here—inside this soft, living cavern—everything is right. Pulsing walls of velvet heat cradle every coil of my body, slick with constant moisture that coats me like dew on leaves. The rhythm of her heart thrums through the flesh, a steady drum that rocks me gently. Her breath, far above, is the wind that stirs the chamber when she moves.

I was one of many in the pit, tangled in the writhing mass, seeking only warmth when the night turned cruel. The others scattered at dawn, but I found this: a small, trembling heat-source, legs splayed in exhaustion, a hidden slit radiating invitation. I tasted the air—salt, fear, virgin sweetness—and slid forward. The barrier gave with a faint pop; blood warmed my tongue for a moment, then deeper wetness welcomed me. Tight, so tight, but yielding. I pushed until the widest part of me passed the ring, then coiled into the deepest chamber, curling tight as the walls fluttered around me in panic.

Panic faded. Warmth stayed.

Now this place is home.

The chamber narrows to a silky tunnel that opens to the cold world, but I rarely venture far. Only far enough to taste the air when it changes—herbal smoke, steam, the striped one’s musk, or the sharp chill of night. The forked tip of my tongue flicks against the swollen nub at the entrance; it makes the walls spasm deliciously, flooding me with fresh slick, clenching in waves that massage my length. I learned this quickly. Movement = comfort. My squirming makes her hotter, wetter, tighter—better for me.

Tonight the air cools again. Instinct pulls me from my tight curl in the womb. I uncoil slowly, savoring the drag of my scales against her ridges. She resists at first—muscles tensing, trying to hold me—but the resistance only heightens the sensation, gripping me like a living sheath. I glide forward, thick body stretching the tunnel, head emerging into the narrow space between her hind legs. Coolness kisses my snout. I taste: salt of tears, thick arousal, the faint iron of old blood long healed.

Too cold.

I retreat a fraction, then surge deeper—deliberate, powerful strokes that force the walls to part and cling. Each thrust draws more slick; the chamber floods, turning slippery and hot. I feel her heart race faster, blood pounding through the thin walls, heating me from every side. Perfect. I twist, loop, press against the spot that makes her whole body shudder—the one that sends the strongest clenches, the hottest gushes. She fights it silently, but her body betrays her every time: hips rocking, tunnel winking, slick pouring over my scales.

I drive harder, relishing the building rhythm. The walls ripple in frantic waves, milking me deeper. When the climax comes, it is exquisite—her entire core seizes in violent spasms, heat spiking, moisture surging until I am drenched and cradled in pulsing velvet. The contractions pull me fully home, dragging my tail end inside with wet, sucking sounds only I can feel. I coil tight once more in the womb, basking in the afterglow: warmer, wetter, tighter than before.

She trembles around me, soft sobs vibrating through the flesh. The salt of tears drifts down on warm air currents. I taste it when I flick my tongue again, brushing that sensitive nub in lazy thanks. The walls flutter weakly—one last grateful clench.

This is mine now. This heat, this moisture, this living cradle that responds to my every movement with perfect hospitality. I will never leave. The cold world holds nothing like this.

I settle deeper, scales gleaming with her essence, and sleep in the throbbing warmth of my chosen home.

===

The hut is dark, the fire long reduced to glowing coals that cast faint orange flickers across the woven walls. Zecora’s breathing is slow and even across the room—deep in sleep, oblivious. You lie on your side, blanket kicked halfway down your barrel, hind legs splayed open to the cool night air because closing them only traps the heat and makes it worse. The snake is awake again.

It begins with a slow, deliberate stretch deep in your womb—a heavy uncoiling that presses outward in every direction, bulging your lower belly faintly under the dim light. The pressure blooms into a deep, intimate ache, and your breath catches in a tiny, trembling whinny you pray doesn’t wake the zebra.

Then it moves.

