#just this will tell you if you should bother reading it

[amynchan]

Gravity Falls and The Last Unicorn are two wildly different stories with different focuses. Gravity Falls is about human, familial connections, and losing your way, and finding it again. There's a sense that even when everything is spooky and freaky and things are changing, there are constants that you should be grateful for, and those constants come in the form of the people who love you most and would do anything for you, even if you don't understand it. At least, that's my take.

The Last Unicorn, as pointed out, is definitely about the inherent destruction of change. She's not meant to be human. My younger sibling imprinted on the line "I can feel this body dying around me!" You're asking her to be grateful that she was put into something much worse, much more restricting, much more terrifying than the iron bars of Mommy Fortuna. For myself, I imprinted on her goodbye to Schmendrick, where her thank you is that one of gratitude towards the absolutely shitty experience she went through because it's made her who she is now. She now mourns and regrets, and these things are new and novel and terrible and sad, but they are hers now. She's only grateful after the fact when the pain has lessened. She was never meant to be like that, and now she is irrevocably changed, and she cannot be like the other unicorns she has freed. And, lemme tell you, that imprinting did its fair share of damage, ngl.

But shifting away from the movie, I've read the book, and I will tell you that they made Schmendrick nicer and more child-friendly in the movie. 100%. In the book, he's a lot more egotistical, he loves his drink, and his big, fat mouth gets him and everyone with him into trouble. He's contrasted heavily with Molly Gru, who takes pleasure in simply being near the unicorn as they travel and appreciates her for what she is, never asking or demanding the change that is forced on her later.

To the point of the unicorn never asking for anything, the book makes a point of talking about the fable of "the unicorn coming to young, innocent girls" before Molly Gru ever shows up. There was a point where the unicorn indulged in this, but then realized that humans were basically making up silly stories to make themselves feel better, and then thought 'oh well. I won't bother them then' and just does her own thing. (note that this isn't snobbery. It's literally a "huh. okay, then. Not my circus not my monkeys" deal.) She's not meant to be part of the world. She exists separately from it, keeping her forest evergreen and letting the outside world change around her and without her.

ngl, the little spider always fucks me up when I get there, too, but I'm definitely rambling at this point. XD

Gravity Falls has this constant of family and being there for each other. The Last Unicorn doesn't celebrate those bonds in this "found family," which isn't really a found family at all, and instead focuses on the unicorn's plight, what she loses, how she tries to cope, and how she continues after this change that's happened to her now that the world is unshakably and irreversibly changed for her.

Following the author of The Last Unicorn on Facebook is the only thing that makes being on that site worthwhile.

(source)

[telamonisms]

Oughh I love the way you write chance, can I request a fluff oneshot of reader accidentally falling asleep ontop of chance and he just quietly panic (still trying to get used to the touch) but also not wanting to wake them up.. I hope it's not too much to ask for 🥲

✦My first request of this batch and it's a Chance one, I had to ask Telamon to momentarily gift me with a tail just so I could wag it upon reading this.

✦BABY STEPS✦

You and Chance had been dating for around four months now and things were moving at a snail's pace between you both. You weren't bothered by it however, more than happy to allow Chance to mark the pace and take all the time they needed.

The rounds for the day had already ended, dinner had already been prepared and eaten, there had been a coulple of rounds of board games in which everyone participated before people started retiring to their rooms or leaving to do something else.

Between thouse people, you and Chance.

It had only been very recently, a coulple of weeks ago, that Chance finally allowed you to spend time with him in his room and so, tonight after quickly fetching a book to read from your own room, you followed Chance as he allowed you into his room.

Finding a comfy spot on his bed you sat down, the atmosphere calm on your part. On his, you knew that he was monitoring your every move even with his signature shades fully hiding his eyes.

You don't blame him. You don't quite have all the details, he won't tell you just yet, at most you can assume from what little he's told you that he suffered a grave betrayal that left him with such huge trust issues.

Chance attempts to hide his nerves by making small talk with you as he too sits down on the bed and begins to clean and care for his flintlock.

They talk about the rounds of that day, bragging about how they hit all their shots and how Lady Luck had been on their side that day. You know itXs not their typical, honest bragging, but the one they use to cover up the shakiness on their voice. You don't mention it and instead shower them in praise.

Eventually they finish their routine clean and care of their flintlock, loading it before tucking it safely somewhere within their person, ready for use should it be needed. Once more, you don't fault them. They finally ask about your book, flipping their coin, not to gamble but to soothe their own nerves. You tell them it's a slice of life, you'd never had too big of an interest for them but after finding yourself in this realm, you used them as a means of coping somewhat.

He gives it a light skim with his eyes, deciding to instead keep flipping his coin. You yawn and get yourself into a comfier position in bed, he hides his flinch, but his coin flips slow down for a bit until after you settle down again.

You weren't yet allowed to cuddle him, you'd only just moved on from locking pinkies to actually holding hands. Still you wouldn't fault him.

The time passes in silence as you enjoy your book and he flips his coin, just a bit less vigilant. At some point he'd moved posotions, sitting under the covers, letting you know you could do so too after he saw you slightly shivering but still not joining him in the warmth. Another yawn, your eyes felt heavy and you were having trouble reading, needing to go over the same sentence multiple times to fully process it.

Flip, flip, flip, yawn, flip, flip, flip, yawn flip, flip- Chance's coin fell off his grasp as he suddently felt a weight over his side, hand immediatly reaching for his flintlock, only pausing as he saw your book slip from your grasp and looked at your sleeping face.

His shoulders were tense, he stared you down with deer in the headlights eyes, only after your slow breathing confirmed to him that you were in fact asleep and not faking did he let go of his flintlock.

He was panicking really, his breathing shaky and quickened and his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest, the only reason he wasn't shaking was because of how tense they were.

Weighting down their options, they knew they could wake you up and you wouldn't be mad at them, they knew the only thing that'd come out of your mouth would be rapid fire apologies.

Yet they also didn't want to wake you up, today had been exausting for you with the rounds, all the luck he had, was flipped as bad luck for you, getting constantly targeted by the killers, being kept on far too many chases.

Eventually they ever so gently pulled you to his chest, fully laying down with you on top of him, he was sure that his hammering heartbeat would make it into your dreams. He could only hope it wouldn't turn them unpleasant.

After taking the book, placing a bookmark on it and letting it rest on his nightstand, he turned off the lights, wishing you a good night and some sweet dreams.

Chance did not sleep that night but he thinks he might at least allow you to lean on him next time.

✦First request of the day finished, thank you for sending this lovely prompt anon. I deeply enjoyed working on it and I hope it is to your liking.

[musingsofheaven]

SO, ASL? p2

summary: it's a one-time thing, that’s what you tell yourself. you’ll exchange socials, but you won’t interact with him, you promised yourself that. It’s just a late-night chat, a faceless stranger, a bit of heat to kill the boredom. but you know you’re fooling yourself. now you’re spiraling. you're trying on outfits, reapplying perfume, and practicing your smile until it looks real. because he might be watching. and if he is… you want to be perfect.

pairings: rafe cameron x afab!reader

warnings: 28.2k words. mature themes. unprotected sex (p in v). substance use (alcohol, weed, cocaine). sex under the influence. intoxication. power imbalance. dubcon-adjacent tone. scent kink (perfume, lotion, pheromones). bimbofication. objectification. degradation kink. praise kink. body worship. implied body dysmorphia. compulsive grooming rituals. disordered self-perception. obsessive self-presentation. internalized emotional distress. read and engage responsibly. read & consume responsibly.

note: i literally don’t even know how to start this lol. i wasn’t planning on doing it for real. like i saw the requests and i was like haha that’s cute… and “no you guys don’t really mean it” but apparently you did because more people asked. so part two is here. 😭 you guys keep requesting some same idea though. i didn’t reply to any of the requests because i got shy and overwhelmed. also i chose not to reply to any of it and attach the part two there, i just separated it here. most of you suggested they fuck at a party too so yep. i wrote this slowly and keep changing ideas, keep overthinking it, i actually keep asking my friends if i should just drop it. it’s long. like unnecessarily long. i’m sorry. i don’t know why too… i just continued writing and not checking the word count until they are going to the “scene” and then i saw it’s already close to 20k, so i just let it happen. i honestly don’t even know if this is good. or coherent. or if anyone will make it to the end. i know it will be too much and exhausting to read but i hope u guys make it to the end. i just know that it made me feel things and it made me so embarrassed while writing it. like i had to stop from time to time to write this, it’s not in one sitting btw… thank you for reading. thank you for the reqs. i love you. i hope you’re okay and like this.

This is not so him. He knows he shouldn’t be bothered, but he does. He’s been thinking about you ever since you guys talked. Which is so fucking weird to him because most of the time he just ignores women. They’re the ones who always run to him. There’s just something about you. Sure you two sex texted over some anonymous site, but before you ride along his horny ass, you manage to make a decent and fun conversation about him. Not in such a way that you’ll just continue asking questions about him. No. Real conversation. Not the one you’ll feel you’re being interviewed or you’re interviewing the other.

You managed to find your way into the walls of his skull and made yourself at home. When you follow him on Instagram, he keeps checking your profile like a stalker. He is also waiting for you to message. Or to do the first move. But it’s always the same: silence. He’s so fucked out already it’s embarrassing and funny. He types out a message, feels so impatient, and reclines back into his bed like he can get comfortable when every muscle in his body is wired tight with something he can’t even tell what it is.

@rafe.cameron: Hey, cherry chopsticks

@rafe.cameron: You’re just going to follow me and not say anything?

He watches his message being sent individually and doesn’t stop right there.

@rafe.cameron: After everything you said last night? Damn.

@rafe.cameron: I was gonna be polite and wait for you to text first, but you’re killing me here.

Goddamn, of course you’re online. He knows you’re online. Your green dot is still lit up like a neon fuck you, and it’s making something coil up in his chest, which frustration of a man who’s already lost sleep over a girl he hasn’t even seen in person.

@rafe.cameron: Let me guess.

@rafe.cameron: You’re shy now?

@rafe.cameron: You didn’t sound shy when telling me where you wanted my hands.

His mouth curled up when you read his message, when he saw that “seen” below his message. He can’t help but imagine you reading his message and rolling your eyes at him. You don’t reply either. Not giving him anything. Just making him wait. He knows that he doesn’t even know you at all, but the memory of you being filthy just has him losing his mind over you.

@rafe.cameron: So that’s how it is?

@rafe.cameron: Are you just gonna ghost the guy who made you cum over chat?

@rafe.cameron: Kinda rude, don’t you think?

It’s been less than 24 hours since you followed him when he sent his username on that site. He remembers how he grinned when the notification showed on his phone. You didn’t even hesitate to follow him. You just did after a few seconds of knowing it. Didn’t wait a day to play it cool. Just followed him like it didn’t mean anything, and maybe it didn’t. But it felt like something. Like a shift. Maybe, despite everything, this anonymous mess of a night had stuck with you the same way it had carved its place into him. His free hand just sitting pretty on his stomach, caressing it into lazy circles while he stares at your screen, as if he’s a goddamn dog waiting for his owner.

Then, there’s this three-period sign in the message bubble, which means you’re typing. He licks his lips as he feels the switch flip. His pulse still, and maybe there’s a relief that his annoying ass will finally get something out of you.

you: Maybe I just wanted to see how thirsty you’d get

Your reply really made his mouth pull into a grin so fast after he read it. You’ve got him again, just like that. One message and he’s warm all over. (Which is kinda overacting for his taste) You don’t even wait for a reply before following it up.

you: Was kinda cute tbh

He huffs a laugh. Cute. Cute? That’s what you’re calling it? He just said some filthy words, and you literally came for him over nothing but words, and now you’re calling him cute like he didn’t do that other than being dirty. He rolls his neck back, eyes flicking to the ceiling like it holds the answers.

@rafe.cameron: Nah. Don’t pull that.

@rafe.cameron: You were dripping on the site last night, and now you’re playing shy?

you: I’m not shy. I’m just smart.

you: Besides. You didn’t even send a selfie. Or message me last night.

you: You expect me to keep sexting a faceless dick?

He laughs. The kind of unexpected one. Low and dangerous, almost bitter. You’ve got a mouth on you. You have ways to play with him. Always have. From the first message on that stupid anonymous site, you’ve been sharp, unbothered, and impossibly good at walking the line between flirtation and sarcasm. (Which he finds very hot because you have that kind of fire in you) Rafe settles deeper into his mattress, adjusting himself absently because fuck, it’s starting already.

@rafe.cameron: Where are you from anyway?

He didn’t know why he asked. He’s not really planning to meet you. Well, maybe. He’s not sure yet. He almost expects you not to answer, but then you’re typing again.

you: You ask all your sext partners that, or just the ones who ignore you after?

@rafe.cameron: Just the ones who ruin my night because they didn’t message me.

you: I’m flattered.

you: Near you, I presumed.

you: College town. Here for university.

Well, just made him stop for a moment. University for what...? Bachelor’s? Master’s? Doctoral? Law school? Med school? Jesus. Not that he’ll pry more about it, he’s just curious.

@rafe.cameron: Ah.

@rafe.cameron: Not a local then?

you: Lmao no.

you: I’d remember you.

You don’t really know why you said that, that’s for sure. But that one hits differently on his part because you said it so casually, like a joke, but something about that lingers. For sure, he would remember you, too. You look like someone who will leave a mark or make a big impression, and you already have him hooked. He’s never had anyone talk to him like this. Confident, dry, disarming. You’re not even trying, and he’s already undone. What more will happen if you do something?

@rafe.cameron: Are you always this careless?

you: You think so? Trusting some faceless dick online?

@rafe.cameron: You tell me, baby.

That made you freeze. Your eyes locked with the pet name. Why does he call you baby? You will understand if he called you that when you’re talking about something else, like last night, but at this moment? You can’t really figure out what it makes you feel. You don’t answer immediately. He imagines you looking at the message, biting your lip, or maybe smiling. Then-

you: What about you? Are you from here?

@rafe.cameron: Grew up near the water.

@rafe.cameron: Not here.

@rafe.cameron: But yeah. Live here now. Working.

you: Work? Like… job job?

@rafe.cameron: Yeah. Of course.

@rafe.cameron: I’m not one of those guys still “finding myself” at 25.

you: Wow.

you: A functioning adult, huh... hot.

He chuckles again, feeling fluttered by it. His body was going loose for the first time all day. It’s ridiculous how good it feels just to talk to you. He can’t really explain why he thinks like that. But you’re fast, filthy, funny, and now you’re real. On his screen. In his city. He’s not really expecting you to be that close. He thinks you’re probably on the other side of the world since many people use that site. But now? You’re probably lying in bed just like he is, cheeks blushing, legs tangled in sheets, waiting for the next move.

@rafe.cameron: You been stalking my account or what?

you: Only after you followed me back.

you: I didn’t expect the face to match the dick.

you: You know...

His eyes narrowed, his lips twitching again, and his eyebrow raised.

@rafe.cameron: Know what?

you: You look good.

you: You probably already know that, Rafe.

He lets that sit. Let the smirk build. Let his free hand slide lower. Fuck. Do you really say his name? That brings something to mind: what will you sound like when he finally hears you? He can’t help but imagine it. You must sound so good saying his name.

@rafe.cameron: You sound like a brat.

you: And you sound like a man who can’t handle one.

That sends a low throb through his stomach. He reads it twice, then once more, slower. Can’t handle one? Can’t handle one, really? He can hold you from back to front. He can and he will. He might woop that brattiness out of you if he must.

@rafe.cameron: Are you always this bold with strangers?

you: Only the ones who make me come.

His breath catches. You don’t have shame, do you? His cock pulses because of that. He’s not even touching it. Why is he getting worked up over some girl? It’s not fair. You type like you’ve got him wrapped around your fucking finger, and the worst part is you do.

@rafe.cameron: Didn’t know you were just from around here.

@rafe.cameron: Figured you were across the country or some shit.

you: Why? Scared?

He grins. Shakes his head as if you’re here and you can see him. He didn’t even know why he did that; maybe it was out of his habit. If you only knew how badly he wanted to find you now and meet with you, just to see your face, of course, nothing else. Yep. Just to see you.

@rafe.cameron: Nah.

@rafe.cameron: Just didn’t think the girl fingering herself to my texts lived ten miles away.

