This was made using a local install of Reforge for Stable Diffusion using the 3WolfMond model: https://huggingface.co/Xeno443 .

For the upload Tail Tagger was used to assist in tagging: https://github.com/renfald/tail-tagger . Along with the JPT-3 for AI assisted tags: https://huggingface.co/RedRocket/JTP-3/tree/main/models?not-for-all-audiences=true

The first message arrives without warning.

Your phone vibrates once, a low, intimate purr against the silence of the room. No notification banner, no sound—just a single image that fills the entire lock screen. A dimly lit hallway you recognize: the one outside your apartment, taken from the stairwell you climbed less than an hour ago. In the background, half-hidden behind the corner, stands a tall figure. Black fur, long flowing hair the color of smoke, a canine skull tilted just enough to catch the light. White eyes, empty and luminous, stare straight into the lens. She’s wearing your favorite hoodie—the one that went missing from the laundry two days ago.
Another vibration. This time a text, plain white letters on a black background:

I’ve been watching you longer than you think.

The screen dims on its own. When it brightens again, the same hallway photo has changed. She’s closer now. One clawed hand rests against the wall, fingers splayed like she’s leaning in to listen through the door. The hoodie is unzipped just enough to reveal the deep fur of her chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths.

Hours pass. The messages come in waves.

A photo of your kitchen counter, taken from inside the cabinet beneath the sink. The angle is impossible. She’s crouched there in the dark, phone raised, the flash catching the wet gleam of her fangs as her muzzle curves into something almost like a smile.

Your bedroom at 2:13 a.m.—the exact minute you finally gave up on sleep. The picture is taken from the foot of the bed. She’s sitting on the floor, back against the frame, knees drawn up. Her tail curls lazily around her ankles. The hoodie is gone now; only a loose black crop top clings to the heavy swell of her chest, riding up with every breath. The white of her eyes glows softly in the dark.
I can smell you from here.

You lock the phone. You turn it off completely. Ten minutes later it turns itself back on, screen flickering to life with a new image: your own reflection in the bathroom mirror—except she’s standing directly behind you, tall enough that her muzzle rests just above your shoulder. One massive hand is splayed across the glass, claws tapping silently. The reflection of her tongue slides slow and deliberate along the sharp edge of a canine.

Another message, this one longer.

I don’t want to scare you.
I just want to be closer.
Closer than photos.
Closer than air.

Night bleeds into morning, but the images never stop.

Your shower, steam curling thick—taken from inside the curtain. Water beads on black fur, tracing the curve of powerful shoulders, the slope of her back, the way her tail sways low and heavy. Droplets cling to the thick fur of her chest before sliding down, disappearing beneath the waistband of soaked shorts that cling like a second skin.

Your couch at dusk. She’s sprawled across it sideways, one leg draped over the armrest, the other stretched long. The crop top is gone entirely. Moonlight spills through the blinds and paints silver lines across the plush fur of her breasts, the taut plane of her stomach, the slow rise and fall that matches the rhythm of your own pulse now.

She never speaks in the texts anymore. She doesn’t need to.

The photos grow bolder.

A close-up of her hand—clawed, powerful—resting on your pillow, indenting the exact spot where your head lay minutes ago. Her thumb is extended, stroking the fabric in a slow circle.
Your phone camera flipping to selfie mode on its own. The screen shows your darkened room, and there she is, lying beside the bed on her stomach, chin propped on folded arms. Her tail flicks once, slow and deliberate. The white of her eyes narrows, pupils you never noticed before dilating wide and black. Her muzzle parts. A low, rumbling sound leaks from the speaker—not quite a growl, not quite a moan.
The next image is just her tongue: long, dark, glistening, curled in a lazy spiral against sharp ivory fangs. The caption beneath it is only two words, whispered in the same white-on-black font:
Let me taste.

The phone grows warm in your hand, warmer than it has any right to be. The screen dims to almost nothing, then brightens again with a final photo—taken from inches away. She’s on her knees now, directly in front of the lens, head tilted down so the empty white eyes are level with yours. One clawed hand cups something just out of frame—something that makes the fur along her neck bristle and her breath come in soft, shuddering puffs that fog the glass.

The last message arrives as the screen begins to pulse, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

I’m already inside.
Let me all the way in.
The phone goes black.

Then, from somewhere in the room—too close, too soft to be imagination—comes the faintest brush of fur against skin, the low, velvet sound of a contented growl, and the slow, deliberate drag of a warm tongue tasting the air right beside your throat.