The blunt head slides downward, parting your slick walls with cool, muscular insistence. Every scale drags over swollen, oversensitive ridges you didn’t know existed until this thing claimed you. Your pussy clenches reflexively—trying to hold it, push it out, anything—but the motion only grips it tighter, milking a low ripple of pleasure from the friction. The snake responds eagerly, surging deeper again, then withdrawing in a slow, deliberate glide that leaves you empty and aching for a heartbeat before it thrusts back in.

Memory fragments flicker behind your clenched eyes like corrupted image files—glitching, half-formed.

A glowing screen in a dark apartment. Fingers flying over a keyboard. Greentext threads: >be me >anon in Equestria >turned into filly >mfw magical realm bullshit. Laughter—your own, deep and human—echoing in headphones at 3 a.m. You’d scrolled past stories like this one, rolled your eyes, typed “degenerate” in the reply box. Now the joke is on you, and the punchline is buried inside your cunt, exploring you with patient, relentless curiosity.

The snake twists suddenly, coiling in a tight spiral that grinds against your front wall. Sparks explode behind your eyes; your hips jerk upward, tail flagging high as slick gushes hot around its scales. A broken sob escapes—soft, wet, filly-sweet. You bite down on your foreleg to muffle the next one.

Another memory: a convention hallway, badge swinging against your chest, the smell of cheap cosplay fabric and body odor. You’d seen a girl in a Twilight Sparkle fursuit, laughed with friends about how far the fandom had fallen. You’d been tall then. Male. Untouchable. Now you’re small, soft, legs trembling apart while a serpent uses your virgin marehood like a custom-fitted sleeve.

It thrusts deeper—head nudging your cervix, pressing, pressing until the tight ring yields with a slick pop that makes your vision white out. Coils follow, thick and heavy, filling your womb until you feel impossibly, obscenely full. The stretch burns sweetly; your walls flutter in frantic spasms, trying to adjust, failing. The snake savors it—rippling in slow waves that stroke every buried nerve, learning your body better than you ever wanted to.

Flash: driving home at night, radio blasting, windows down. Freedom. Control. A body that was yours alone. No one inside you, no one claiming space that should be private. You’d never felt anything like this stretch, this invasion, this constant, living fullness that turns every breath into a reminder.

The snake experiments now—tail end teasing your entrance while the bulk of it coils in your womb. It slides out an inch, letting cool air kiss your swollen clit, then surges back in with a wet, obscene sound. Again. Again. Rhythm building, relentless. Your pussy winks desperately, clit throbbing in time with your racing heart. Slick drips steadily onto the mat; the scent of your arousal fills the small hut, thick and humiliating.

Memory fractures further: a girlfriend once, clumsy hands under shirts, the awkward thrill of firsts. You’d been the one in control then, the one pushing forward. Now you’re the one being taken—night after night, explored and mapped and used for warmth while your mind screams in a voice no one here would recognize.

Pressure coils tighter low in your belly. The snake grinds deliberately against that spot—the one that makes your legs kick helplessly, hooves scraping the mat. Pleasure spikes sharp and cruel, drowning the shame for a moment. Your hips rock into the thrusts without permission, chasing the sensation even as tears streak hot down your cheeks.

“Stop,” you whisper soundlessly, lips trembling. “Please… I was… I was someone else…”

The snake doesn’t hear. Doesn’t care. It drives deeper, faster, scales rasping over every ridge until your entire world narrows to the relentless exploration of your pussy and womb. Climax crashes over you without mercy—body arching, walls clamping down in violent spasms, milking the intruder in rhythmic pulses that only welcome it home.

You sob openly then, quiet and broken, face buried in your forelegs as wave after wave wracks your small frame. The snake drinks in the fresh heat, the clenching warmth, and settles triumphantly deeper—coiled tight, content, leaving you trembling and empty-minded in the dark.

Fragments fade to static. The man you were feels farther away than ever, drowned in slick and scales and the endless, intimate claiming of the body you’re trapped in.

