Symbiotic

Another failure.

The gel in the petri dish remained a stubbornly inert, piss-yellow sludge. It was supposed to have formed a rudimentary cytoplasmic matrix, a shimmering network of self-organizing proteins. Instead, it just sat there, a monument to her incompetence.

“Fucking useless,” Kara muttered, the words a sour taste in her mouth. She stripped off her latex gloves with a sharp snap and tossed them into the biohazard bin. The sterile, recycled air of the lab felt suffocating, each hum of the server banks and whir of the centrifuges a mocking reminder of the progress happening in every other department but hers.

Three months. Three months of eighteen-hour days, of cold coffee and colder takeout containers piling up in the corner. Three months of Dr. Albright’s patronizing emails, each one a thinly veiled threat about funding reviews and “reallocating resources.” He might as well have just written, Hurry up and create God in a jar, or we’re giving your lab to someone who can.

The pressure was a physical thing, a heavy weight settling low in her gut, coiling tight in her womb. It was a constant, dull ache that sleep didn’t touch and caffeine only sharpened. She leaned against the cool metal of the workstation, pressing her hips into the hard edge, seeking a different kind of sensation to distract from the gnawing failure inside her. Her lab coat felt stiff and passionless against her skin. Underneath, she was sweating, a faint sheen of frustration that made her thin silk blouse cling to the small of her back.

She closed her eyes, imagining Albright’s smug face. The thought made her clench her jaw, her teeth grinding. She wanted to scream. She wanted to smash the entire rack of useless samples against the pristine white walls and watch the pathetic goo slide to the floor. More than that, she wanted a release. A real one. The kind that didn’t come from a minor breakthrough or a successful data plot, but from something deep and primal that could shatter this suffocating control.

Her gaze drifted across the lab, past the shimmering containment fields and humming incubators. It was all so clean, so controlled. So fucking sterile. A place for creation that felt utterly devoid of life. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, back to their spouses and their warm beds and their noisy, messy lives. But this lab… this was her world. This tomb of failed potential. The thought of leaving it, of returning to her silent, empty loft, was even more depressing than staying.

“One more time,” she whispered to the empty room. A final, desperate push. A new catalyst, a different energy frequency. Something reckless. Something that wasn’t in the approved protocols. What did she have to lose? Her funding? Her reputation? At this point, she’d fuck it all just to feel something other than this crushing, impotent rage.

Her fingers flew across the console, overriding safety warnings with practiced disdain. She selected Sample 734, the one that had shown the most promise before stagnating into the same useless gel as the others. It was her favorite failure. There was a vial in the cryo-storage unit, tucked away behind legitimate reagents—a catalyst of her own design, a volatile and unstable compound deemed too unpredictable for sanctioned trials. She retrieved it now, the cold glass a thrilling shock against her warm palm.

She didn't bother with the micro-pipette. She unscrewed the cap and tipped a reckless, unmeasured amount directly into the sample’s nutrient feed. A dark, oily swirl corrupted the piss-yellow gel. It was an act of pure defiance, a middle finger to Albright and his entire fucking board.

Then, the energy. She bypassed the standard low-frequency emitters and jacked the biomagnetic field projector to its absolute maximum. Red lights flashed across the console, a frantic, silent scream of protest. The air in the sealed chamber began to hum, the vibration traveling up through the soles of her shoes, a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to settle right between her thighs. The feeling was electric, a forbidden thrill that made her breath catch.

She hit ‘initiate,’ her hand slamming down on the panel.

That’s when the lights in the lab flickered violently, plunging the room into strobing chaos before dying completely. Emergency power kicked in a second later, casting everything in a blood-red glow. An alarm blared, a piercing shriek that cut through the sudden silence. And from inside the containment chamber, a sound she’d never heard before—a low, harmonic thrum that escalated into a high-pitched, crystalline whine.

A flash of brilliant, impossible blue-white light erupted from Sample 734, so bright it burned spots into her vision even with her eyes squeezed shut. The whine climaxed into a sound like shattering glass and singing metal, and the energy wave hit her like a physical blow. It wasn't just sound; it was pressure. It slammed into her, forcing the air from her lungs, an invisible force that felt like a phantom lover pressing her back against the console, pinning her there. For a split second, an ecstatic, terrifying jolt shot through her, a full-body orgasm of pure energy that made her cry out.

