Possession Drug EX

The package sits on your desk, already opened. Plain brown box, no return address, shipped in a generic poly mailer that could've held anything from phone cases to protein powder. Inside, nestled in a single layer of bubble wrap, is a glass bottle. Clear, palm-sized, unremarkable — the kind of thing you'd see in a vitamin aisle and never look at twice. Except for the label.

"Possession Drug EX" in clean, clinical black font. Below it, a dense block of small print you've already read three times:

DIRECTIONS FOR USE: Take one (1) capsule orally. Onset is immediate. You will enter a projected state lasting 12 hours. Your physical body will be inactive for the duration. Do not leave your body in an unsafe location. You will return automatically at the end of the 12-hour period.

CONTACT (EXTERNAL): While projected, guide your lower half into any accessible opening on a subject. Maintain external contact only. You will be able to direct the subject's physical responses. The subject will not be aware of outside influence. Withdraw at any time.

CONTACT (FULL): While projected, enter a subject completely through any accessible opening, lower half first. The subject will experience a brief involuntary response followed by loss of consciousness. You will have full use of the subject's body for the remainder of the active period. The subject will not retain any recollection. You will not have access to the subject's personal information. To exit, focus on separation.

⚠ INTEGRATION (READ CAREFULLY): While maintaining full contact with a subject, take one (1) additional capsule. The subject's complete personal data — memory, learned behavior, physical training, social connections, identity — will become permanently accessible to you. Your original physical body will become permanently inactive. The subject's body becomes your new registered body. This action is FINAL and CANNOT be reversed. Continued use of this product from your new registered body is supported. Standard directions apply. Integration may be repeated.

You turn the bottle in your hand. A hundred capsules shift inside with a soft rattle, catching the light with a faint pearlescent shimmer that doesn't quite look like any supplement you've ever seen. They're lighter than they should be.

You'd found the link buried in a /d/ thread weeks ago — half the replies calling it a scam, a few swearing it was real, one user posting a long greentext about possessing his neighbor that read like fiction but had details that stuck with you. The purchase site was bare-bones. Crypto only. No customer support, no FAQ, no reviews. You'd almost closed the tab twice before finally placing the order.

And now it's here. One hundred capsules. Twelve hours per dose. The instructions are thorough, specific, and written with the detached precision of a product manual for something that should not exist. Your apartment is quiet around you.

The bottle sits in your hand, waiting.

It's surreal. You're floating — weightless, formless from the waist down, drifting through the studio wall of Channel 7 like smoke through a screen door. The fluorescent grid of the ceiling passes inches from your face and you feel nothing. You can see your hands if you look down — your hands, your arms, your chest, perfectly solid and visible to you — but the camera operator you just passed through didn't flinch. Nobody can see you. Nobody knows you're here.

The studio is smaller than it looks on TV. Two cameras on wheeled mounts, a floor director with a headset, a teleprompter glowing pale blue. The news desk is a curved slab of polished wood with the Channel 7 logo etched into the front, and behind it, bathed in soft key lighting —

Mio.

Kouno Mio. Right there.

She's mid-sentence, her voice carrying that practiced, warm cadence you've heard a hundred times through your laptop speakers, except now it's real and resonant in the open air. Her face is even worse in person. Worse because it's better. Round, soft features, a button nose, dark eyes almost too big, lashes catching the studio lights with every blink. Half-white, half-Asian, the combination landing somewhere almost absurdly cute — the kind of face you'd expect on a college student, not someone delivering the evening news to a quarter million households.

And then there's everything below the neckline. Her blazer is tailored but can only do so much — her chest strains the fabric with every breath, lapels parting to show the shell top underneath pulled taut. The desk hides her from the waist down on camera, but from where you're floating you can see all of it: the pencil skirt hugging a waist that cinches narrow before flaring into hips that have no business on a woman her size, the curve of her ass pressing into the seat cushion. She shifts her weight — a tiny, unconscious adjustment — and the skirt tightens across her thigh.