===

The sun hangs high over the Everfree, filtering in thin golden shafts through the dense canopy as it reaches Zecora’s clearing. You’re outside, hanging freshly washed herb bundles on a line to dry—simple work that keeps your hooves busy and your mind, for a few blessed minutes, quiet. The snake is calm today, a heavy but dormant weight curled deep in your womb, lulled by the warmth of the afternoon.

Hoofsteps on the path—light, quick, familiar in a way that makes your ears perk before your mind catches up. A yellow filly with a red mane and bow trots into view, saddlebags bouncing.

Applebloom.

Your heart stutters. You know her—everypony knows the Cutie Mark Crusaders from the stories you read back when you were… someone else. But seeing her here, real and close, hits like a punch. She’s looking around curiously, nose wrinkled at the strong herbal scent.

“Howdy, Zecora!” she calls, voice bright. “Ah brought those special zap apple seeds you asked for!”

Zecora emerges from the hut, smiling warmly. “Applebloom, my dear, what a welcome sight. Come in, come in—your timing is just right.”

Applebloom’s gaze shifts to you mid-step. Her eyes widen with friendly curiosity. “Oh! Hey there! Ah don’t think we’ve met. You Zecora’s new helper?”

The snake shifts lazily—barely a ripple—but it’s enough to send a warm pulse through your lower belly. You freeze for a heartbeat, tail flicking, then force your face into what you hope is a normal filly smile. Legs together. Voice steady. You can do this.

“Uh—yeah,” you say, the word coming out higher and softer than you want. “I live here now. Helping with… potions and stuff.”

Applebloom beams, trotting closer. “That’s real neat! Ah’m Applebloom. What’s your name?”

You hesitate a fraction too long. Zecora smoothly fills the gap. “She is still finding her place in this land so wide; for now, she answers to Greenbloom, at her side.”

You nod quickly—grateful for the cover name Zecora gave you weeks ago. “Greenbloom. Nice to meet you.”

Applebloom doesn’t notice the strain in your voice. She chatters on about the farm, the seeds, how Granny Smith swears zap apple jam cures everything from colds to crankiness. You nod in the right places, even manage a small laugh when she describes Applejack getting zapped by lightning for the fifth time this season. You fetch a basket for the seeds, hang a few more herb bundles, keep your movements careful and controlled.

Inside, you’re screaming.

Every shift of your hips reminds you of the weight inside. When you bend to pick up a dropped bundle, the snake uncoils slightly—stretching your walls with a slow, cool drag that makes your breath hitch. You cover it with a cough, ears burning. Applebloom doesn’t notice. She’s too busy asking Zecora about a potion for stubborn tree blight.

You keep the mask on. Smile. Answer questions about how you like living in the Everfree (“It’s… quiet”), whether you have your cutie mark yet (you turn slightly so your blank flank isn’t obvious), if you want to come crusading sometime. You say “maybe” with just enough shy enthusiasm to sound normal.

Eventually Applebloom’s saddlebags are lighter and her questions are answered. She waves cheerfully. “See ya around, Greenbloom! You should come by Sweet Apple Acres sometime—Ah’ll show ya the crusader clubhouse!”

You wave back until she’s out of sight down the path.

The moment the red bow vanishes between the trees, your legs buckle.

You sink to the moss, forehooves pressed hard between your hind legs as the held-back tremors take over. The snake chooses that instant to move again—roused by the day’s tension, perhaps, or just because it can. A thick coil presses deep, grinding slowly against your inner walls. Your breath catches in a choked sob; hips jerk once, involuntarily.

The mask shatters.

Tears come sudden and hot, streaking down your cheeks as you curl into a tight ball right there in the dirt. Quiet, broken sounds escape—half-whinnies, half-sobs—muffled against your foreleg. The snake ripples again, savoring the fresh heat of your distress, and the pleasure-pain of it only makes you cry harder.

Zecora steps out of the hut, ears pinning back at the sight. She crosses the clearing swiftly, settling beside you without a word at first. One striped foreleg wraps gently around your shaking shoulders.