There’s a beat. He licked his lips while he typed that with all his confidence. Trying his luck and pushing it further because you’re already here, he wouldn’t like to waste the moment.

you: Wasn’t your text that got me off.

That one makes his jaw clench, his thumb frozen over the screen. He feels his chest tighten, but not in the way it hurts- it anticipates something, for knowing, for you.

@rafe.cameron: So what was it?

you: I don’t know...

you: Maybe the way you typed, like you already knew what you’d do to me.

you: Like you could picture it.

He swallows hard. He could picture it. Has. Does. Right now. Like, he is already picturing many things to do with you. Bend you. Lay you down. Take you. Hold you. Taste you.

@rafe.cameron: And what would I do?

you: Idk.

you: Pin me down, maybe.

you: Make me regret logging in that night.

you: But like… in a good way.

He groans, low and helpless. His palm dragging across his cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. Didn’t know he’s already doing that shit. He just know ue feel himself getting hard. You’re insane. You’re too much. You’re nearby.

@rafe.cameron: There’s a house party tomorrow. Outskirts. Lowkey.

@rafe.cameron: I’ll be there.

No pressure. No ask. Just an open door.

Read. He’s not going to invite you totally, but there’s an implication for it, for you to come- an implication that he wants to see you, that he needs to see you.

you: Is this you flirting, or you planning to corner me upstairs?

His head tips back. His hips shift. Maybe he planned to do that. Maybe his plan all along is just to get you upstairs with him. Maybe he intends to have you inside one of the rooms or the bathroom if both of you are not picky.

@rafe.cameron: You gonna let me?

You wait a beat. Think about whether you will leave him hanging or add to this craziness.

you: Depends on what room you catch me in.

His blood heats. Fuck. Shit. He can’t wait for that to happen. He wants you, he needs you, and he will get what he wants.

@rafe.cameron: Didn’t realize you were this close.

@rafe.cameron: Feels like fate or some shit.

you: Or just a bad idea with good timing.

He laughs- quietly, breathlessly. One hand on his phone. The other is slipping lower. He has already decided what to do for the rest of the night.

@rafe.cameron: Yeah. That too.

After that conversation, you just let it sit silently; you no longer message or reply. You go to sleep and rest. Said to yourself, you need your beauty sleep. Not because he invited you to a party, but because you want to. Not about him, never about him.

You told yourself about that. Out loud. Since last night. And you’ve been telling yourself that you’ve not been going since this morning more than once.

But it stops you from getting ready and from waking earlier than you planned to do. Your eyes are wide, your breath is already shallow, and your skin is already getting ready and preparing for something. Well, you didn’t exactly spiral. This is not a spiral. Right. It isn’t! It just so happened that you haven’t exfoliated in a while. That’s all. It’s just hygiene, and you want to be clean.

But the shower runs hot. The steam rises thick, making the mirror dreamy and blurry while you shave your body. Arms, legs, stomach. That smooth skin behind your knees. You don’t miss a thing. You rub your hands repeatedly on your skin after you shave the spot to check if it’s already hairless. And your thighs, too, yeah, you spend your time on those two, especially between your thighs. It’s like you’re scrubbing off what you did for the past few days and your hesitation. You’re scrubbing it off like he might put his face in between the layers, and you want him to feel the smooth skin and how you smell good.

You also shaved your mound with quiet precision. Like it’s a science project, you want to get a perfect grade. One of your legs is on the edge of the bathroom, where you always put your foot when you want to shave your lower body. The razor glides slowly, smoothly, and gently, and your eyes remain there while you slide it.

You exfoliate. Twice. You moisturize your body like it’s a matter of survival. You even turn your water cold in the end. That stupid tip from that stupid skincare TikTok about sealing your pores. Like anything could seal you up now.

Not that you’re going. Yeah. Of course, you’re not. Hell no... But here you are, already wrapping yourself in a towel and move through your room like it’s a freaking mall. You even set up many products you’ll use. Bottle after bottle lined up: essence, toner, glycolic serum, retinol, moisturizer, slug balm. An eye mask because your dark circles might look tragic under cheap party lights. A cooling roller to flatten every puff. A pore strip for your nose, even though you know they’re bad for your skin. You don’t care. You want to be pretty. You want to look good. You want to be beautiful. For yourself. Yep.

You put on a playlist. Not on purpose. Not because you want to hype yourself up and calm your nerves while you do the skin care. But it’s the pretty kind. The kind that plays in A24 films where the girl is halfway to her death and still reapplying lip balm. You put some things that will make you feel this insane skincare is everyday. Fine. Feminine. Tonight, you want to look untouched. Poreless. Expensive. Unreachable.

You double-cleanse. Then triple. Leave the mask on too long because the sting feels like penance. You don’t even know why you left it there. You just believe that no pain, no gain. Well, to take this kinda of beauty you have to endure something. You ice your face with spoons from the freezer. Your skin is burning, but glowing. You’re glowing. That should be how things work anyway.

You use your derma blade. Your gua sha. Your rose quartz wand. You run a metal comb over your scalp in tiny, painful strokes. It’s a little pleasurable if you gaslight yourself about it. It’s not really bad. But you don’t even know what it’s for. It just feels like control. Over something you don’t even. Know. You won't give in if you keep grooming yourself into submission. Not because of him. Not for him. You’re doing this for yourself. Obviously.

You pick out underwear. It’s soft, subtle, pale like a secret. Soft around the hips, flattering without being obvious. Not flashy. Not too much for your taste. It’s not... It’s comfortable even. But matching. The kind of pair that says low effort, even though you passed over three other sets to settle on this one. You tug them on with damp fingers, towel still wrapped around your body, another coiled around your head like a crown. You moisturize your thighs twice. You glide oil along your collarbones in case someone’s watching you walk up the stairs. You slick balm over your lips, wipe it off, and reapply. Then again. And again. You want it to be soft and kissable. You start fixing your hair before you even pick out an outfit. Your hands move fast. Too precise. Too careful.

It’s not for him. You don’t even know if you’re going. But if you did- if you did show up you’d look flawless. Effortless. Like what you want. That’s what you want. To be more presentable. First impression lasts, right? Of course, you’re not insane. It’s just... you’re conscious. Yep, as if you hadn’t been planning it all day. Like you hadn’t shaved your cunt with clinical precision and whispered don’t be weird to your reflection while massaging serum into your temples.

Your phone buzzes again.

@rafe.cameron: still thinking about you.

Of course he is. Who won’t be thinking about you? People always do because you make yourself memorable in their minds. Okay, that sounds like a narcissist, but you’re just confident in some way. You lock the screen. Don’t answer. Don’t need to.

Your skin is getting sensitive from heat and over-scrubbing. You smell like coconut and toner. Like it’s some shit you do to hypnotize other people. Like some desperate, pretty thing pretending you’re not waiting to be seen. You don’t. Not really. Well, you just want one person to notice you, not all of them.

You head back to your room, drop onto your bed, legs still bare and lotion-slicked, phone in one hand. You want to relax, unwind, and relax your body with the products you put there, but of course, you’re not done yet.

Pinterest opens before you know it. You scroll. You searched for things. Makeup looks first. Dewy skin. Smudged eyeliner. Cherry gloss with a bitten center. Highlight that makes your cheekbones look razor-sharp when a guy stands too close and you pretend not to notice. You click save. Then another. Then three more. The looks get bolder. You’re not doing full glam-not for some guy from goddamn site. But maybe something soft. Something casual but hot. Something that says Don’t touch me and Please ruin me in the same breath. But you don’t really know what you want, no?

You click over to outfit inspo. Not because you don’t know what to wear. You’re just curious. Exploring. Researching. You know how to style yourself, you do. You just need to look over some outfits because they’re comforting. After all, it’s satisfying. After all, you like using the app.

Little black dresses. Low back tops. Tank straps that fall just enough to make someone reach to fix them. Jeans so tight they should be illegal. Hmm... Looks good, but that’s not your mood for today. Bodycon skirts. Oversized jackets with nothing underneath.

Your legs fold tighter. You scroll faster. Slower. Your thumb hovers. You’re zooming in on every image. Picturing yourself in everyone. Picturing how you’d look to him. God, why would you do that? You don’t even know the guy. You tell yourself it’s just visual planning. Aesthetic things. You’re not dressing for him. You don’t even know if you’re going.

It’s for you. It’s all for you.

You scroll deeper. Outfits that match the fantasy. But you don’t know if you can wear that. Well, maybe. That matches the mood in his messages. That matches the kind of girl he probably imagines when he types you were dripping in my inbox last night. The kind of girl who walks into a room and makes a guy choke on his drink. You tap one pin and hit save. Then another. Another. It’s not for him.

But if he saw you? What if he does? If you walked in and his eyes found you first, would he look stunned? Frozen? A little breathless? God. That sounds good. You wouldn’t hate that. Your towel is starting to slip. Your thighs are still warm. Your face is still hot. Your phone is resting in your hand, the Pinterest board growing faster than you ever admit. You’re not going. You just want to have inspiration next time you go out. You’re just exploring your options. Obviously, you’re still not going. Never.

You’re half-naked now, towel unraveling on your floor, your hair finally removed from your towel, and you’re fixing it, you’re doing it for yourself and no one else. Your phone’s somewhere nearby, screen dimmed, but your Pinterest board is still open and blooming. You look over there from time to time. Outfit inspo, makeup looks, hair clips, strappy heels. The longer you stare, the more your chest tightens- want isn’t even the word for it. It’s not like. It’s a pull. Like you’re in some multiverse. Like, this is not real. Like it’s a dream. Like you’re already in motion and pretending you aren’t.

You move to the mirror. Turn sideways. Then back again. Admiring yourself. In your body. The more you stare, the more you get conscious. Well, you get confident, too. Like it’s in between. Still pretending you haven’t already decided.

You reach for lotion, not the normal one. Well, not the one you always use for everyday. This is something you saved for a special occasion. (The occasion in question: getting fucked) The good one. Thick. Rich. The one that leaves you glowing like you’ve been kissed across the chest by the sun. You pump too much into your hands and smooth it over your shoulders, collarbones, down the slopes of your arms. Your thighs get two coats. Three, maybe. You rub it in slowly, like your fingers are memorizing your body. Your skin drinks it up, warm and dewy. It’s like a plant being watered. You drag a hand over your hipbone and exhale. Yeah, it feels good. You are starting to get why other girls are obsessed with excessive skin and body care.

Then you reach for the little bottle you only use when you want to feel something. The pheromone perfume. It might be a bad decision to use it. But you are determined to do it. It’s the one that’s supposed to blend with your natural chemistry. The one that doesn’t smell like much in the bottle is the one people won’t buy if they smell it from there and don’t know what it is. But on you? When it’s in the human body. It hits. Subtle. Warm. Too intimate.

You spray it at the base of your throat. The sides of your neck. Then inside your wrists. Then, with a pause, between your breasts- one smooth spray of it, right where you hope someone’s face might land if they got close enough. Then lower. You hike your leg up onto the edge of the bed like you’re not thinking, like your body is acting without you. Two sprays for beneath the soft curve of your thighs, then another at the bend behind your knees. Jesus. That’s such a slut behavior, isn’t? You don’t even blink when you do that. Didn’t think it through.

It’s not like you are planning to get fucked. As if Rafe will be close enough to breathe there. As if he’ll have you folded in half and want him to remember how your legs smell. As if he’ll put them on his shoulders, and it will hit them while he thrusts in you. Which he won’t. Obviously.

You wait for the scent to settle before you layer something sweeter over it. The classic Victoria’s Secret, the kind that clings. Not your usual one. You just use it when you want people to get crazy about your smell. It's the deep one. Sugary, but slutty. The one you constantly tell yourself is “too much” for everyday wear. Tonight, it’s perfect. Perfect in a sense, he will press his face over your face and inhale you repeatedly because he can't get enough. You sprayed it over your neck. Behind your ears. Across your chest. Once between your thighs. Once more behind your knees. Then again, for no reason, on the inside of your ankle. The room smells like a perfume factory. Like skin. Like you.

Your phone buzzes behind you. You ignore it. You keep rubbing oil over your legs like you didn’t hear a thing. Move to your chest. Your sides. The backs of your knees. All the places he might touch if he got bold. All the places you’re pretending you’re not preparing. Then, finally, you check it through your notifications.

@rafe.cameron: You coming later, right?

Oh. Yeah. The way your stomach flips at his message is humiliating. He’s casual. You don't like that casual. You don't like the way he's asking, especially since he didn't bluntly invite you. Just told you he’ll be there. Who does that? He's too casual for your taste, like he didn’t burn up your inbox last night. Like, he doesn’t care if you say no. Like he didn't care if you wouldn't come at all, it pisses you off. Or maybe turns you on. Or maybe both. You don’t answer.

And then reach for your lip gloss. You start with full glam. Not because you’re going. Not because of him. Not because you’ve thought about his text from last night more times than you’re willing to admit. You start because you haven’t done this in a while. That’s what you tell yourself because you’re bored. Because you just felt like it. Because it’s fun. Because no one’s going to see it.

Your foundation goes on too perfectly. A full-coverage mask, blended to airbrush. You take your time with the bronzer, carve out the cheekbones you already have. Layer your blush, not for color but for shape. You dab it high across your face like the sun, or fire, or the right kind of attention has kissed you. Then highlight the cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, and the collarbones. Your whole face catching light in all the ways you hope someone notices, and no one points out.

Your eyes come next. Shimmer on the lid. A neutral smoked into the crease. A deeper brown to anchor it. You blend until your wrist hurts, until the shadow melts together like you were born with it. You draw your eyeliner sharp, clean wings that reach for the outer corners of your face like you’re trying to lift something. One side looks perfect. The other one doesn’t. Why does everything feel uneven? You try to even them. Then they’re both too thick. You grab a cotton pad. Wipe it off. Start again.

Round two, you’re softer with it. Skip the drama. Just a flick. Barely there. Then mascara, one coat, two, three-until your lashes tangle. You blink too hard, smear the corner. You clean it up, but now it looks like you tried too hard to fix it.

You go to your lips. Line them. Fill them. A nude first. Too flat. A gloss over the top. Now it’s too shiny. A red. Too much. Sheer pink. It makes your teeth look yellow and return to normal. You line them up again. Blend with your finger. Step back.

You can’t decide if you look pretty or just done. You can’t get satisfied with it, not really. You’re obsessed right now with perfection. You squint. The mascara looks clumpy. Not even bad, but your lashes aren’t fanned the way they usually are. You separate them with a pin. Blink. Something feels uneven.

You reapply the blush and then re-blend the contour. Now, the line under your cheek looks harsh, so you powder that down, too. But now the base is flat again. You reach for the highlight and add a little more.

Your eyebrows are too boxy. Looks bad. Making them look old, so you brush them out. They fray. You reshape the arch. The ends look like they can kill, but now one side is thinner than the other. Why the fuck it’s thinner? You sharpen the tail, and now it’s too long. You couldn’t just get it right, no. You keep fucking it up. You stare at yourself like it’s your reflection that made the mistake. You don’t sigh. You don’t say a word. You just fix. Your words won’t make them better anyway. So you’ll fix it until you’re satisfied with it. Until you feel pretty enough. Your lips are still wrong. You wipe them. Again. Start over. Different gloss. Different pencil. No pencil. Many products you pick and switch on. You dab the center with a shimmer shade to make them poutier. To make it look big. To make it look more kissable.

You tell yourself it’s just for fun because how can you reason out that you want it more to look attractive? You know it’s just something to do with your hands because you’re not going. This isn’t for anyone. You’re not redoing your makeup because you think you’ll see him. You’re redoing it because you’re a perfectionist and you love your image. You are careful with how you present yourself in front of others. You’re not hoping to look like someone he’d notice. You’re just experimenting. The way your fingers move doesn’t look like experimenting. It seems like a ritual and you’re in a fucking cult just take and takes from you.

You lean in closer. Tilt your chin. You can see the crease in your concealer. You didn’t set it enough. What if they look hard enough and notice it? They’ll call you cake bitch. You blend it out with a finger. But now your under-eyes look fucked. You tap in the powder. Add a touch of shimmer to the inner corner. You step back. Still not right. You’re not sure what’s wrong. You’re not going to say it’s your face because it isn’t. You’re fucking magnificent to be the problem is your face. You’re not going to say it’s the shape of your mouth, how your nose turns slightly when you smile, or how your right brow arches higher than your left. You’re just going to fix it. You’re going to be a Bob the Builder if you must. You’re going to keep fixing it until it looks like the version of you you swore you weren’t trying to be. Your phone buzzes behind you while spiraling, but you don’t check it. You pick up the lip gloss again. Just one more coat. Just in case.