"—according to the Ministry of Health, the number of solitary deaths among seniors living alone has increased for the seventh consecutive year," she says, brow creasing to match the gravity of the segment. "In many cases, these individuals go undiscovered for days or even weeks. The question facing policymakers — and perhaps all of us — is how we confront a social crisis that is, by its very nature, invisible."

A beat. Her expression softens — the smooth transition you've seen a hundred times. The teleprompter scrolls.

"In other news tonight — Osaka's annual Tenjin Matsuri festival saw record attendance this year despite earlier concerns over..."

She moves on. Hands resting on the desk, fingers loosely laced, posture perfect. The studio hums with the quiet machinery of live television, and nobody — not Mio, not the crew, not the quarter million viewers at home — has any idea you're here, hovering just behind the key light, close enough to count her eyelashes.

Your ethereal tail coils slowly beneath you, weightless and waiting.

You're hovering near the ceiling of Alisa's living room, tail coiling beneath you. Beside you, Tomo's soul form floats with his arms crossed, eyes locked on the couch below.

Alisa tucks her legs beneath her and presses her forehead into her palm. No makeup, chestnut hair in a low ponytail with a plain scrunchie, oversized t-shirt and grey sweatpants — and still stunning. High cheekbones, soft jaw, those big half-lidded eyes that sold out arenas, the Wasian mix landing somewhere between ethereal and approachable. Her C-cups push against the worn cotton. She looks tired. She looks beautiful.

"I dropped him off at my parents' again yesterday," she says quietly. "Third time this week. He was crying and I just handed him over and drove home and felt nothing. Then I felt horrible for feeling nothing."

Honoka shifts closer — broader than Alisa in every direction, wide hips filling her jeans, massive chest straining a knit sweater not bought with F-cups in mind. Plain face, kind eyes. She puts a hand on Alisa's knee. "That doesn't make you a bad mom, Ali. It makes you a tired one. You went from stages to diapers in two years. Nobody adjusts to that overnight."

Alisa exhales. She doesn't look convinced.

You glance at Tomo. This is the moment. You both drift downward toward Alisa — because of course it's Alisa — and aim for her at the same time.

Your tail finds her left ear. Tomo's finds her right. You push. Your form lurches forward, smoke pouring inward in one breathless pull. Tomo's form collides with yours for a split second — a sharp, dissonant jolt — and then he's forced out.

Alisa jolts. Her eyes snap open, pupils vibrating in rapid frantic REM for two full seconds. Honoka flinches — "Ali? Ali, are you —"

Alisa slumps. Then Honoka jolts — same rapid eye flutter — and slumps too. Tomo had to go somewhere.

Silence. The fridge hums. A baby monitor on the counter shows a flat green line.

You open your eyes. The couch beneath you. The scrunchie pulling at your hair. The soft, warm weight on your chest and a faint tightness in your breasts you have no frame of reference for. Your heart is beating.

Next to you, Honoka stirs. Her eyes open and you can tell from the way they blink — it's Tomo. He looks down at himself. At the sweater. At what's underneath it. Neither of you says anything.

You drift through the studio wall and into a wide, brightly lit warehouse space partitioned into sets by black curtains and rolling flats. Cables snake across the concrete floor. Light rigs cast harsh white pools across a half-built office set — cubicle walls, a fake water cooler, two desks with prop computers. A crew of maybe six men move equipment around with unhurried ease.

The front door opens. Two women walk in.

Fukuhara Ryo enters first — blonde waves past her shoulders, tanned skin, athletic build with a narrow waist and E-cups that her low-cut top makes no effort to downplay. She carries a designer bag over one arm like she's arriving at brunch, raising a hand to the nearest crew member with casual familiarity. Behind her, Maeda Hinako — brunette, shoulder-length hair with a slight curl, softer all over. Rounder face, wider eyes, D-cups under a modest sweater, the kind of body that's plush in every direction without trying. She's prettier up close than on a thumbnail. She bows slightly to the room.