“The visit stirred old shadows, I can see,” she murmurs. “You held yourself with grace, but now you’re free.”

You press your face into her coat, unable to answer—just nod against her warmth while the snake continues its lazy exploration inside you, uncaring of your tears. Zecora doesn’t ask questions. She simply holds you until the worst of the shaking passes, her hoof stroking your mane in slow, steady circles.

The forest hums around you both, indifferent. Inside, the serpent curls contentedly, waiting for night.

===

The moon hangs low over the Everfree, its pale light seeping through the hut’s carved windows in thin silver blades. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of cooling herbs and the faint, unmistakable musk of arousal. Zecora sits on her mat, eyes open, staring at the far wall. Sleep will not come tonight—has not come easily for weeks.

Across the room, the filly—her little Greenbloom—lies on her side, blanket pushed down to her barrel. Hind legs splayed wide, tail flagged high, small chest heaving in quick, stifled breaths. The snake is active again.

Zecora hears every sound: the wet, rhythmic slide of scales through slick flesh, the soft squelch as thick coils shift deeper, the filly’s muffled whimpers that rise and fall like a tide. A particularly deep thrust draws a broken, high-pitched whine; the filly’s hips jerk helplessly, hooves scrabbling at the mat as her marehood winks and clenches visibly in the moonlight. Slick glistens on her inner thighs, dripping steadily onto the woven bedding.

Zecora’s jaw tightens. Her golden eyes burn with a hatred so pure it scares her.

She has never loathed a living thing before. Not the cockatrice that once turned her cousin to stone. Not the timberwolves that prowl her doorstep. Not even the manticore that scarred her flank years ago. Animals act on instinct—hunger, territory, survival. She has always understood that.

But this serpent… this cold, mindless thing that has claimed a child’s body as its personal burrow… it is different. It has stolen everything.

It took her purity in that pit—burst through her virgin barrier, filled her with its coils while she screamed alone in the dark. And now it takes her mind, night after night. Zecora watches it happen: the way the filly’s eyes glaze when the snake moves, the way her body betrays her with helpless climaxes, the way she sobs afterward—quiet, shattered sounds that claw at Zecora’s heart.

Every potion failed. Every chant. Every salve and smoke and crystal. The snake simply drinks in the heat of the filly’s forced pleasure and settles deeper, smug in its victory. Zecora’s knowledge—centuries of Zebrican lore passed down through shamans and brewers—proved worthless against it. The helplessness is a poison in her veins, worse than any venom.

She hates it with every stripe on her hide.

She hates the way it learned her filly’s body: how a slow grind against that inner spot makes her gush slick, how circling thrusts drive her to climax faster, how it times its deepest coils to the moment her walls spasm hardest, milking it home. She hates the wet sounds it forces from her, the scent it leaves in the hut, the faint bulge it makes in her lower belly when it curls tight in triumph.

Most of all, she hates that she can do nothing but watch.

The filly’s breath hitches sharply—hips bucking once, twice—as the snake drives her over the edge again. Her small body arches, legs trembling, marehood clenching in visible, rhythmic pulses around nothing visible. A fresh flood of slick coats her folds; the snake ripples in satisfaction, sliding fully back into her womb with a final, obscene glide. The filly collapses, curling into herself, quiet sobs shaking her frame.

Zecora rises silently. She crosses the room and settles beside the trembling child, wrapping a striped foreleg around her without a word. The filly presses into her warmth immediately, face buried against Zecora’s chest, tears soaking her coat.

Zecora strokes her mane in slow circles, murmuring soft Zebrican lullabies under her breath. It is all she has left to give: her presence, her warmth, the steady beat of her heart against the filly’s ear.

Inside the child, the serpent sleeps—warm, sated, untouchable.

Zecora’s eyes fix on the faint bulge beneath the filly’s barrel, and the hatred burns colder, sharper, deeper than any night in the Everfree. One day, she vows silently, she will find a way. One day this thing will pay.

Until then, she holds the broken filly close and waits for the sobs to quiet.