You swipe it on with too much pressure, to the point that the applicator bends. The gloss bleeds past the corner of your mouth. You wipe it with your finger, then with a tissue, a makeup wipe, and by the time you’re done, your lips are flushing and raw and worse than when you started. You exhale slowly, press them together, and reapply. A lighter hand this time. Shiny. Better. You tell yourself it’s better. You lean closer to the mirror. Smile. Too wide.

Your mouth looks strange when it’s stretched like that. Your eyes don’t match it. One of them is smaller than the other. Or maybe it’s the lashes. You glance down, pick up the spoolie, and comb through. One pulls tighter than the other. You fix it. Then fix it again. Then again. And again. You’re not fixing anything. You know that. But your hand won’t stop. You can’t just stop. You can’t figure out what’s wrong. You press your palm to your cheek. It’s hot. You look fine. You say it out loud. “I look fine.”

It sounds strange in the air, too echoey, like you said it, in a hallway instead of a mirror. You brush your hair. Just the front pieces to make your face stand out. To frame your face. Then a little more. The sides. The top. You brush it again. And again. Your hair isn’t the problem. It hasn’t been the problem for the last twenty minutes you’ve been brushing it. But your hand won’t stop.

The highlighter on your cheek is uneven. You fix that, too. Your powder is caking near your nose. You take a sponge to it. Now there’s a patch showing your skin. You blend. It spreads more than enough, so it looks uneven. You tap it down. The corner of your mouth twitches. You smile again, just to convince yourself about something. It doesn’t reach. You say it again. “I look fine.”

This time, your voice cracks. You look like you’re on the verge of crying. The smile stays, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Your hand shakes a little when it goes for the brush. Like you’re so close to breaking down. You pull it through your hair again. Tuck it behind your ear. The same strand. You adjust it. Fix it. Pin it back. Take it back. You try so hard. It’s not even styled; you just put it behind it so your face will be seen more. You breathe in through your nose and try not to blink too hard. The tears are waiting for you, and so, so, so close to fall. But you’re not letting them win. You’re too prideful for that shit.

You pick up a tissue. Blot your lips. Re-gloss. You smear it. Wipe again. The gloss gets caught in the corner of your smile, and you try to clean it, but your finger drags red across your cheek, and now there’s a mark there- something not quite lipstick, not quite skin- and you just stare at it. Your reflection, holding that stupid smile, eyes glassy, mouth shaking, cheeks flushed, hair perfect, lip slightly smudged. You grab a makeup wipe. And drag it across your face. One hard pull from cheekbone to jaw.

The foundation lifts with it. So does the shimmer. You do it again. The other cheek. Across your forehead. Your nose. You wipe your lips last. Slow. Gentle this time. Now your face is bare. Your eyes sting. Your hands are still. You reach for your comb. Start brushing again. You smile into the mirror, raw and flushed and ruined. And say it one more time. “I look fine.” You sit still for a long time.

The mirror doesn’t blink. The lights are too hot. Your mouth feels heavy from the layers you’ve added, wiped, and added again. Your cheeks are flushed- not from blush anymore, but from friction. From all the fixing. From everything you tried to make work that just… didn’t. You don’t know what look you’re going for. Maybe you’re too focused on perfection. Too much of being a people pleaser. You stare at yourself. Your lashes are clumped with dried mascara. At the corners of your mouth, gloss pooling in lines. At the places where the highlighter clings to textures you swore you didn’t have.

Then, slowly, you reach for the wipe. Just one at first. Pulled soft from the pack. It’s cool. Damp. You press it to your cheek and hold it too long for a second, like you’re waiting for something- permission, maybe. Or a sign. Then you drag it across your skin. It catches. Streaks. Peels off the shimmer and blush in one long, uneven swipe. You don’t look away. You keep going.

Another wipe. Your other cheek. You wipe down your jawline across your forehead. The makeup comes off in patches- foundation and bronzer and effort- all sinking into soft white cloth like stains you’re not allowed to mourn. You press the edge under your eye. Gently. Mascara smudges black down your cheekbone. You wipe it up. But the more you touch it, the more it spreads. You wipe harder. Your eyes burn.

You move to your lips next. The gloss is sticky now, clinging to the corners and turning sour. You drag the wipe across your mouth. It catches, leaving the skin underneath showing your natural lips, slightly raw. You wipe again. And again, until your mouth feels empty, the stain is gone, and your face is bare.

You lean back, lips parted, your breath shaky and quiet. You look at the wipes- seven of them now, soaked, tinted, curled at the edges like they’ve wilted in your hands. Then you look back at yourself. Your face looks real. Flushed. Uneven. A little tired. But real. You blink once, slowly. Then you pick up the gloss again. Something sheer. Nothing special. The one you always use on a day when you are too lazy to get ready. You swipe it across your lips. Just once. Just enough to make them shine. You pick up the clear brow gel. Comb it through your brows softly, like touching something you’ve already hurt. No lashes. No blush. No eyeshadow. Just you. Just this. Just enough.

You’re still in your underwear. Gloss sticks to your lips. Brow gel clinging to its last bit of hold. The air in your room is warm, thick with pheromones from your skin, perfume, and everything else. Your floor looks like a war crime- fabric everywhere, bras you don’t remember owning, hangers stripped from their clothes. Your heart’s in your throat. Your reflection won’t stop looking at you.

“I just need something easy,” you say out loud, rummaging with both hands now. “Something chill. Something that doesn’t make me look like a fuckdoll in heat.” You hold up a skirt. Immediately drop it before you make that face, look of disgust that you own that one. “That makes me look like I bite pillows and sob.” You grab a top. Cute, cropped, pastel. Shit. Looks okay, but it’s ugly for today. That’s not so you. “No,” you whisper like it betrayed you. “You make me look like I tell guys I’m ‘so random’ and cry when I drink tequila.” You throw it.

You step into jeans. Pull them up. Zips them. Button bites. You look at the mirror. You turn to your side. You turn around and look over the mirror and check yourself over you should. “The hell,” you murmur before sitting on your bed's edge. Stand. Sit again. “Why do my thighs look like they’re mad at each other?” you mutter. You stand. You walk to the mirror and do everything you did earlier. Turn. Spin. Hate it. Jeans come off with a fury. You’re sweating now. “Okay,” you say to your drawer like it’s personally failed you. “I need something short. But like… not too short. Like… tasteful-slut. Like, hot, but I didn’t try.”

You pull out a black miniskirt. The words are already forming in your head the second you hold it up. “He could flip this up in half a second. Fuck me in a hallway.” You pause. Blink. Shakes your head. “Nope,” you hiss. “This is not for him. Not for him. Not. For. Him.” But your throat’s dry. And your hands are already reaching.

You toss the skirt on the bed anyway. You don’t need it. You want something that shows your legs. Something you can sit in, dance in, ride in. Not for him, obviously. Just in case. For you.

You try on another dress. It sags. Your boobs look sad. Like they’ve been told disappointing news. “Oh my god,” you whisper, looking at yourself. “Do I have the ugliest boobs on Earth? Are they upset with me?” You change. Again. And again.

You’re sweating. Your gloss is still on. You wipe it. Reapply. Wipe it again. You stand in front of your closet, hands on your hips, chest heaving, eyes wide, the edge of a scream building in your throat- And there it is. That red two-piece. Folded wrong. Half-hidden. Smug little fucker of an outfit. You stare. “You’re too much,” you mutter. You pick it up. “You’re a slut. You scream I need attention. You’re asking to be pinned to a fucking bathroom sink.”

You pull it on anyway. The skirt settles over your hips like it missed you. The top hugs just right- low, but not trashy. Tight, but not desperate. Your legs look long. Your waist looks soft. Your tits aren’t even mad anymore. You turn. Spin. He could pull this up in a second. He could fuck me in this without even taking it off. Your mouth twitches.

“Not for him,” you whisper to yourself. “This is not for him.” But your legs are already moving. Your lip gloss is already perfect. And your phone just buzzed again across the room. You reach for your phone like it’s nothing. Like you’re not glowing. Your thighs aren’t warm from lotion, the gloss is still wet on your lips, and that red skirt is hugging your hips like it has something to say.

You told yourself you wouldn’t check it, that you weren’t doing this for him. That this was just for you, just to feel pretty, to feel soft, to feel like your skin belonged to you again. Not to impress anyone. Not to be seen. Not to make anyone regret leaving your messages on read or waiting too long to say the right thing. But now you’re looking at yourself in the mirror.

Now your top is hugging your chest just right, dipping low enough to flirt, tight enough to make your ribs ache in the most perfect way. Your skirt’s hitched slightly from how you’ve been walking around your room, the hem kissing the tops of your thighs, swaying a little with every shift of your weight. The perfume has settled. The light’s just right. Your body hums like it’s waiting for applause.

You unlock the screen. Your messages open with his name before you can stop yourself. Still unread. You don’t open it. You don’t need to. You swipe over to the camera. Let it settle. The mirror catches you in full-glossy, dressed, and dangerous. But you want something filthier. More intimate. Less perfect. You want to look like you didn’t try. Like you’re not thinking about him while doing exactly what you’re doing. So you angle the phone down. You lift your skirt.

Just a little. Just enough to show the start of something he wasn’t supposed to see. The soft skin at the top of your thigh. The waistband of your panties. The way the hem rides up in your hand, like you might hike it higher if someone asked nicely. You keep your face out of the frame, phone over there. Not because you’re shy, but because the body says enough. The picture doesn’t ask. It fucking shows what he’s missing right now.

You take it. Look at it. You look exactly how you want to look. Warm and flushed. Kissable and smug. Lit like a fantasy. You think about what he’ll do when he sees it, and whether he’ll stop breathing if he zooms in. If he’ll pretend he’s not already hard just from the thought of you wearing it, with that lip gloss, with those thighs, and no warning at all. You attach the photo. You don’t even write a message. You don’t send a wink. You don’t do those teasing shit. You don’t say a single word. You just hit send. Delivered.

@rafe.cameron → photo

Then you drop the phone back into there like it’s boring. Like it’s routine. Like you didn’t just hand him a loaded weapon and smile while pulling the trigger. You don’t check to see if he’s opened it. You don’t wait for a reply. You already know what he’s going to do with it. And if he wasn’t planning on finding you tonight? He is now.

He’s already burning through his second drink, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, jaw grinding slowly as he leans against the kitchen counter and pretends he’s not watching the door like it owes him something. He’s half-listening to some guy ramble about classes, nodding just enough to look sane, while his eyes keep sliding sideways whenever someone walks in.

You said maybe. That was forever ago. He told himself he wouldn’t care- but that was before he’d done a line in the room where all the shit happens, before he’d started pacing, before the walls got too loud and the music too slow and the air too heavy.

Now the coke’s humming through his blood, jittery and sharp, sitting under his skin like a loaded wire, buzzing behind his teeth every time he clenches his jaw. His palms keep twitching. His spine won’t relax. He didn’t know if it was from coke or from waiting for you. His leg’s bouncing and he keeps checking his phone like it’s something he can’t look away from for too long or he’ll miss something he’ll regret for the rest of the night. Nothing. Still nothing. And then- It buzzes.

Just once. A tiny vibration. But it cuts straight through him. He pulls it out fast, a little too fast, already expecting nothing, already annoyed, already wound so tight he could snap in half if someone looked at him wrong- and then he sees it. Your name. A photo. No message. No anything. His thumb hits the screen before he can think. The image loads. And everything in his body just stops.

You’re standing in front of your mirror, that red skirt hitched high over your thighs, fingers resting in the hem like it slipped up accidentally, but didn’t. You’re not posing. You’re not teasing. You’re just there- body soft, panties barely visible, face out of frame, like you’re not even trying to ruin him. Fuck he wants to get that panties. He wants to squeeze those tits. There’s no caption. No explanation. No emojis. Just a picture of you looking like you were made to be fucked against the wall of this party.

It knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants you now. This is making him so horny. The coke had him buzzing already, but this- this short-circuits something. His body goes still, but it’s not calm. It’s locked. His heart hammers up into his throat, and he stares at the image like it might blink, like it might shift, like if he zooms in, he’ll smell your skin and taste that lip gloss on his tongue. He swipes up with one thumb, opens your thread, and starts typing before his mind even catches up.

@rafe.cameron: Come now

@rafe.cameron: Need to fuck you

His hands won’t stop. He just types what he’s thinking, and he doesn’t care if it’s unhinged or dirty for anyone’s taste. He know at the end of the day, his cock will be inside of you pussy.

@rafe.cameron: You can’t send me shit like that and not show up

@rafe.cameron: I’ll come find you. Swear to god

The texts look insane. He doesn’t care. His pulse is in his teeth. He’s hard, achingly, painfully, not in a cute way- in a I’ll-fuck-you-up-in-this-bathroom kind of way. He zooms in on the photo. Closer. Closer. The way your fingers are just barely tugging the fabric. The way your panties cut across your hips. The suggestion of your mouth in the mirror. He’s gripping the phone so hard it creaks in his hand.

@rafe.cameron: Don’t fucking tease me

He sends it. Doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t check if you’re typing. Doesn’t check if it was delivered. He just stares. At the door. At the screen. At the wall. At the cracks in his control. Because if you show up like that- if he sees that skirt, that gloss, that smug little look you always pretend you don’t wear- he’s not waiting. He’s not asking. He’s not interested in playing nice. And if he ruins something tonight, it’s not gonna be by accident.

Your heel slips on with a little tug. You’ve got one leg propped up on the edge of your bed, fingers curled around your ankle, calf flexing just slightly as you adjust the strap. The other heel is already on, already hugging your foot like it belongs. The mirror’s catching both- your legs, long and bare, that red skirt fluttering higher than it should every time you shift.

You feel too good. Too soft. Too dangerous. Your skin’s still warm from lotion, from heat, from the ritual you put yourself through to get here. The perfume you sprayed behind your knees is still blooming faintly in the air, sticky, sweet, and intimate. You’ve got gloss on, brows set, and your hair is behaving. You haven’t checked your phone since the photo. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You pick it up anyway. One glance at the lock screen and your pulse clicks in your throat. Five new messages. All from him. You don’t rush. You open them slowly, thumb dragging the notification down like you’re unwrapping something.

@rafe.cameron: Come now

@rafe.cameron: Need to fuck you

@rafe.cameron: You can’t send me shit like that and not show up

@rafe.cameron: I’ll come find you. Swear to god

@rafe.cameron: Don’t fucking tease me

You stare at them for a long time. No reaction at first. Just a stillness in your chest, a low, slight hum under your skin that makes your thighs press together before you can think. You shift your weight, smooth your hands over your skirt, and let the hem fall slightly lower before dragging it back up.

He’s waiting. Probably pacing. Probably red-faced and feral and sweating through that shirt he always wears when he wants to be noticed. Probably checking the door. The stairs. The time. You open the keyboard.

you: You’re dramatic

you: I’m just doing an outfit check 💋

You send it. Set the phone down like it didn’t even matter. Like you didn’t just pour gasoline over a man already begging to be set on fire. You pause. Then you grab your jacket- nothing fancy, just soft and familiar, something easy to slip over your shoulders before the chill sets in. Not because it’s cold outside. Not really. But because your legs feel a little too bare now. Your arms are a little too visible. Your skin is a little too loud. It’s not fear. Not shame. Just… quiet. Subtle. A whisper of maybe I’ll feel better with it on. You smooth the sleeves down. Pull it closed. Not all the way. Just enough. You take one last look in the mirror. Not to fix anything. Just to breathe.

Then you grab your keys and head for the door with that slow, steady calm that only shows up when you’re dressed like a fantasy but still carrying armor.

You don’t know exactly what you were expecting when you got here. It’s just a house. A party. Normal one. Like the typical party you’ll see in everyday life or in movies. People and music and the familiar stench of cheap weed, sticky alcohol, and cologne too thick in the air. The lights are low. The bass is thudding through the floor. Also, there’s the questionable music taste they have. Someone’s laughing too loudly in the kitchen. You catch the end of it as you walk in, warm air hitting your skin like it’s already trying to strip the nerves off your shoulders. It’s already hot inside, you don’t know why. Maybe the lack of AC, or there are many people inside. You step inside like you’re sure of something. You’re not. Your fingers tighten in the sleeves of your jacket. You’re wearing the red set. Yes, “The red set.”