"Ryo-chan! Hinako-chan!" A big man in a ballcap rounds the corner — barrel-chested, ruddy-cheeked, grinning wide enough to crinkle his entire face. He claps his hands together. "Welcome, welcome! Thank you for today. We're almost set up — twenty minutes? Go relax, break room's stocked."

Ryo gives a wave. Hinako bows, murmurs thanks, and follows Ryo to the side room — mini fridge, folding table, plastic chairs.

You follow them in.

Ryo cracks an iced coffee and drops into a chair. Hinako takes a water and sits across from her, peeling at the label.

"So," Ryo says. "You read the script?"

"Mm." Hinako nods. "A man possesses his female coworker and does whatever he wants with her body."

"That's scene one. He possesses you — well, your character — and the first scene is him exploring and discovering the body. Figuring out what it feels like. That leads into masturbation." Ryo says it like she's describing a lunch order. "So that's mostly solo. You, alone, reacting to your own body like it's new."

"Yes!" Hinako sits forward, eyes bright. "I don't really understand possession — like why people are into it? But I appreciate the challenge. Acting like a guy in a woman's body, touching yourself like you've never felt any of it before... that's interesting."

"Then scene two," Ryo continues, tilting her can. "Senpai's character leaves your body and possesses mine. So now I'm the possessed one. My character finds yours unconscious — because your character's passed out after being un-possessed — and the scene starts with me using your body while you're out." She pauses. "Then you wake up. Reluctantly enjoy it. That's the lesbian scene."

Hinako's face breaks into a bright smile. She nods, sipping her water with both hands on the bottle. "So I have to act unconscious and then act like I don't want it but then start liking it?"

"Exactly."

"I'm looking forward to it!" Completely earnest. Almost childlike.

You float above them as they finish their drinks, then trail behind to the changing room — a curtained corner with a clothing rack, a mirror, and two folding screens. Costumes already hanging: pencil skirts, white dress shirts, thin fitted vests. Ryo strips without hesitation. You catch a full look — everything below her waist is waxed completely smooth, tanned skin unbroken from her tight stomach down through her mound and between her legs. Even from behind, when she bends to step into the pencil skirt, her ass and the bare slit of her pussy are fully visible, her asshole just as clean. She looks like she walked off a set ten minutes ago and never stopped being on one.

Hinako steps behind a screen. More modest. You hover above and watch her undress — softer everywhere, skin paler, and when her underwear comes down there's a neat triangle of dark hair, trimmed but present, framing her pussy. She pulls on the dress shirt and buttons it carefully, the fabric pulling across her chest.

"One thing," Ryo says, fastening her vest. "Talk to Senpai before we shoot."

"The male lead?"

"Yeah. Scene one is all you being him. So get a feel for how he talks, how he moves. You're supposed to be his personality in your body." Ryo glances over the screen. "You don't have a ton of experience with guys outside shoots, right?"

Hinako's laugh is a little embarrassed. "That obvious?"

"Just talk to him for five minutes. You'll be great."

They finish changing and head to set. Hinako sits in a rolling chair behind a prop desk, hands on the keyboard. A crew member clips a mic to her vest. Across the set, the male lead — "Senpai," lean, dress shirt with rolled sleeves — takes position at the other desk, a prop bottle labeled "Possession Drink" in front of him.

The Director settles behind the main camera, ballcap low. He raises a hand.

"Action!"

Senpai picks up the bottle. Examines it and grins wide. Swigs, sets it down. Glances at Hinako — his "coworker" — then his eyes roll back and he slumps onto the desk. Hinako stays in character, typing at nothing.

The Director lifts the camera and walks it toward Hinako, settling in front of her. He holds up three fingers over the lens.

Three.

Two.

Hinako takes a breath. Straightens in her chair.

One.

You're right behind her. The Director's finger is about to close into a fist — the signal for Hinako to jolt and begin her performance as a possessed woman.

Except you could make it real, if you really want to.