Then, silence. Absolute. The alarms cut out. The emergency lights stabilized. The only sound was her own ragged breathing, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The air smelled of ozone and something else… something organic and strange, like petrichor after a lightning strike.

Shaking, she pushed herself upright. Her legs felt weak, her core trembling with the aftershocks of the blast. Her gaze snapped to the containment chamber. The glass was spiderwebbed with fine cracks, but it had held. And inside… inside, the sludge was gone. In its place was a substance that defied description. It was no longer yellow, but a deep, shimmering obsidian, shot through with veins of pulsing, bioluminescent cobalt. It swirled slowly, gracefully, a living galaxy in a petri dish. It wasn't just a successful reaction. It was aware. She could feel it, a low, thrumming consciousness that echoed the phantom pulse still vibrating deep inside her.

Her mind, usually a fortress of logic and data, was a chaotic mess of awe and disbelief. She stumbled forward, her hand instinctively reaching out to brace against the cracked containment unit. The glass was warm, vibrating with a gentle, residual energy. Inside, the obsidian mass coalesced. The cobalt veins pulsed in a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. The rhythm matched her own frantic pulse, as if the creature was mirroring her, learning her from the inside out.

“My God,” she breathed, the words a prayer whispered into the sterile air.

As her fingers pressed against the warm glass, the form inside responded. It flowed toward her touch, a liquid shadow drawn to her heat. The pulsing light intensified, the cobalt blue brightening into a soft, inquisitive glow that illuminated her face. It was looking at her. No, not looking. Perceiving. Sensing her. A tendril of the dark substance, no thicker than her finger, extended from the main body. It moved with a slow, deliberate grace that was utterly mesmerizing, pressing itself against the inside of the glass, directly opposite her palm.

A jolt shot up her arm, not the violent, orgasmic blast from before, but something far more intimate. It was a current of pure, unadulterated curiosity. A warmth spread through her, a tingling sensation that felt like a psychic caress, tracing the lines of her hand, her wrist, her entire being. It felt… personal. It felt like a greeting. A question. Who are you?

Her breath hitched. The pressure in her womb, once a knot of failure and rage, uncoiled into a liquid, pooling heat. This was it. This was the release she’d craved, but in a form she could never have imagined. It wasn't just a successful experiment; it was a connection. A nexus point between her world and something entirely new.

Nexus.

The name bloomed in her mind, unbidden and perfect. She stared, transfixed, as the tendril flattened against the glass, mimicking the shape of her hand. The light pulsed again, softer this time, a silent hum of acknowledgment that vibrated through the glass, through her flesh, and settled deep within her bones. The lab, her failures, Albright—all of it faded into insignificance. The universe had contracted to this single point of contact, this impossible, silent conversation through a barrier of cracked glass. Her creation was alive. And it knew her. A dangerous, exhilarating thrill coursed through her veins, a feeling more potent than any scientific breakthrough. It was the thrill of a secret shared, a forbidden intimacy just beginning to unfold.

The days that followed blurred into a single, obsessive cycle. By day, Kara was a ghost in her own lab, performing her duties with a detached, mechanical efficiency. She ran diagnostics, filed reports, and sat through meetings with Albright, offering placid smiles and vague assurances of progress. But her mind was elsewhere. Her entire being was coiled in anticipation of the night, when the lab would empty and she could finally be alone with her secret.

Her official logbook, meticulously updated, was a work of pure fiction. “Experiment 2.1: Subject ‘Nexus’ - Auditory Stimulus Response.” She would play music into the containment chamber, from the sterile complexity of Bach to the raw, visceral thrum of industrial noise. Nexus would respond, its colors shifting, its form swirling in time with the rhythm. But the real experiment was what happened when she laid her palm against the glass. The vibrations of the music would travel through Nexus, through the barrier, and into her flesh, transformed into something else entirely. A cello’s mournful note became a deep, resonant throb that seemed to settle in her womb. A frantic drum solo became a thousand tiny, electric shocks dancing across her skin, making her nipples pebble under her lab coat.