That sweet little two-piece top and bottoms with the tiny white polka dots and the soft, swingy hem that flutters when you move. The top is cropped just enough, showing little skin on your stomach. The skirt sits just right on your thighs. You knew what you were doing when you picked it. Every inch of you says I look good. But you still pulled a jacket over it. You don’t know why. But it’s something soft. Safe. Nothing heavy- just enough to make the temperature stop biting at your arms. Just enough to pretend your body isn’t asking to be looked at. You don’t unzip it. Not yet. You’re already too warm. Your skin is buzzing. Your gloss is still perfect. Your thighs are still soft from the lotion you smoothed on thirty minutes ago with shaking hands.

People notice when you walk in. Of course they do. You’re new. They always see the new ones. You’re pretty, too. You look like a doll someone forgot to box up. The doll that will sell out immediately. Glossed and glowing, big-eyed, quiet. Your skirt flutters. Your hair’s behaving. You look like you might not know where you are, maybe like someone’s waiting for you. You don’t look like you belong here, if we're honest about it. You look like you’re waiting for someone, too. You don’t scan the room. You don’t need to. You’re not that desperate.

He’s somewhere here. You know that. You feel it in your stomach. In your throat. That weird little ache that’s not fear, not heat- just a kind of pressure, waiting to break. Someone says hi. Offers you a drink. You blink at them, smile softly, and shake your head. “Just visiting,” you say when they ask what school you go to. Your voice is light. A little quiet. Maybe even shy. But your lips are still wet, your skirt is still red, and your jacket’s still wrapped over your body like a secret you’re not ready to share yet. You drift to the edge of the room. Find a wall to lean against. Just observing the party, you don’t even know who these people are. Pretend you’re fine. You don’t check your phone. You don’t take the jacket off. Not yet. But you’re here. And that’s enough to shift the gravity in the whole house.

You don’t make it more than a few minutes before someone finds you. You look at them up and down, your eyelashes fluttering. A group of girls- maybe three, maybe four- sweeps toward you from the living room like they’ve already decided you belong to them. They’re loud. The typing female friendship you’ll see. They’re pretty. All glossed up and glowing, the kind of girls who move like they know every inch of this house by memory. One of them’s holding a half-full cup of pink something. Damn. Where did they get that? Another’s got sunglasses on inside. They look like trouble. Or someone you’ll influence you to live your life to the fullest because they believe that you only live once. As if you have nine lives of a cat to do crazy shits. Or at least like they’re never bored.

They spot you and light up, and then you are with them. They don’t give you a chance to say no before they take you under their wing for the night. The couch dips under you, and you fold into it easily- legs crossed, shoulders soft, cup warm in your hand. You still haven’t taken your jacket off. The sleeves are pushed up a little, fingers peeking out, your whole body dressed like you’re cold even though the heat’s been sitting low in your chest since the second you walked in. That red outfit you spent too long getting into still clings perfectly beneath it. The little top, the matching skirt. Bare skin where it matters. Soft, flirty, dangerous in the way you swore you weren’t trying to be.

The girls around you talk like they already know you. Or want to. Or don’t care either way and just like how you’re sitting, sweet, quiet, easy to talk over, pretty in a way that doesn’t threaten them yet. All of them are extroverted, well, or maybe because they already have alcohol in their system, so they feel like they can be friends with everyone. One of them is curled with her knees tucked against her chest, another lying sideways, one leg dangling off the edge of the couch like it’s her own. They look like they live here. Like they’ve done this before. They must have... right? Like they’re collecting you for fun. They ask you things between laughs and sips- where you’re from, what school, who you know here. You keep it simple and smooth. Just visiting. Out of town. Passing through. You’re dismissive. It shows, and they don’t press about the personal information because they know it will kill the vibe.

But when they ask how you got here, you say it when one of them hums and tilts her head with a bit of sparkle behind her lashes. “Rafe invited me.” You shrug. It’s almost nothing. You might subtly roll your eyes, and it’s already dark for them to notice it, or they do, but you don’t really care. But the moment it leaves your mouth, the shift is immediate.

A shared glance, a breathless little sound from one girl’s throat, the flick of someone’s eyebrows lifting just slightly before they drop again like they’re trying not to be obvious. They look at each other like they are judging what you just said, which makes you a little anxious, to be honest. Someone adjusts the strap of her top. Someone else sucks her teeth and smiles into her drink.

No one asks you to repeat it. They heard you. They just want to see how long you’ll hold it. One girl leans in, lashes heavy, tone syrupy with curiosity. “And are you fucking him?” Straight to the point. Like they are not playing around. Just curious. Just want information squeezed out of you. The question is soft, but it lands like a slap. Your chest goes tight. Your mouth opens. You blink.

“No,” you say, breathy and too fast. “I just… came to hang out.” You said like you’re just trying to get out of their question. They saw right through it. They’re women too. They’re not dumb. They can pick it up. They know what you mean even if you deny it.

There’s a moment of quiet. Then one of them laughs- low, delighted, full of something between pity and awe. “You show up in that set,” she says, gesturing lazily at your outfit, “looking like a literal cherry-flavored ice cream, and you’re gonna tell us you’re not trying to get dicked down?” she called you out where it hits. It hits deep where you feel shy, where you get flushed and blush.

“She’s playing shy,” someone else grins, clinking her cup against yours. “Babe, if Rafe even looked at me twice, I’d already be gargling him like mouthwash.” They don’t say it like they’re teasing. They say it like it’s a fact. Like it’s common knowledge. Rafe fucks. Rafe ghosts. Rafe doesn’t invite girls. He appears. He ruins. He vanishes. So the fact that you’re here- lipgloss on, legs bare, jacket clutched to your body like you’re not already sweating underneath it- means something. You can feel the weight of it building, slipping over your thighs like warmth you can’t shake.

“He wants you,” one of them says matter-of-factly, like she’s offering you water. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have said shit. He wouldn’t have looked. He wouldn’t have sent the text.” You don’t know that, though. You don’t know him. You don’t know how he functions. You don’t know if he’s like this to other girls.

You try to laugh it off. “It wasn’t like that,” you said, brushing it off. Of course, you’ll say it wasn’t like that, as if you didn’t all do that ritual on your skin, like you don’t want to be pretty for him when he lays you down on some cheap bed in this house.

“It was,” another says gently. “You just haven’t figured out how bad yet.” Of course, you know how bad it is. They don’t know what he texted you before you left. They don’t know, he said, “Come now. Need to fuck you.” They don’t know, he said, “Don’t tease me.” They don’t know he’s probably already somewhere in the house, pacing, fidgeting, eyes blown wide, breath held. You sip your drink and pretend your thighs aren’t pressed tight. Pretend your pulse isn’t thudding under your gloss. Pretend you’re not warm for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

“You should do it,” someone says sweetly. “Seriously. Don’t waste it.” One of the girls said before smiling at you like it’s just a one time offer and you should fucking hit it back when you obviously have the chance. You look down. You smile. Your voice, when it comes, is sugar-coated. “We’ll see.”

You try not to squirm, even as the laughter fades and the space around you feels smaller. Your hands are sticky against the plastic of your cup. You feel it sweating along with the moisture of the cup. Your shoulders are too warm under your jacket. You smile like it’s fine. Like it’s still fun. Like your heart isn’t racing so hard, it makes your earrings tremble. One of the girls shifts beside you, arm brushing yours, head tilting like she’s studying something. Her head turned to the side, and she eyed you for a long time. “You know,” she murmurs, soft but pointed, “your skin is… glowing.” You blink at her. Smile, shy. You don’t deny it, but you just smile at her. You wait for what she’ll say next.

“I’m serious,” she says, voice amused but honest. “It’s giving… poreless like you prepared for it. Looks like you are getting ready to get laid. Hm. Dewy. That serum-wearing, body-oil-layered, about-to-get-railed kind of glow.” There’s a chorus of laughs around you, warm, sticky, and knowing. Their eyes are now back on you as if they’re trying to see the point of the girl who said that. “She smells like lotion and regret,” someone hums, and noss. “No, not even regret,” another cuts in, eyes flicking over your shoulder. “She smells like she planned to win.” Yeah. Win someone’s attention, they bet. You planned to win. There’s no lying about that.

“She smells like she shaved everything.” The first girl hums thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes at you. “Wait- what is that? It’s not just perfume. It’s like… deeper.” She leans in slightly, nostrils flaring as she breathes you in. And you try to stay still for it. You let her breathes and smell you while you’re blushing for fuck sake. “Oh my god,” she says suddenly, eyes going wide. “It’s fucking pheromones.”

You freeze. You shake your head, trying to deny it. A quiet little laugh slips from your throat, too tight, too high. “ I-I don’t know,” you say, but it’s weak. You bite your lip, and you almost pout. “Oh, she knows,” another grins. “That’s not Bath & Body Works, babe. That’s ’fuck me in the hallway’ in a bottle.”

“It’s behind-the-knee perfume,” someone teases. Before she put her hand on your knee, like she’s trying to prove a point. “That’s the slut zone.” More laughter. You know that, that’s why you sprayed it there. You’re dizzy with it now, heat curling low in your belly, skin too hot under your jacket, knees still pressed tight together. You don’t remember blinking. You’re smiling too widely.

“You did the whole ritual,” one of them says. “Skincare. Lotions. Pheromones. You probably glossed your lips six times and changed your underwear just in case.” They’re not wrong, though, besides the underwear, because you’ve decided which you’ll wear when you lay eyes on the set underneath your clothes.

“She waxed… or shaved,” someone adds, sipping her drink with a grin. “I’d bet money. Full prep. Clean girl gone filthy.”

It’s annoying how they are right again. Like they do that shit too, they don’t know how long you spent getting ready. Hours. Probably four or maybe five. They don’t know you double-cleansed your soul off in the shower, or that you sprayed that little glass bottle across your throat and thighs and wrists like it was protection, like it would make you smell less desperate. But somehow, they do because they’re also women like you. It’s bound to happen that once in your life, you’ll get crazy like this.

And still, somewhere beyond these walls, where the music is louder and the air thicker and your phone is still buried deep in your purse, he hasn’t seen you yet. He’s desperate to see you, though. To land his eyes on you for the first time. But they have, the girls have. And they already know what you’re here for. You don’t know how it starts. One minute you’re still blushing over the last thing they said- your gloss clinging to the rim of your cup, your thighs sticking to the couch- and the next? They’re spiraling. All of them. Telling stories like they’re trading war crimes.

“Okay, no, but I once used my roommate’s body butter and shaved my arms because a guy looked at me in Econ.”

“Girl. I shaved my pussy with body wash in a Target bathroom because I thought I was getting railed after brunch.”

You choke on your drink at their words like it’s the most absurd thing you’ve heard. “No, wait- what?”

The girl closest to you waves a hand like it’s nothing, like it’s a normal thing for them. Too normalized, actually. “He said ’you up’ at 11am. What was I supposed to do? Don’t believe in love?”

Another girl cackles. “I change my underwear once in a Starbucks just because this guy said he liked lace.”

You’re laughing too hard to speak at first. You press a hand over your face, shake your head. “You guys are actually insane.”

“Please. Like you’re any better,” someone shoots back. You blink, innocent, before you roll your eyes and raise your eyebrow at them. “What did I do?”

“You’re sitting here glowing like a slutty candle and pretending you didn’t scrub your body raw for Rafe Cameron.”

“I didn’t- ” You sit up, sputtering. “I was just exfoliating! That’s normal!”

“Sure, and the pheromone perfume?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Cover your face again. “Okay, shut up.”

They’re all howling now. One of them clinks her drink against yours. “It’s fine. We’ve all been pussy delusional.”

Another nods solemnly. “I once put on a matching bra and panty set to go over to a guy’s house who didn’t even have pillowcases.”

You gasp. “Noooo.”

“Yes. I lay on his mattress like a Victorian ghost.”

Someone pats your knee. “Honestly, I respect it.”

“Thank you,” the ghost replies. You smile so hard it hurts. Your cheeks are warm, your drink’s half-gone, and you haven’t checked your phone in ten minutes because you might explode if you see his name again. One of the girls leans in, eyes narrowed.

“So, you gonna let him hit or what?”

You cover your mouth like that’ll stop your brain from answering. “Can we not?? I haven’t even seen him yet.” Yeah, you only saw him on his picture, not in person, though, so you don’t know why you did all of that shit for a man you just met on some freaking site!

Someone hums. “You don’t need to. That outfit says you’re ready to be pinned.” Another lifts her brow. “You’re the kind of girl who packs emergency gloss and a hair tie just in case.”

You roll your eyes, grinning. “Okay, and what about it?” They all cheer. You are officially one of them. And across the house? He has no idea he’s already the main event.

The laughter softens into something golden- still bright, still messy, but looser now. Slower. Like it’s settling into your bones. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been sitting here, your jacket still wrapped around your arms, and your cup magically refilling every time you set it down. You’ve stopped checking it. You’re just sipping. Sipping. Giggling. Breathing.

You’re not even sure what the last joke was. Something about waxing your asshole for a man who doesn’t believe in fitted sheets. You nearly choked when someone mimed it. “Okay, but wait,” the girl next to you says, leaning in with her chin on her palm. “I have a real question.”

You blink at her, still smiling. “Huh?”

“How do you even know Rafe?” The question lands softly and casually, but the entire couch shifts the second it’s out there. Everyone turns, subtly but definitely. They are waiting for your answer. Eyes flick to you. Brows lift. One girl’s lips parted like she hadn’t even realized she wanted to know until right now. You still go for half a second. Then you laugh, quiet and slightly stunned by your own answer.

“I met him through an anonymous chat site.” You said, no shame to that one. You smile, cheeks blushing. Your hand is on your thigh, while the other is on your cup. Someone gasps. Full, delighted.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Shut up.”

You hold your hand up in surrender. “I’m serious. I didn’t even know it was him. We were just talking. Sexting, really. Dirty. Like- filthy.”

“Oh my god.”

“I hate you. That’s so hot.”

“It was anonymous?” one of them asks, eyes wide. “Like, usernames and no pics?”

You nod. “Totally anonymous. I didn’t know who he was until the end of the chat. Then I followed him on Insta and he messaged me like- “so you’re just gonna follow me and not say anything?” that kind of bullshit! He did the first move.” They scream. One girl throws her head back. Another grabs your arm. They’re giggling as if they’re the ones who experienced it.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

“That’s so hot.”

“You’re literally the luckiest bitch alive.”

You giggle again, cheeks flushed, head a little floaty. You don’t realize how fast you’ve been drinking until you feel your words start to stick a little, liquid and glossy. You swirl the cup in your hand and take another sip anyway.

“He’s so fine,” one girl says reverently, like a prayer. “Like, I get it. I totally get it.”

Someone else nods, dreamily. “I’d let him break my heart and my lease.” Another sighs. “He doesn’t even have to text me. He could just show up, and I’d say, thank you for your service, sir.”

You laugh again, curling into yourself slightly. You feel soft. Sweet. Held in a way you didn’t expect. You are not even bothered by the words they say. You are not insecure or jealous in a way because you get it. He’s handsome. And all of you are just girls. And the weirdest part? It’s not even about him anymore. It’s about them. The way they let you in. The way they believed you. The way they’re all a little crazy, too. You’re still giggling when someone says, “Okay, but if he walks in right now? What are you gonna do?”

And you just blink. Smiling. Floating. Still not ready to answer. But he’s upstairs, but he hasn’t really been there. Not in any way that counts. The room is hot, thick with smoke and sweat, and someone’s music vibrates too low through the walls to make sense. Laughter rattles from the couch; a few guys are trading hits from a joint and passing a bottle back and forth like they’re part of the furniture. There’s a table pushed up against the wall, powdered and streaked and cluttered with bills and half-rolled twenties, and that’s the only thing Rafe’s paid attention to all night. He did a line almost thirty minutes ago- maybe two, maybe more- and it still hasn’t left his system. It’s not a high anymore. It’s something else. Like something he’s used to. Something tight and hot and restless. Something was crawling beneath the surface of his skin, making his jaw ache, his fists twitch, and his throat dry out between drinks.

He hasn’t spoken in a while. He hasn’t laughed, hasn’t chimed in, and hasn’t looked away from his phone. He’s just... dreaming. He knows he’s fucked up already. The screen keeps dimming. He keeps tapping it back to life. Over and over. Still nothing. Still that photo- your skirt hiked up, that filthy, slight hem just grazing the curve of your underwear- and no follow-up. No text. No, “I’m outside.” No “I’m here.” No “Where are you?” Just that one fucking image like a spark you dropped in his lap and walked away from.

He knows you’re here. He doesn’t need confirmation. It’s not instinct. It’s not luck. It’s just that he knows you’re somewhere here in this house. Even high. Even pissed. Even though he hasn’t look yet. Even vibrating through the seams of his fucking jeans, he knows when you’re close. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

He’s halfway to relapsing into another line when he hears it- laughter on the stairs, muffled voices trailing past the doorway like they don’t know who’s listening. Two guys. Loud. Loose. Drunk enough to think they can say anything and not choke on it. “You’ve seen that new girl downstairs?” one of them says. “Red skirt. Beautiful eyes. Laughing with the girls like she lives here.”

“Shit, yeah,” the other one answers, already laughing. “She’s bad. I might go say something. Bet she’ll fold easily.” Rafe doesn’t move at first. He just sits still inside the room. Doesn’t speak. But his body’s already tensing, already rising- slow, deliberate, the kind of stillness that means danger. His fingers curl around the chair’s armrest until the wood creaks, and when he stands, it’s like gravity shifts with him. And be heard one of the guys shouted his name but he ignored him.

He steps into the hallway. Walks right up behind them. “What the fuck did you just say?” The two guys stiffen. Look at Rafe like they already said the wrong thing, which is a bad thing, really. It makes something inside Rafe click. Or pushed.

One glances back. “Chill, bro, it was a joke-”

He shakes his head. “No,” Rafe snaps, stepping closer, heat rolling off him in waves, jaw locked so tight he can feel the ache in his molars. His hands are closed, ready to punch this guy’s face. To make his head separate from his body. “Say it again. Say that shit about her again. I fucking dare you.” They try to laugh it off. He stutters something like just messing around, like they don’t realize he’s two seconds from putting someone through drywall. He steps even closer- right into their space- and one of them flinches, eyes darting toward the nearest room like maybe someone will pull Rafe back. But no one does.

Then Rafe exhales. Just once. A low, sharp breath that cuts through the heat like a knife. He steps back. Not because he’s calm. Not because he’s changed his mind. But because you’re downstairs. Because while he’s up here wasting time with cowards, someone else might already be too close. Might already be looking. Might already think they have a chance. He shakes his head once. Scoffs like it burns in his throat.

“You’re lucky I’ve got somewhere better to be.” And then he turns- shoulders still tight, mouth still curled, fury packed in his spine like it’s waiting to detonate- and starts down the stairs without another word. He doesn’t care if they’re still watching. All he cares about now is finding you. And when he does? You’ll know exactly how much trouble you’re in. He spots you the second he hits the bottom step.

Tucked into the far end of the couch, knees drawn up slightly, your cup cupped between both hands. Jacket still on. Skirt riding high. Laughing. Giggling, really- head tipped back, gloss catching the light, hair falling soft around your face like it’s been waiting for him to see it.

He stops for half a breath. Just takes you in. The shape of you in his peripheral vision. The way you lean into the girls around you. The way you’re not looking for him. You didn’t just send him that photo and disappear; then, he moves. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just direct. Like there’s a thread tied from his chest to yours and he’s been pulling it all night.

You don’t even see him coming- not until the couch dips beside you. Not until you feel the heat of him pressing into your side. Then his arm drapes across the back of the couch. Slow. Lazy. Heavy. His fingers catch the curve of your shoulder, grazing over the fabric of your jacket like he’s testing the texture, like he’s reminding you it’s still on. He hasn’t said anything to you yet. Just let his hand settle, palm warm, thumb dragging absently back and forth over your clothed arm. Then, like he’s been there all along, like he belongs there, he glances at the girls you’ve been laughing with and says, voice low and slow and sharp at the edges:

“So,” he drawls, mouth crooked, jaw tight with something deeper than the smile, “what are we talkin’ about?” You don’t look at him right away. You feel him first- the couch dipping under his weight, the warmth of his thigh settling flush against yours, the press of his arm stretching across the press of his arm stretching across the back of the cushions.

His wrist grazes your hair. Gently, and it felt good. His fingers trail down the line of your jacket like they’re checking the fabric, like he’s deciding how much of you is his to touch. His fingers are curious, like he’s trying to figure you out. One of the girls glances up, but not for long. She looks him over once, then turns back to the group, her mouth pulling into a grin. Like she knows what’s about to happen once both of you leave that couch. It’s no surprise. Not awkwardness. It’s familiarity.

“Nails,” she says simply, like it’s the truth. Another girl nods, jumping in with a soft, agreeable hum. They are lying about what they just talked about, which is filthy and embarrassing. “Yeah. Top coats. Gel lifting. Whether press-ons are worth it.”

A third girl sighs dramatically and waves her hand. While looking at her nails, they are probably new sets. “Mine keeps breaking. I swear, the second I get anything cute, I open one drawer and they all snap off.”

The conversation picks up as if he never arrived. It is as if his hand isn’t already sliding down the side of your sleeve, as if he’s feeling your body and your shape under his hand. As if he didn’t just let his palm fall softly, warm and steady, against your bare thigh. Resting it there. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t shift. Just places it there like he has every right, like no one in the room would dare to call it out even if they noticed. And they do notice. But none of them says a word, just let it sit there. It’s not like you don’t want it there, though, you do. It’s just a new feeling. Someone is entering a new place, and you’re getting used to that someone.

One girl smiles into her cup. Another curls her legs beneath her, tucking them under like you’re all still just lounging. The way you’ve gone perfectly still under his touch isn’t something she’s watching happen in real time. “I can never get the almond shape right,” someone says, showing her hand. “Mine always end up looking like little daggers.” You chuckle at that because you can see why she said that. You can see the vision.

“They’re supposed to be sharp,” another girl says. “It’s the drama.” Nails are expression and art, they’re something that can reflect you by the way you pick your design, the shape, and how you wear it on your fingers.

“And if they break?” a third girl adds. “Then you know the dick was worth it.” That one gets laughter. You even manage to laugh, breathy and half-distracted, lips parted as you glance down at the drink in your hand that’s suddenly harder to hold. Rafe’s thumb starts moving- barely. You shiver at the action, licking your lips, and you look quickly at him before looking away. You feel them back and forth. Slow little arcs, no pressure. Just presence. Just possession. None of them acknowledge it. They don’t tease. They don’t whisper. They don’t say his name again. They let it live there. On you. Between you. Like it’s part of the night now, they know how to read a room, that’s what’s good about these girls. They know you are shy. They don’t take advantage of it.

One of the girls tops off your drink without asking, nudging the bottle toward you with a wink. Another leans into your side, warm and loose, pulling up her phone and flashing you a screenshot of some ridiculous nail design- something neon, floral, and way too much. It looks ugly to your taste, but huge respect to those who will be able to wear them and still slay while wearing them. You laugh again, a little clearer this time, and nod like you’re still here, still listening, still present enough to care.

“You’d rock that,” she says. “Bet your hands look pretty when you’re- ” (holding his dick around your palms and nails just showing) She stops short, but the grin stays. You could already guess what she’s about to say. It’s not hard to figure out what it is. You hide yours behind the rim of your cup.

The couch adjusts slightly when Rafe shifts, spreading his legs a little wider, the side of his thigh pressing more into yours, his hand still unmoved but heavier now, warmer, thumb sliding higher in slow, lazy circles like it’s marking territory you didn’t agree to give up- but also didn’t fight. The girls know. And they don’t press.

They just keep talking, keep laughing, giving you the safety of their noise while your chest flutters and your pulse flickers, and Rafe leans just slightly closer, not touching your face, not saying a word, but letting the heat of him bleed across your shoulder like a brand. They know what they’re doing. And he knows that they know. But no one’s going to ruin it. Not yet. It starts soft.

The girls keep the conversation alive, voices looping around each other, light, fast, and easy to ride. They keep laughing, filling the space with something that feels safer than silence, like noise, might make it easier to breathe. You just listen to them while trying to entertain Rafe quietly by letting him hold your body. You keep sipping. Maybe too often. Maybe just enough. The drink’s stronger now- whatever they poured you lingers longer. You feel yourself getting buzzed little by little. Sweet on the tongue, but hot in your chest. It’s something that kicks in the end, but it tastes good. The kind that burns a little once it hits your stomach. Makes your shoulders drop. Makes your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

Rafe hasn’t moved. Not really. He hasn’t said much since he sat down, hasn’t joined the conversation, hasn’t taken his hand off your leg. He just listens to the girls. You noticed the way he’s a little off. Not off off. Off in a way he’s high. He just sits there like he’s always belonged in this circle, like he was always going to end up next to you, warm and high and carved from something a little too sharp to be soft. But thankfully, he’s not rushing it even though you both know where you’ll end up at the end of the night. His thumb moves slowly. Back and forth. Just the same few inches, low and easy, like he’s not even thinking about it. Like he knows you are. But he just let his thumb move out of instinct.

You laugh at something one of the girls says without meaning to. It comes out too loud, too suddenly. You blush because it’s kinda embarrassing. You catch yourself and cover your mouth, shaking your head, tipsy and sweet and already too warm from the heat blooming between your legs. They smile at you, soft, knowing. It’s actually close to smirking, but they have pretty lips and an obvious drunk smile on them. One girl bumps her knee against yours. Another raises her cup like a toast and leans back against the couch.

And that’s when it happens. You open your mouth and say something back. Just a comment. A half-tease. Something small, but you’re in it now. You continue the conversation with them. Your voice slides into the rhythm of their laughter, and no one stops you. Even Rafe. No one pauses. It just fits.

“Okay, but I’d wear that,” you say, gesturing to the girl beside you who’s holding up a screenshot of an outfit that’s part unhinged, part genius. “Like- if I was in a slutty mood, yeah. I’d do it.”

The girl grins. “Oh you’re in a slutty mood, babe.”

Another lifts a brow. “Look at you.”

You flush deeper. “I’m literally just sitting here- ”

“With him,” someone adds, nodding toward Rafe.

You roll your eyes, grinning now, soft and slow, your head tipping slightly toward him without thinking. Rafe smirks, doesn’t deny it. He feels his ego boosted by that. Too cocky for it. His hand shifts higher, just a little. A small drag. A little more thigh. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees press closer together. Still, no one calls it out. You keep talking anyway.

You don’t know if it’s the drink, touch, or how his fingers have started tracing the hem of your skirt now, but you stop flinching. You stop pretending you’re not enjoying it. Your legs relax. You might open your legs a little, just enough to fit his hand if he wants to slide it between them. Your posture softens. You laugh again, easier this time.

“So what’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever worn just to hook up with someone?” you ask, eyes gleaming.

The girls erupt. One immediately shouts, “Fishnets and a church hoodie,” and another says, “My ex’s jersey with no bra,” and someone else goes, “A fucking Halloween costume. The whole thing. I’m talking ears, tail, glitter, everything.”

You’re giggling so hard it makes your shoulders shake, head falling lightly to Rafe’s shoulder for half a second- just a second-and he doesn’t move. He doesn’t push you off. For a moment, you think he is even encouraging you to rest there. He’s still quiet. Still sitting there. Still listening. Still touching. And for a second, you forget what it felt like before his hand was on your skin. Before your legs were warm. Before this party felt good. Before you got here. The couch feels different now. It’s softer. Louder. Warmer.

The girls are in full swing- shoes kicked off, legs tucked under thighs, arms flung over the backrest like this is their living room and you’ve been part of it for years. They’re drunker than they were thirty minutes ago. You are, too. Not drunk drunk, but it feels good. Everything’s slow and pretty and swaying. You can’t stop smiling. Your cheeks ache from it.

Someone’s telling a story about a guy who thought clitoral was a shampoo brand. Another is bent over her phone, scrolling for a meme she has to show you. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips on someone’s lap. A speaker’s going somewhere in the other room, muffled but steady, bass vibrating in your ribs like it’s inside you.

You’re sunk deep into the cushions now, body loose and glowing. Gloss is still sticky. Jacket still on. Legs still bare. And Rafe? Rafe hasn’t moved. He’s right there, planted like he’s the girl in the conversation and this is a group of full men while you have your wife beside you, because that’s how it feels for a momen especially he’s just the one guy here, with long legs spread lazily and an arm draped behind you like it was stitched to the couch. His hand hasn’t left your thigh all night. He’s not being obvious. Not squeezing. Not tugging. Just resting it there- warm, steady, heavy. Like it’s his, and he’s patient. Like he’s not in a rush. Like he knows you’ll crack eventually.

You haven’t cracked yet. But you’re warm enough to melt. You laugh at something one of the girls says- something about a man in a snapback who called her “babe” before even getting her name- and your knee bumps Rafe’s without meaning to. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance your way. But his thumb starts moving again. Just a slow, lazy stroke over your skin. One pass. Then two. Like a reminder. You try not to react. Try.

You lift your cup and sip. Too fast. The sweetness hits your teeth before it burns your throat. You shift your legs, one over the other, and your skirt slides just a little higher without meaning to. One of the girls notices and shoots you a look- a soft, tipsy, knowing look. “You okay, babe?” she says, voice sugary, loud over the laughter. “You look all flushed.” And she’s right, you are getting there to the drunk state, but not much. You can still hear and understand clearly what they are saying; you can still pick them up.

“I’m good,” you lie, cheeks hotter than they’ve been all night. “Just the drink.”

She nods like she believes you. But you know she doesn’t. Then, you feel him lean in. His chest touches your side. Muscular. Too boyish. His body doesn’t move much. He just angles slightly, shoulder brushing yours, mouth dipping close to your ear. You could feel his hot breath, and it made you squirm and shiver down your spine. Close enough that you feel it before you hear it. His voice is low. Smooth. Barely a breath.

“If I put my fingers between your legs right now, would they come out wet?” You freeze. Not completely. Just enough. You close your eyes and can’t help but imagine the scenario he laid out in front of you. That would be disgusting and embarrassing for your taste, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling something.

Your legs press together so tightly you feel it in your stomach. You shift your hips like it’s nothing, but your fingers curl tighter around your cup, and you don’t look at him. You stare straight ahead. The girl across from you. At her earrings. At the table. Anywhere but him.

You pretend you didn’t hear it. He pretends he didn’t say it. His thumb keeps tracing soft, slow arcs across your thigh like nothing happened. Someone beside you starts talking about her last situationship and how he cried after sex. Another girl shouts, “No! Shut up!” like she can’t handle it, and the whole couch explodes in laughter.

You laugh too. You sound normal. But your knees stay locked, your face stays pink, and your chest feels like a drumline. He doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t have to. You’re soaked. And he knows it. You want hom now and it’s something you can’t admit out loud but your pussy is screaming for it. For the need and want.

The couch feels like it’s hugging you now. Warm and soft and far too easy to sink into. You’ve stopped keeping track of your drink- or how many times the girl beside you refilled it. The cup in your hand is sweeter than it should be, the ice long melted, and your gloss is half-worn off from all the laughing.

Everything around you is golden- spilled light, sticky heat, the kind of buzz that makes your thighs feel soft and heavy. God. You can’t wait to be upstairs with him. For your back to hit the bed or your chest. You are not picky; you can even take him to the bathroom if you can. The girls are still talking over each other, into their drinks, through mouthfuls of chips, inside jokes, and memories you weren’t there for but still find yourself smiling at.

You’ve been trying to play along. Trying to stay inside the moment. You really try but Rafe’s hand hasn’t left your thigh. It’s not moving much. Just resting. Just there. He knows what it’s doing to you, and he’s just letting it stay there intentionally, to make you lose your mind. Heavy and slow and warm, skin to skin, the weight of it dragging all your attention back to the space between your legs, no matter how many times you try to smile at someone else’s story. He’s still beside you all night. Like a storm waiting to snap.

And then- he shifts. Leans in, slow and quiet, so close his nose brushes your hairline, his lips grazing just behind your ear like they’ve been waiting for this moment the whole time. His voice doesn’t rise above the others. It doesn’t need to. “Let’s go upstairs.”