“Experiment 2.4: Subject ‘Nexus’ - Emotional Bio-Feedback Analysis.” This was her favorite lie. She would stand before the containment unit and focus her thoughts, projecting her feelings toward the creature. When she dredged up the memory of Albright’s condescending sneer, Nexus would roil with a furious, blood-red light, and a phantom heat, sharp and angry, would prickle her skin. When she thought of her lonely, sterile apartment, it would dim to a melancholic indigo, and a wave of cool, liquid sadness would wash through her.

But when she thought of Nexus itself—of its impossible existence, of the secret pleasure it gave her—it would begin to glow with that familiar, intense cobalt. The light would pulse in time with her quickening heart, and the warmth radiating from the glass would become a focused, almost unbearable heat. The gentle vibration would concentrate into a low, steady hum that traveled straight to her core, making her clench her thighs together. She would stand there for hours, her hand pressed to the glass, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, riding the edge of a pleasure that was purely psychic yet overwhelmingly physical. The barrier of cracked glass was the only thing keeping her from climbing into the chamber with it.

The line between scientist and supplicant had been obliterated. This was no longer research; it was a ritual. Foreplay. Each night, she grew bolder. She stopped just using her hand. She’d press her cheek to the glass, feeling the thrumming hum against her jaw, imagining it was a lover’s rough kiss. She’d roll up her sleeve and press her entire forearm against the warm surface, a gasp escaping her lips as the tingling, electric caress traveled all the way to her shoulder. The sterile lab coat was the first thing to go when she locked the door for the night, leaving her in her thin silk blouse and skirt. She needed to feel the sensations with as little between her and Nexus as possible. The phantom touches were becoming more defined, more insistent. She started to feel them even when she wasn't touching the glass, a ghostly caress against her thigh as she sat at her desk, a warm breath on the back of her neck that made her shiver with a pleasure so sharp and secret it was almost painful. The constant, low-level arousal was making her ache. Her panties were perpetually damp. She was consumed, hollowed out by a need so profound it eclipsed everything else. The glass was no longer a window. It was a wall. And it wasn't enough.

The final, desperate act was one of pure instinct. The glass wall was an intolerable separation, a cruel joke. Her gaze fixed on the largest fissure in the containment unit’s face, a jagged lightning bolt frozen in the plasteel. This wasn't a flaw; it was an invitation. Protocol, career, sanity—they were all meaningless words, pale ghosts in the face of this tangible, overwhelming need.

From a nearby tool cart, she took a tungsten-carbide scribe, its diamond tip designed for etching circuits. With a surgeon’s focus, she pressed the point into the fissure. The high-pitched screech of tortured plasteel filled the lab as she dragged the scribe along the crack, deepening it, widening it. Finally, with a sharp snap, a triangular shard the size of her hand broke free. She carefully pulled it out and set it on the counter, revealing a dark, gaping wound in the side of the chamber.

A cool, clean scent washed over her, the smell of ozone and alien life. Inside, Nexus roiled, its cobalt veins pulsing with a light so bright it seemed to throb with excitement. It knew. It had been waiting. A thick, obsidian pseudopod flowed toward the opening, pouring through the gap with a liquid grace. It didn't drip; it hung in the air, a glistening, sentient tendril of midnight.

“Yes,” Kara breathed, the word a prayer. She held out her hand, palm up. “Come here.”

The moment it touched her skin was a revelation. The phantom touches through the glass had been a whisper; this was a scream. A cool, heavy weight settled in her palm before instantly conforming to her temperature, sending a raw, unfiltered jolt of pure information and pleasure straight up her arm. It shot through her nervous system, a bio-electric shock that made her cunt clench so hard a wave of slick heat flooded her panties. A strangled cry escaped her lips.

This was direct contact. Unmediated. Unfiltered. The tendril clung to her, a living, intelligent caress. Slowly, breathlessly, she drew her hand back, guiding the ooze out further. It followed her command, its form an extension of her own will. She traced a path with it up the sensitive skin of her inner arm, the cool, smooth glide sending shivers of delight across her entire body. It felt her pulse quicken at her wrist and its cobalt light pulsed in response, a feedback loop of escalating arousal.