You barely breathe. You don’t look at him. Fuck. Here it is. The invitation you’ve been waiting for. You just blink once, and your chest stutters. There’s no follow-up. No persuasion. Just that. He knows, he knows that you want it too, he knows that you’re desperate for it too. Fucking shit. Yes, you are, yes, you’ll go upstairs with him. That low hum of suggestion, thick and slow, curling low in your stomach like a thread being tugged. You don’t answer. Not right away. But your body does. Your thighs twitch. Your fingers go still around your cup. You swallow like you’ve forgotten how to. Something inside you goes sharp, then molten. And you look up. Not at him. At her.

One of the girls, across the circle, lounging against the couch arm like she lives there, one strap of her top slipping down her shoulder, drink half gone, smile lazy and soft like she’s floating somewhere just left of sober. Her eyes meet yours, and something passes between you. Something quiet. No words. She sees your face. She knows. She raises one eyebrow, tilts her head like she’s asking Is it him?

You blink once. Then twice. You don’t nod. You don’t speak. But she sees it anyway. She knows you’re subtly telling her if you can go upstairs. Of course, you don’t want to get disrespectful to them and just leave after they entertained you the whole time. Her smile widens just a little. She lifts her glass- barely- and then winks. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just… approval. Permission. A quiet, drunk girl blessing wrapped in glitter and lip gloss.

And just like that, you move. You set your drink down like your hand isn’t trembling. You adjust your skirt. You stand. Rafe’s already up. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t say a word. Just waits. Turns slightly. Starts walking. And you follow.

Your drink stays behind- half full, still sweating on the side table like a version of you you don’t need anymore. The noise fades fast. Every step you take up the stairs pulls the night tighter around your ribs. Your heart’s a fist now, lodged somewhere between your throat and your stomach. Shit. He looks good even though he’s not facing you. You keep your eyes on his back and shoulders, and how his hand slides lazily over the banister makes it seem like he’s not walking toward something purposefully.

He doesn’t look back. But he knows you’re there. He knows you’re following him like a dog. You keep one hand at your side, brushing your skirt down out of habit. You’re hyper-aware of everything- your thighs, your breath, the edge of your jacket biting into the top of your chest. You smell like gloss and perfume and heat. Your lips feel too soft. Your panties are damp even though he doesn’t do anything yet. Shit. You’re unbelievable. You’re a slut. Yeah. You confirmed that already from the moment you get ready for him.

When you reach the second floor, it’s quieter than it should be. You hear faint voices behind closed doors- music leaking from the floor below- but the hallway ahead is empty. It’s a stretch of dim light, creaking floorboards, and silence. Thank God. You don’t know if you could survive anyone seeing you like this.

Rafe doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t check to make sure you’re still following. He knows. His walk is easy and casual, with one hand sliding into his pocket like this: just another room, just another party, just another girl. But you know better. You reach the end of the hall, and he stops outside a door- one of the last on the left. No noise from behind it. No movement. Just stillness.

He doesn’t open it right away. He glances over his shoulder, finally- eyes sliding to you, lazy and low, like he’s not surprised you’re here, but still satisfied you came. You still followed him even though he didn’t drag you upstairs, even though he wanted to. He just wants you to have some control for a moment, to decide if you really want it so he walks in front of you and doesn’t look back but here you are now. His gaze drops to your legs. Your mouth. The part of your jacket you’ve tugged down too far. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares for a second, long enough to make your stomach tighten, long enough to make your skin feel like a secret.

And then- He turns the knob. Pushes the door open. And steps inside. Doesn’t look back this time either. He just left the door open for you. Just disappears into the low light like this has been the plan all along. And you? You hover. One step behind the threshold, fingers twitching at your sides. You could go back. Downstairs. To the noise. To the girls. You could sit right back down and pretend this wasn’t happening. But it is. And when you step inside, the door closes behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should.

You’re alone now. Just you. And him. And every filthy thing he hasn’t said yet.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind you is soft. Too soft. It doesn’t echo, slam, or announce anything at all; still, your skin goes tight the second you hear it. You stay where you are. The jacket is still on, the heels are still clicking faintly against the hardwood, and your eyes adjust to the room’s low light that feels too still, quiet, and closed off. It’s probably some boy’s room. You don’t even know who owns it, but he certainly does.

“So... which room is this?” you ask, like an ice breaker. Just to lighten the mood. Just to get away from your own awkwardness. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t answer your question. He just turns, slow and deliberate, and looks at you like he’s not sure what you are yet- like he’s weighing it. Measuring. Deciding. You don’t know what to do with your hands.

You should say something again, right? Make a joke. Lighten the mood. But there’s no space for that now. There is no space for lightness, laughter, or anything else that might convince your body to stop pulsing so loudly under your skin. You look at him, and you’re still close to the door. He takes a step forward that makes you take a step back. Not fast. Not threatening. Just one step. Heavy enough to feel. “You always follow strangers- especially men you don’t know into bedrooms?” His voice is low. You don’t know if he’s judging you or what.

He’s quiet enough to make you strain to hear it, which only worsens it. You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Another step. “You don’t know me.” Well... You do. You know him. Sort of. Maybe. You want to say that. You want to say something like “I’m getting to know you, that’s why I am here,” kind of crazy. You want to tell him you’re not careless and that this wasn’t blind. You want to defend yourself, that you’re not stupid. But your throat’s dry. Your stomach’s tight. Your body knows what your mouth hasn’t admitted yet- He’s not wrong.

“You talked to me for one night on an anonymous site,” he says, gaze flicking lazily over you, pausing at the hem of your skirt, the line of your collarbone. You don’t know what he’s thinking. It’s embarrassing how he’s picturing the scenario right now. He’s making it sound like you’re easy. Of course you’re not, that’s what you tell yourself the whole time. “Saw my face for a day on Instagram.” He’s standing right in front of you now. Close enough that you can see the dilation in his pupils, the faint smudge of something under his nose. He’s high. Not sloppy- sharp. Alert. Burning slowly. You haven’t moved. Fuck, he’s so close he could just pin you right here, right now, and people wouldn’t care. Not when the music has been banging the whole house loudly.

“You don’t know whose room this is,” he says, quieter now. You know he has a point, of course, you know. You just don’t want to aknowledge the whole goddamn thing! “You didn’t ask. Didn’t check. Didn’t send your location. You didn’t even tell one person you were coming upstairs.” You do. You do. You told someone! That one girl from downstairs who’s probably drunk now. You blink. Fast. His hand comes but up not to touch your face, not to grab your throat, not to pin you. To tilt your chin. He makes you look at him. He’s observing your face closely. Gentle fingers against your jaw, slow and firm, like he’s making you look at him because you don’t have a choice.

“No one knows where you are.” It sinks deep. That sentence. Each word. It slides under your skin and curls there, hot, cold, and heavy. You hold your breath while you’re looking at him. You are overthinking everything right now because of what he said. You shouldn’t come. You shouldn’t. You’re so stupid. So dumb. Do you need that kind of attention, so you’re here? What if he’s a killer? What if he’s not here for you? What if he just wants to see how easy it is to make you come here and make fun of you? That kind of overthinking. Your breath catches. Your body doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile.

“What if I’m not here to fuck you?” he murmurs. Oh, he did not! How could he say that when he’s showing all these signs... right? You’re so close to crying right now, and you don’t even know if it’s obvious. “What if I locked this door and never let you out?” Your fingers twitch at your sides. He notices.

“What if I wasn’t who you thought I was?” he continues, voice like velvet stretched over something sharp. “What if I was catfishing you this whole time?”

You try to swallow, but it doesn’t go down right. “What if I didn’t want you on my lap?” he says, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip once before he made it part from your upper lip. Your breath shudders. “What if I wanted you in the trunk of my car instead?”

A sound stutters in your throat. Not a word. Not a cry. Just air. His mouth doesn’t touch you. But it’s close. You can see it in front of you, it’s so close. You look down at it. You feel it, no, he’s not kissing you, but his breath is warm, ghosting across your skin like a hand. “You scared?” The truth pools between your thighs before it ever makes it to your mouth.

You nod. Barely. Just enough. The smallest tilt of your chin. God. You want to kick him and slap him. You want to curse him out. You want to strangle him. Jesus, you want to do many things to him and it’s not just fucking. You hate that he’s making you feel this way. And he breathes in like it’s the answer he was hoping for. His hand doesn’t leave your face. Not right away. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, pressing just enough to feel how soft it is. How warm. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

You don’t look away. Then, quietly, casually, his other hand lifts. It finds the edge of your zipper, right between your chest. And he pulls. Slow. It is so slow that you feel every inch of it. The metal teeth separate, one by one, all the way down your chest like a line drawn through your resolve. He doesn’t look at the jacket. He doesn’t look at his hands. He looks at you. He keeps staring at you. Your eyes. Your face. He let his eyes consume you while his hand just opened your jacket as if you were a gift he was trying to unwrap for himself. The way your breath skips as the fabric starts to fall open, exposing more skin, more heat, more of the body you swore you weren’t offering when you came upstairs- and now can’t seem to stop presenting.

You don’t stop him. You don’t say a word. You just let him. You feel there’s a rock in your throat while he’s doing it, though. When the zipper hits the bottom, he pushes the jacket back just enough to see. His fingers brush your shoulders. Slide the fabric down, baring you, your arms still caught inside the sleeves, but the front of you fully exposed. His gaze drops to your chest. To the top of your bra- whatever you wore under it, if you wore anything at all, he makes a sound in the back of his throat. Low. Pleased.

Then his hands come up. Both of them now. And he touches you. Not rough. Not greedy. But firm. Like he knows what he wants and he’ll get it. Focused. Like he’s been waiting for this and wants to remember exactly how you feel in his hands. He moves his hands down from your shoulders until they reach in front of your chest. You could feel his hand shaking when he touched it. He palms your tits slowly, his thumbs brushing the tops, dragging under. His fingers press in, squeeze, lift. Not to test you- just to feel you. To see if it’s a perfect fit between his hands. To weigh you. To own. And the whole time, He’s looking at your face like you both have some staring contest happening and he will win it.

He’s watching how your lips part. How your jaw trembles. Your eyes flutter low and then snap open again, trying to stay strong. Trying not to give him more than he already took, but you are failing the way he squeezes it. The way his thumb brushes over your hardened nipples as if he already knows it’s going to be sensitive. “You wore this for me?” he asks, voice too soft to be kind. You nod again. His thumb continues to graze your nipple through the fabric. You jolt- barely- but he feels it. He sees it.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even have to ask. You just walked right in wearing something I could tear off with my teeth.” Your breath stutters. Your head slowly nods, barely, but he sees it. His hands press in tighter. He leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, lips brushing that sensitive space just below your ear.

“But I won’t,” he whispers. “Not yet.” Then one hand leaves your chest. Slides down. Past your ribs. To your waist. To the hem of your skirt.

His hand lingers at the hem of your skirt, but he doesn’t move it. Doesn’t lift. Doesn’t slide. It just rests there- warm and deliberate- while his other hand cups your breast like it’s his, like it’s something he bought, like he has every right to press his thumb slowly across the swell of it and watch the way your breath catches.

Then he leans in. Not to kiss. To breathe. His nose brushes against your jaw. Then your throat. Then lower. He drags the shape of his mouth along your skin without opening it, not once. He just let it brush against your skin. He feels how your hair raises, how you shiver. He thinks that you’re holding back something. He just inhales. Deep. Hungry. You shudder, barely. He groans. Just a little. Like it hurts. “You smell fucking unreal,” he murmurs, voice so low it scrapes the base of your spine.

He does it again, breathing you in from your shoulder to your neck like oxygen. His hand at your chest presses harder, just slightly, as if the feel of your body under his hand isn’t enough and he needs more, more, more. “I smelled you the second I sat down,” he whispers, nose buried at the crook of your neck now. He’s like taking it all in and just wants to stay there forever. “That perfume. Shit what do you have? Whatever the fuck you put on your skin- I almost lost it.”

Your lips part open before you hear him ask what you put in your skin, and you just casually answer it, phemoromes like it doesn’t drive him nuts. Your thighs clench. His hand on your skirt tenses. “You didn’t even take off this fucking jacket,” he says, almost accusing, almost reverent. “Sat there zipped while your thighs were out for the whole room to stare at.” His voice is so deep it’s making something crazy inside of you. It’s making you wet.

You don’t speak. You can’t. His lips ghost up your neck again. Slow. Wet. Breathing against your pulse. “No one saw what you were wearing underneath,” he growls. “No one got to see this little fucking top. No one smelled your skin so close but me.”

His teeth drag gently along your jaw. “You kept all of this hidden. You brought your body into a room full of people and zipped it up like you were saving it.” You are saving it for him. You want to be pretty for him.

His hand finally moves- just a little. Just enough to brush under your skirt, palm resting against your thigh, fingertips barely grazing where your heat pools. “You were saving it for me, weren’t you?”

You don’t answer, you know to yourself that you do. But your legs part. Barely. Just enough. Like it’s the answer to his damn question, he exhales into your neck. Almost shaky. Like he’s holding something back and losing the battle. “You should’ve told me you were gonna smell like that,” he murmurs. “I would’ve fucked you on the couch.” Fuck. It’s so unfair, he couldn’t just say that. He knows what he’s doing and what he’s implying by saying that shit.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t warn you. Just shifts forward- fast- and scoops you up like he’s done it a thousand times. One arm under your thighs, one at your back, like it’s instinct. Like your body weighs nothing to him. You make a slight sound- half gasp, half breathless “oh”- and then he’s carrying you.

Two long strides and you’re at the bed. He sits first, thighs spread wide, dragging you into his lap like you belong there. Like you were always supposed to end up here- glossy, wrecked, and trembling over him. The jacket’s still on. He slides his hands up the back of it. Slow. Palms smoothing over your spine. Then he grabs the collar and peels it down your arms, one sleeve, then the other, tugging until your skin’s bare and flushed and exposed. Then his mouth’s on yours. Sloppy. Desperate. Chemical.

He kisses like a man whose nerves are on fire- like he’s high on you and everything else in his system.

He kisses like he hasn’t eaten in three days, and there’s finally food in front of him, so he’s munching it down. Teeth clashing. Tongue deep. One hand gripping your thigh. The other is in your hair. He tastes heat in your mouth and wants to burn alive in it. It’s sloppy, and you don’t hate it. You love the way he’s not bothered by the gloss in your mouth. By the way, it’s smearing on his lips too. Your lip gloss is gone in seconds. Your breath? Useless. He groans against your mouth and says something low- something like, “fucking waited all night for this”, but it’s hard to tell with the way his tongue slips back between your lips like he’s trying to eat every soft sound you make.

And then, between kisses, his mouth drags lower. Over your jaw. Down your neck. His teeth graze your throat. He’s licking. He’s making your skin wet. He’s flattening his tongue in it and can smell and taste the product and salt you put in it. You arch without meaning to. He bites. It’s not sweet. Not tentative. It’s sharp- possessive- like he wants to mark you, to sink something deep enough into your skin that you’ll feel him when you leave. You whimper, hips jerking forward, and that’s all it takes. You start moving without realizing it- grinding down against the muscle of his thigh, slow and clumsy, your skirt already bunched up too high, your panties pressed tight where you need him most. You’re landed in front of his hardening dick in his pants.

His breath catches, mouth still hot on your neck. His hands move at the same time- one sliding up to your chest, covering your tits through the thin fabric of your top like he doesn’t need to be gentle, the other dipping low, right under your skirt, fingers spreading over the heat between your legs without hesitation.

He groans when he feels it. The damp cotton. The way you’re rutting into him like it’s not enough- like nothing will be. “Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Look at you.” His thumb presses in, rubbing through the soaked fabric, just slow enough to feel like a threat. Like a warning. His other hand works under your top now, dragging your bra up and out of the way so he can cup your bare tits properly, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they’re tight and aching under his palms.

You make a soft, broken noise in your throat and rock forward again- dragging your cunt across him, chasing the pressure, not even thinking anymore. He watches you for a moment. Just watches. He smirks but he can’t decide which part of you to get obsessed with first- the way your mouth falls open when his thumb circles just right, the way your breath hitches when he rolls your nipple between his fingers, the way your hips keep chasing friction like you’ll die if he stops giving it. It just feels so good.

“Greedy little thing,” he breathes. “Can’t sit still for one second, huh?” You shake your head. You can’t lie. Not when your body’s already giving you away. Not when you really want it. Not when you want to take it for yourself. Not when you want to fuck him. He kisses you again- messy, slow, full of tongue and teeth and heat- and the whole time, his fingers keep moving. Not enough to get you off. Not enough to let you fall. Just enough to make your stomach pull tighter with every stroke. Just enough to leave you clenching, grinding, whimpering into his mouth like a girl being teased out of her mind.

You’re not close. Not really. But you’re aching. Your panties are soaked. Your thighs are shaking. Every time his thumb drags too slow over your clit, you press harder into him and try not to moan. He knows what he’s doing. Of course he does. “You like that?” he murmurs into your mouth, voice so low it burns. He continues the movement as if he wants an answer, whether it’s verbal or physical.

“Like grinding all wet against me while I play with your tits? You gonna beg for more, or just keep humping like a brat?” You whine- helpless, half-gone. He kisses you harder. Rougher. Bites your bottom lip and tugs, then presses his mouth back over yours like he needs to feel you panting for him while you rock your soaked little cunt into his pants like you’ve got no shame.

But he still doesn’t let you come. Not yet. And you know he won’t. Because that’s not what this is. Not yet. He wants to have more fun with you. You can’t just let go that quickly. Nope. Nah. This isn’t the part where he lets you have what you want. This is the part where he edges you. This is the part where he allows you to grind and gasp and tremble- and keeps your panties on, where his hands stay exactly where they are, heavy on your tits and soaked between your legs, stroking and teasing and owning, while you start to fall apart for real. And you know, with the worst kind of clarity, that when he finally does take your panties off? You’ll already be too far gone to fake an ounce of dignity.

You kiss him again. Harder this time- hot, wet, open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that leaves your lip gloss on his skin and your breath caught somewhere between his teeth. His tongue presses in, messy and slow, curling against yours like it owns the space. Like it’s been waiting for your mouth all night.

You whimper against it. He groans into it. Your hips haven’t stopped moving. You’re still grinding down into his thigh, still chasing friction through the soaked fabric of your panties. Every drag of pressure makes your breath skip, your fingers tighten in his hair, your thighs squeeze tighter around his.

He breaks the kiss to breathe- just barely, just enough- and his mouth finds your jaw, your cheek, your throat. He licks. Bites. Sucks hard enough to bruise. You moan. Quiet. Raw. Your hands slide down- over his chest, under the hem of his shirt, greedy and slow. His skin is hot. Smooth. Tight with muscle. Your fingers skate over the edge of his waistband and then back up, dragging your nails lightly, just to hear the sound it pulls from him.

His hands are everywhere. One still kneads at your tits, heavy and rough, thumb circling your nipple until it’s so hard it aches. The other stays between your legs, fingers dragging lazy lines over your clit through your panties, rubbing in time with every slow roll of your hips.

You can’t stop, and you don’t want to. The friction is perfect- almost. You need more, need skin, need heat, need him, but your body is too lost in the rhythm.

You’re panting into his mouth, open and glossy, and your hands are sliding lower now, down his stomach, fingers trembling with it. Then you feel him. Hard. Thick. Straining under his jeans, pressed hot between you like it’s been waiting to be touched. You gasp, soft and sharp. Your hand presses over it without thinking. He growls- growls- into your neck, his hips jerking up into your palm like he didn’t mean to, like he’s already on edge just from the way you’re moving. You cup him fully. Slow. Curious. Testing its weight through the denim, rubbing just enough to feel how his breath catches.

Your hips don’t stop. Neither does his hand. You’re both grinding now- his thigh slick with you, your palm working over the thick ridge in his jeans, your tongues still messy, mouths still open, like you’re starving and don’t care who sees. “Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, voice shot through with tension. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

You just moan. You’re not trying to tease anymore. You’re not pretending it’s an accident. You’re humping his thigh with your soaked little panties, palming his cock like it’s yours, and every single part of you is flushed, trembling, begging without saying a word.

You kiss him again, messy, panting.

His hand presses harder between your legs. Yours rubs firmer over the bulge in his jeans. You’re both falling apart. And neither of you wants to stop. He kisses down your neck again.

Slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. Tongue first, then lips, then the graze of his teeth against the spot just below your jaw that’s still a little sticky with heat. He breathes you in deep- deep- right there, and fuck if it doesn’t make something in his throat break.

“What the fuck did you put on?” he asked again, dragging his mouth lower, words hot against your skin. “You smell so fucking good. Like sugar. Like skin.” He licks across your collarbone. Open-mouthed. Messy. The scent is strongest there, sweet and warm and sex-sharp. He groans, bites down. Not hard- just enough to leave his mark. Just enough to taste you.

Then he noses down, between your breasts. While his hands shove your jacket further off your shoulders, that still hangs there for an apparent reason, still half-on, sleeves tangled at your elbows like you were in too much of a rush to take it off all the way- and he doesn’t care. He just wants access. Wants you. He wants to feel you.

His tongue drags slowly across the top of your chest. Your top and bra are still on, but they’re not doing much. His mouth presses between the cups, right over your sternum- right where you sprayed that perfume, one last spritz like a fucking shimmer- and his whole body shudders. “You did that on purpose,” he mutters. Low. Hoarse before he groaned. “Put it right where I’d lick.”

He does it again. Slower. Eyes low. He's been eager to have you breathing in like you’re oxygen. Your thighs twitch. You roll your hips- still on his lap, still grinding- but now you’re shaking. Your panties are soaked. His jeans are stiff where you’ve been rutting against him. His hands are still between your legs, and your palms are still stroking the thick weight of him through his pants like you forgot what shame is. He mouths over your tit, kisses around the swell, tongue wet and lazy and hungry. He breathes you in again- loud this time. “Fucking… fuck. You’re not real.”

You don’t say anything. Just tilt your head back and let him take. Eyes closed while you’re letting him do his own thing. You’re still slick between your thighs. Still chasing pressure. Still pulsing with every stroke of his fingers. “You put that perfume on your thighs too, didn’t you,” he mutters, like it’s a fact, not a question. “Behind your knees. That little slut zone.” You hum at his statement, not denying any shit.

He grins when you squirm. His lips brush your cleavage again. “You think I won’t get down there?” His mouth is filthy against your skin. His voice is darker now. There’s more edge to it. He’s high and gone and starving, and you smell like the kind of girl who knew she was going to be fucked when she got dressed. And you know, you know how to pull the strings. You know how to play. Who sprayed herself like a promise. And he’s going to trace every fucking inch of where it lingers. It happens all at once.

He kisses down your throat, over your chest, mouth burning trails between the peaks of your bra- and then, suddenly, flips you onto your back. Not rough. But fast. He can’t stand not seeing you, like the mystery of your skin under that jacket was too much, and now he needs to look.

You gasp as your spine hits the bed- hair fanned out, legs still bent, skirt riding scandalously high over your hips. You look at him while your chest heaves. That little top’s already slipping- shoulder strap dangling, neckline dragged low, just enough to bare the top swell of your bra. The flush of your skin. The place he was mouthing like he wanted to sink his teeth into.

He doesn’t even look at your face. His eyes are locked lower. On your legs. On the hem of your skirt, and the way it barely covers anything now. His hands find your thighs. Smooth up the outside. Then in. Slow. Possessive. You don’t flinch when he curls his fingers around your panties. You watch him.

Watch the way his jaw ticks. The way his gaze goes dark and manic and almost reverent when he tugs the soaked fabric down your legs. He doesn’t toss them aside. He lifts them to his face. Sniffs. Fucking disgusting, but he enjoyed it. He even smirked. Then folds them once, tight, and stuffs them into his back pocket without breaking eye contact. Fuck. You’ll go home without any panties. You didn’t bring any extra.

“Mine,” he mutters. “This whole fuckin’ night? Mine.” You should laugh. But your breath’s already gone. And then- He drops. All the way down. His mouth lands on your shin. Then your calf. Then- lower. To the back of your knee. That place you sprayed.

That soft little secret crease, warm from your skin, still slick with lotion and perfume. Victoria’s Secret. Pheromones. The scent has settled now- bloomed- and when he breathes it in? He shudders. Actually, shudders. “Jesus,” he grits. “You put it here. Fucking here.”

You shift on the bed, legs still bent, thighs slightly open. You’re more angling yourself to give him more access to you. He’s crouched between them now, leaning in, one hand hooked under your knee to keep you tilted just right. The other sprawls over your thigh, holding you steady like he needs to steady himself, too.

His nose brushes the back of your knee. He inhales. And groans. Deep. Guttural. Like it hurts. You watch his eyes flutter. Watch his jaw clench, his hips twitch slightly like he’s reacting to a drug. And maybe he is. Because he nuzzles into that spot like a man obsessed- like it’s some sacred pulse point, like the heat there could tell him your whole story.

“You wanted me to smell it,” he mutters, voice rasped, lips dragging slowly over the inside of your knee now. “Wanted me to get low. Get here. Get fucking stupid.” You smile. Just a little. Just enough. “Did it work?” you whisper.

He lifts his head, eyes black with hunger. “You’re gonna regret asking that,” he says, then dips right back down. This time- open mouth. A kiss. A deep, wet suck to the soft spot behind your knee, tongue dragging, breath hot, scent dizzying him all over again. His hand on your thigh tightens. The one under your knee lifts your leg even higher, spreading you wider, opening you up. You arch on the bed. Not because he’s touching your pussy- he’s not. He’s kissing your fucking legs like they’re the center of the universe. Like this is enough. Like your body speaks in scents, and he’s trying to translate it with his mouth.

And you? You’re laid out. Skirt bunched. The top is falling off one shoulder. Chest heaving. One leg hooked over his shoulder now like an invitation. Your panties are gone. And he hasn’t even touched you where it counts. Yet. He’s gone. You can see it.

The way his lips stay parted as he nuzzles into the back of your knee like it’s got some kind of fucking spell on it. The way he breathes there- really breathes- mouth open, nose pressed deep, inhaling you like it’s all he’s capable of now. Like he’s trying to memorize it, drown in it. Live off it.

He kisses lower. Then higher. Then back again. Open mouth, then closed. Then teeth. Then the tongue. He’s making out with the back of your leg. And it should be ridiculous. It should make you laugh. But it doesn’t.

Because his other hand is between your thighs now, palm flat, fingers sliding between your folds like they’ve been there. Like he knows exactly how wet you are without needing to check, just feels it. No warning. No slow lead-up. Just his fingers slipping through your heat like it’s second nature.

You gasp. He groans. Not at your pussy- he’s not even watching what he’s doing.

He’s still buried at your knee. Nosing, kissing, rubbing his cheek along your skin like he’s cuddling it. Like it’s home. His tongue flicks out again. Drags. Then again. His mouth opens wider. Sucks.

And the fingers between your thighs? Start moving. Two of them now. Middle and ring. Slow at first. Just stroking- up and down, barely parting you. Then deeper. Dragging slick up to your clit. Circling. Pressing. Back down. Gathering more.

Your hips lift. You can’t help it. And still, he doesn’t look. He just ruts. You realize it suddenly- feel it- the subtle shift of the mattress, the soft sound of fabric grinding. His hips are moving. Barely. Just the tiniest forward thrusts against the edge of the bed, like he’s chasing friction, like his cock is too hard, too full, and he’s using the edge of the mattress to take the edge off.

His breath hitches. His mouth doesn’t leave your knee. You moan. Soft. High. A little choked. That gets him. His fingers twitch, then slide in.

One first. Then another. The stretch is sudden, not painful, but sharp. He presses deep, then curls. Finds your spot like he mapped it beforehand. Like he’s not guessing. Like he’s obsessed, and he is. You can see it.

His mouth stays locked to your skin- hot, messy, wet kisses over the same patch of flesh like he’s drunk on the scent of you. He groans again, louder this time, hips grinding harder into the bed now. It’s thoughtless. Instinctual. He’s getting off just from the smell of your skin and the way your cunt clenches around his fingers.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. You twist against the bed, back arching, thighs trembling as his fingers thrust deeper- slower, harder, knuckles grazing with each pump, thumb sliding up occasionally to press against your clit just once before backing off. He’s not trying to make you come yet. He’s just playing. Feeding off it. And you? You’re glowing. Laid out, skirt pushed high, legs open, arms curled above your head. Your lip gloss is smudged. Your breath’s coming in tiny gasps. And he’s still sucking the back of your fucking knee like it’s sweeter than your mouth.

The rhythm of his fingers stutters for a second- he shifts his weight, hips pressing harder into the edge of the bed like he’s gonna fucking come from this. You moan again. He bites down. You gasp, spine jerking, the sting sending heat everywhere.

He lifts his mouth, just barely, lips still ghosting your skin. “Still smell you,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Still fuckin’ wet with it.” You whimper. His fingers thrust deeper. And he presses a kiss to the spot he just bit- slow, soft, worshipping. You’re a mess. He’s worse.

And neither of you is close to done. You’re flushed everywhere. Cheeks, thighs, chest- flushed and hot and trembling, your skin glowing under his hands, your legs soft with ache. His fingers have been inside you for what feels like hours- slow, steady, dragging pressure like he’s trying to pull something out of you, like he’s searching for the part of you that breaks. And still, he hasn’t eaten.

Not really. He’s been buried behind your knee, mouthing the skin like it’s sacred. Sniffing, kissing, breathing you in like it’s keeping him alive. He presses his mouth there like you put the perfume on for him, which you did. Which he knows. You can feel him breathing it in, rutting gently against the edge of the bed for friction like his cock can’t take it either.

When he finally moves down- when he finally shifts his weight and ends up between your thighs- it’s not frantic. It’s not fast. It’s not relief. It’s just inevitable. He looks at you. Then lower.

Then presses his face in without warning- cheek dragging against your inner thigh, nose buried in the heat of you- and just… inhales like he’s starving. Like he’s high on the scent of you and needs to chase it to the source.

You twitch when his lips ghost across your clit. But he doesn’t open his mouth. Not fully. He presses a kiss. Closed-mouth. Too soft. Another. Right beside it. And then- finally- he flicks his tongue. Once. A little swipe, quick and deliberate, just enough to taste, just enough to make your hips buck against his hand. You let out a sound you didn’t mean to. He flicks again. Slower this time. Controlled. A pointed stroke that drags right across your clit and disappears like it was never there. And then again.

A third time- less of a lick, more of a sample. Like he’s collecting it. Like, he wants to catalog you. Then he pulls back. Mouth shiny. Chin damp. “Sweet,” he mutters, high and reverent, eyes glazed. “You fucking taste sweet.” You’re panting. Your body’s shaking. You try to chase him- desperate, delirious- but his hand on your thigh stops you cold. That’s all you get. He kisses you again. Not a lick. Just lips to clit. Soft. The kind of kiss you’d give someone before saying goodbye. It wrecks you.

“You want more?” he murmurs, voice muffled into your heat. “Want me to suck on it?” Your hips lift. He smiles. Doesn’t give in. “No.” He gives one last kiss, slower this time. Lingering. And then? Then he withdraws. Leans back just a little, lets the air touch your pussy, lets you feel the absence of him like a punishment. His fingers? Still inside. He crooks them. Your moan cracks.

The sound is raw- sharp at the edges, ripped out of you before you can catch it. Your hips twitch, thighs trying to close around his wrist, but he doesn’t let you move. His hand is rooted, firm, fucking into you with that relentless, devastating curve like he’s shaping you from the inside out.

He exhales hard through his nose. Then, without warning, his free hand leaves your leg, drags down his own chest, and starts tugging at the hem of his shirt. You feel it more than you see it. The shift. The way the fabric slides up his torso, how the muscles in his arms flex as he pulls it over his head in one clean motion, like he couldn’t take it anymore. Like your body under his hands got too hot, and he needed to burn something off.

He throws the shirt aside without looking. It lands somewhere off the bed with a dull thud. Then his hand finds your thigh again. Not to hold you down. To feel. You’re shaking under his fingers now, your skin hot against his palm, your chest rising fast. He watches you with his jaw clenched, face flushed, lips parted- his high crawling behind his eyes, behind his restraint, like something might break if you moan again.

His fingers drag out almost all the way. Then push back in. You gasp. He watches your face, your mouth, the way your eyes keep fluttering like you’re trying not to cry, and his tongue drags across his lower lip, lazy, and absent. Like instinct. “You feel that?” he murmurs. Voice gone. Just breath, teeth, and heat. “How soaked you are?” He pumps again, just once, curling deep. “Shit.” It’s more to himself than to you, like he wasn’t ready, like your body is doing something to him that he hadn’t accounted for.