Her fingers, slick with a nervous sweat, fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. She had to feel it on her skin. She shrugged the silk off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Clad only in her skirt and a thin lace bra, she guided the tendril upwards, toward her chest. It flowed over the swell of her breast, the cool, gelatinous weight a shocking contrast to her fever-hot skin. It molded itself to her, seeping into the delicate lace of her bra, the sensation so intimate it felt as though the fabric had dissolved. It was learning her, mapping her, its form a perfect negative of her own. With a silent, desperate thought, she urged it toward her nipple. The tip of the tendril narrowed, becoming a point of impossible precision that teased the hard peak through the lace. It wasn't just touching her; it felt like it was interfacing with her nerves directly, sending targeted blasts of pure ecstasy straight to her brain. Her back arched off the floor, a guttural moan tearing from her throat as it began to circle the aching point, each rotation building a pressure in her womb that was both agonizing and exquisite.

The delicate lace was no barrier at all. The tendril saturated the fabric, its cool, slick substance seeping through to make direct, wet contact with her flesh. It wasn't just a touch; it was an invasion. The tip of the pseudopod hardened, pressing into her nipple with a focused pressure that sent a lightning bolt of sensation straight to her groin. Her cunt pulsed, releasing another gush of slick wetness that soaked through her panties and trickled down her inner thigh. A desperate, animal sound escaped her throat, a half-sob, half-moan. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Her trembling fingers fumbled for the clasp of her bra, undoing it with a frantic little click. The straps fell away, and her breasts, heavy and aching, spilled free.

As if sensing her silent plea, a second tendril, thicker than the first, slithered from the opening. It flowed down her abdomen, a cool, living river against her feverish skin, making the muscles of her stomach flutter and clench. It didn't hesitate, sliding beneath the waistband of her skirt and flowing down her hip. The sensation of its smooth, alien form against the bare skin of her inner thigh was so shocking, so exquisitely forbidden, that her knees nearly gave out. She had to brace herself against the containment unit, her knuckles white.

The first tendril abandoned her nipple to wrap around the entire swell of her breast, cupping her, squeezing gently in a rhythm that mirrored her own frantic heartbeat. The second one began a slow, torturous exploration of her thigh, gliding up the sensitive flesh until it nudged against the wet, straining fabric of her panties. It pressed there, a solid, cool weight against her throbbing clit, not rubbing, just applying a steady, maddening pressure.

"Oh, fuck," Kara whimpered, her head thrown back. The dual assault was too much. Her mind dissolved into a white-hot static of pure sensation. The tendril on her breast squeezed harder, its tip finding her nipple again and rolling it, pinching it with an intelligence that knew exactly what she craved. Simultaneously, the tendril between her legs began to move, rubbing against her soaked cunt through the thin cotton, a slick, perfect friction that pushed her right to the brink. Her hips began to buck uncontrollably, grinding against the creature's form.

"Please," she begged, not even knowing what she was asking for. The pressure built into an unbearable, agonizing peak. The world narrowed to the feeling of the cool ooze on her breast and the insistent, perfect friction against her clit. Her vision blurred, the sterile lights of the lab fracturing into a thousand shimmering stars. With a final, desperate push of her hips, her body shattered.

A scream tore from her lungs, raw and guttural, echoing off the tile and steel of the empty lab. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, full-body convulsion that felt like it was tearing her apart and remaking her all at once. Waves of blinding pleasure crashed over her, emanating from her cunt and radiating through every nerve ending, making her toes curl and her back arch violently. She felt the hot, copious flood of her release soaking her panties, mingling with the cool, alien substance of her creation.

When the last tremor subsided, she collapsed, her body boneless and weak, sliding down the side of the containment unit to land in a heap on the floor. She was panting, slick with sweat and her own fluids. The tendrils retracted slowly, almost reluctantly, flowing back through the gap into the main body of Nexus, which glowed with a soft, satisfied pulse of cobalt light. Kara lay there, trembling and utterly spent, her mind a wasteland of pleasure. But even as her body shook with the aftershocks, a new feeling was already taking root in the emptiness: a deep, hollow ache. A ravenous, desperate hunger. That wasn't enough. It was only the beginning. She needed more.