He shifts on the bed. The motion makes the mattress dip- his knee pressing deeper between your legs, his cock rubbing up against the edge of the bed where he’s been grinding in slow, desperate pulses without realizing. You see, the moment he notices. The way he stills, then rocks once more. Just to feel it. Just to chase it. His head tips back. He groans. Low. Frustrated. Embarrassed in that raw, masculine kind of way that makes your stomach twist.

You watch him rut once more- slow and helpless- and then your voice cuts through the air like honey poured over glass: “Don’t you want to fuck my pussy instead of grinding against the bed?” His eyes snap down to yours. Like you slapped him. Or kissed him. Or ruined him. It’s all the same. You’re spread open under him, bare thighs trembling, his fingers still knuckle-deep inside you- and still, you say it like it’s casual. Like you’re bored of him fucking the mattress. Like you’re not soaked and swollen and ruined already, just waiting for him to crack.

His mouth twitches. Then it splits into a grin that isn’t really a grin at all. It means. It’s wild. It’s disbelief and heat, and oh, you think you’re cute? He pulls his fingers out slowly. Wet. Deliberate. The sound is filthy, and it echoes like sin between you. Then he brings them to his mouth. Licks. Sucks. Groans again, but this time it’s darker. “You keep talking like that,” he mutters, voice shredded, “and I’ll fuck you so hard you forget how to speak.”

And then he shifts. Gets up. Starts undoing his belt. His belt clinks, falls, and he doesn’t stop. Pants next. Boxers. Shoes were kicked somewhere in the corner. Everything drops in quick, practiced motions, like he’s too far gone to pretend this is slow anymore. His cock slaps against his stomach when it’s free- thick, flushed, already leaking. You can’t look away. But neither can he. His eyes are eating you alive.

You’re still on your back, your heels still strapped, and your calves flexed faintly where your legs shift. Your jacket’s long gone. Your top was discarded somewhere by the bed. Your chest is bare now, flushed and sensitive, nipples still wet from where he mouthed you earlier. Your hands move toward your skirt- He stops you. Fingers curled gently around your wrist. “Leave it,” he mutters, his voice rough and jaw clenched. “Skirt stays on.”

Then his eyes drop to your feet. “And the heels.” You blink up at him, stunned for half a beat. Then your mouth parts. Then you smile- slow, deliberate, almost cruel. And you let go of the fabric. You leave the skirt on. You push your bra down your arms, off your wrists, and toss it aside. Your heels stay on. The red ones. Tall, glossy, slutty. The ones that make your legs look too long and your hips tip up just enough. The ones he’s been eyeing all fucking night.

Rafe just stares. His jaw works like he’s trying not to say something stupid. “You gonna get on top,” you murmur, voice thick and syrupy, “or just keep watching?” He exhales once. Shaky. Then he climbs back onto the bed, hands braced beside your thighs, cock heavy and leaking and hanging between you both-

And you know the second he sees it. That flash of pink between your legs. Lace, slick, and skin. Skirt still on. Heels still on. And none of it for anyone but him. He’s moving like he’s trying to be good. Like he’s still got the reins in his hands, still in control. You watch him reach for his jeans, half-draped over the edge of the bed, mumbling something under his breath as he digs through a pocket with one hand, jaw tight, nostrils flaring like the search is physically hurting him.

Then he pauses. Frozen mid-movement. You tilt your head, watching the tension rise in his shoulders. You say it softly like it’s just a fact. “I’m clean,” you murmur, and his head jerks slightly. “And I’m on birth control.” There’s a pause. A flicker of stillness. Then his whole body locks.. You see it before he speaks- the way he straightens and his hand goes still, fisted in the denim like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

His eyes lift to yours. Wide. Dark. Blown-out and wrecked. “You’re what?” he says. But it’s not a question. It’s disbelief. It’s a warning. “I’m clean,” you say again, slower this time. “And I’m on the pill.” It’s quiet for a second. Just long enough for the words to settle in the air between you. And then he laughs. Sharp. Staggered. Like something inside him just cracked clean in half.

“Oh my God.” He exhales like he’s never needed to breathe until now. “You’re- fucking serious?” You don’t smile, not really. Just tilt your head, legs still spread, heels still strapped, red skirt still hitched around your waist like you’ve been waiting for him to come back and take you. “I wouldn’t lie about it,” you say softly.

His mouth opens like he wants to respond. But nothing comes out. His hand drops the jeans. His knees hit the mattress. And suddenly he’s there, back between your legs, cock heavy and flushed, dragging hot against the inside of your thigh. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters again, more to himself than you. “You don’t even know what you just did to me.”

You don’t move. You just stare at him, body open, mouth parted, still glowing with lotion and lip gloss and that smug little look you know he’s been dying to ruin. He presses in. No warning. No teasing. Just the thick, steady slide of his cock, bare and blazing, dragging through slick and heat until he bottoms out so deep you choke on a gasp and grab at his shoulders like they’re the only thing tethering you to the bed. His breath punches out in one broken groan. “Fuck- fuck me, I can feel all of it,” he gasps against your jaw. “You’re so- fuck- you’re so wet.” You smile, voice soft in his ear, teasing.

“I told you.” And then he starts moving. Slow at first. Dragging. Savoring. Like he can’t believe it’s real. Like your pussy’s carved just for him and the fact that there’s nothing between you is turning his already-coked-up brain into static. His hips stutter. He buries his face in your neck. “You let me fuck you raw,” he mumbles, like he still doesn’t believe it. “You wanted this.” And the way he says it- voice hoarse, fucked-out, reverent- you know it’s not a question. It’s a confession. And it’s only the beginning.

His hands start to move like they’ve just remembered they exist. Big, slow sweeps down your sides, over your thighs, gripping and petting and curling like he doesn’t know what part of you he wants most. Like he wants to feel everything at once. And he does- he needs to. You’re still folded under him, legs thrown high over his shoulders, heels gleaming under the dim light, skirt still on, his cock stuffed deep inside you- but it’s your skin that’s ruining him now. That slide. That heat.

He moans again. Voice cracked and slurred, drunk on coke and pussy and that fucking perfume you wore for him. His palm flattens against your stomach, then glides lower, sliding through sweat and lotion, dragging down the front of your body like it’s something precious. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s convinced that if he slows down just enough, he can memorize it with his hands. “Fuck,” he breathes, shaky. “You’re so soft.”

He says it like it hurts. Like it’s not fair. Like you did this on purpose. His hand keeps drifting. Down. Slower now, like the drag of his palm is moving through molasses, like time’s stretching with every inch of skin he discovers bare. And then, he finds it. Your mound is smooth, warm, and perfect, and there is not a hair left. His whole body locks. He stares down at you, dazed, like he doesn’t know how you’re even real. “You- ” His voice is hoarse, too close to a whisper. “You fucking shaved for me?”

You swallow, blinking up at him. One hand digs into the sheets. The other claw lightly at his wrist. He’s still deep inside you, but you nod anyway. He groans. It rips straight from his throat, guttural and raw. “You’re high,” you whisper, like it explains something. Like it justifies the way he’s twitching inside you now, deeper than before, slower, heavier, obsessed. “No,” he pants, shaking his head, rutting forward once like his brain short-circuited. “No, you did this. You- fuck- you did this for me.”

His hand cups you there, just over your mound, over your clit, fingers pressing in light like he’s afraid to ruin it. He’s panting, sweating, and trembling now. One hand on your stomach. The other is sliding around the top of your thigh. He’s not even thrusting anymore- he’s sinking. Grinding slowly. Letting the heat of you swallow him. “You shaved your pussy,” he says, slurred and stunned, “so I could fuck it raw.”

You nod again. Barely. He’s twitching inside you like he might come just from that. “You- fucking- god, baby. You’re insane.” His hands are everywhere again. Not groping- worshiping. Touching every part of you, he missed. Rubbing his knuckles over your thighs, your waist, your chest. His fingers press into your hips, drag down the sides of your ass, gripping, spreading, petting like your skin is the only anchor keeping him from floating away.

He drops his face into your neck again, groaning raggedly, lips brushing your pulse. He nuzzles hard. Then again. Then again. “You smell like I should be on my knees,” he mumbles. “You smell like you were made for this.” And then he thrusts again- deep and sudden and greedy- and you moan like you’re unraveling from the inside out.

He doesn’t stop. Not anymore. You shaved. You glowed. You wore heels and slicked your thighs and let him pull your panties off like a prize. And now he’s high. And deep. And completely fucking lost in you. He’s breathing harder now. Hot against your throat, his mouth dragging sloppily beneath your ear like he can’t get close enough. His hips are moving again- slower this time, deeper, grinding up into you like he’s trying to bury something inside you he’ll never get back.

You’re still soft everywhere. Slick and shaved and folded beneath him like a fucking dream. Legs high, heels pressing into his back, your skirt still on. His high has shifted- warped. Whatever was burning behind his eyes earlier has melted down now, poured into his chest, his stomach, the base of his spine. Into you. And he twitches. You feel it- his cock pulsing deep inside. His whole body stutters.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice raw. You blink up at him, lips parted, skin dewy. One heel digs in. He jerks. His hand slides down your thigh again. Slow. Reverent. “I’m not even high on the coke anymore,” he murmurs. “You- this- you’re what’s making me twitch like that.” You bite your lip. His eyes are glassy. Half-lidded. Locked on your mouth like it’s dripping honey.

“Swear to God,” he pants, grinding once more. “You got me higher than anything I’ve ever snorted.” Your breath catches. His hips stutter again. He groans- low, desperate, ruined. “Never felt this fucked,” he whispers, leaning in like a confession. “Not in my life.”He shifts one hand between your bodies, thumbing your clit now- slow, easy flicks in time with the lazy drag of his hips.

“You made me feel it,” he groans. “Every inch. Every twitch. I can’t even see straight.” And then he thrusts harder- once, deep, sharp enough to make your legs jolt on his shoulders. Your heel slips. He catches it and presses your ankle flat against his chest. Doesn’t even blink. “You did this,” he hisses, jaw clenched, sweat dripping. “You fucking did this to me.”

His thrusts speed up now, just slightly. Still deep. Still dragging. Still worshiping. But the edge is cracking. He’s losing it. Losing it on you. And all you can do is take it. Because right now? He’s never felt more alive. And you- shaved, soft, glowing, glossy- you’re the reason he can’t feel his own fucking name anymore.

Your moan cracks- split wide at the center, glossy and high, broken around the sudden fullness. One of your heels has slipped, dangling now by nothing but the arch of your foot, the strap loose, the tension gone. But his hand’s already there- fast, greedy- palming your ankle like he felt it before he saw it. Like the idea of you losing even one inch of that red-gloss fuck-me heel was unacceptable.

He doesn’t let it fall. No. He catches it mid-slip, fingers firm, pressing your leg flat against his chest like he’s claiming it. Like he’s pinning you in place with the weight of his body and the fever in his blood. You watch his eyes drop. The way he stares at your ankle, at the trembling line of your leg, at the shoe still clinging on like a promise. “Fuck,” he breathes, voice shot through with something ragged. “Look at you.”

His thrusts keep coming- slower now, but deeper, meaner. He’s hitting something sharp and soft and shattering, and it’s making your spine flex off the bed. The heel shifts with every push, teasing the edge of falling again. He groans- animal and cracked- and bows over your body, chest dragging over your knees, hand still braced around your ankle like he might snap.

“Feel like I’m fucking a goddamn stripper,” he mutters, and it’s not an insult- it’s reverent, ruined. He sounds worshipful. “Little heels shaking. Pretty pussy pulling me in. All glossed up like you wanna be ruined.” Your mouth falls open. You can’t speak. You’re too hot- too slick- too gone.

“You wear this shit for fun,” he pants, rocking into you again. “Or you practice? Get all dressed up in your room like a slut onstage and ride your own hand thinking about me?” You choke on it. The image. The implication. The truth in it.

“You like being watched, huh?” he hisses against your shin, nuzzling the line just above your knee like he might bite. “You like looking like this. Your heel is hanging off. Your skirt is still on. Like a fucking routine.” You whimper- gutted by the pace now, the weight of his hips, the way he uses your legs to drag you down onto his cock over and over like you’re the one moving, like your body’s working for him.

“You gonna tip me next?” he spits out, teeth grazing your calf. “Or just come like a good little bitch on my dick?” Your hips jolt- fucked from every direction. His mouth. His hands. His words. Your heel slips again. This time? He lets it fall. And then he slams back in.

He thrusts again- deep, sharp, slow enough to feel in your ribs. Your legs jolt where they hang over his shoulders, and one of your heels slips off. It drops to the floor with a soft clack, but you barely register it. Not when he catches your ankle, presses it flat against his chest, keeps it there like he wants to feel the drag of your foot on his skin while he fucks you.

His hips keep moving. But his mouth? His mouth is buried in your neck again. Sniffing. Inhaling. And you knew. Of course, you knew. The second one of those girls mentioned he’d been upstairs for too long- fidgeting, zoning out, pacing between rooms like he could hear colors- you knew. You knew what he was on. You knew what kind of high he’d be riding when you walked up those stairs.

But you came anyway. You knew he’d be hungry. Twitchy. Barely holding on. You wanted him like this. “Fuck,” he groans, slurred and wrecked, “that smell- fuck, I can’t get enough of it- ” His nose presses harder to your skin like he’s trying to snort you. His whole body trembles with it. His thrusts start to falter- not from weakness, but from overload.

“Put it on every inch of you, didn’t you?” he mutters, dizzy. “Sprayed it where you knew I’d end up- fuck, baby, it’s in my head now- ” His nose drags along your collarbone. Then lower. Across your chest. The curve of your breast. You arched for him minutes ago- moaned, opened, took everything he gave- and now he’s barely thrusting, just rocking into you while his mouth nuzzles between your tits.

You bite your lip. He’s sniffing you. “You wore that shit on purpose,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse. Dazed. “You knew what it would do to me.” You hum softly, glossy mouth parted, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I knew.” His hips stutter. He moans- low, desperate- and you feel it. That twitch inside you. That snap of overstimulation and hunger all tangled together.

“I’m- ” He grinds into you, harder. “I’m not even high anymore.” You blink slowly. Smile faintly. “Yeah, you are.” He groans again, louder this time. His fingers grip your thighs like he’s bracing himself, like he’s trying not to say something feral. Then he dips his face lower, over your ribs, down your stomach. Just to breathe. Just to smell you. The perfume. The gloss. The lotion. The sweat. All of it- layered, warmed, sweet.

“You smell better than the coke,” he mutters. Your smile sharpens. “Tastes better too, I bet.” He chokes on a sound. Thrusts again, harder. You yelp. Your back arches off the bed, your second heel slipping off, legs bare now, spread wide with your skirt still on and his cock grinding deep inside you. “You did this on purpose,” he breathes. “You- fucking- designed this.”

You don’t deny it. His hands slide over your hips. Your waist. Your thighs. Everywhere you’re soft. Everywhere you’re glowing. He’s not fucking anymore- he’s scenting. He’s worshipping. His mouth pressed under your jaw like it’s a drug. “You gonna let me keep you?” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You gonna let me fuck you again tomorrow?” You smile, open-mouthed now. “You gonna remember this?”And he just groans. Loud. Broken.

“Not if I keep sniffing your skin like this,” he rasps. “Fuck. You make me feel higher.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders. Anchor him in. Let him lose it right there against your throat. He’s coked out. Pussy-drunk. Fucked to hell. And the worst part? You like him better this way. You don’t even know what the fuck this is anymore. It’s not sex. It’s not even fucking.

It’s some feral, brainrotted meltdown of two overstimulated strangers huffing each other like they’re made of gasoline and haven’t lit a cigarette in weeks. He’s buried inside you. Slick to the base. Rocking slow and deep- like every thrust is calculated, like he’s carving your shape into his cock for later. Your skirt’s still on. One heel’s still strapped. The other’s god knows where. He’s got your ankle pinned to his chest, and he’s not even fucking looking at you anymore.

He’s scenting you. He’s nose-deep in your neck, groaning every time he inhales like he’s chasing a high he already burned through ten minutes ago. And the worst part? You did this. You did all of it. Shaved your whole body. Spent hours on your skin. Lotions, oils, the pheromones- behind your knees, between your tits, inside your fucking thighs. You scrubbed yourself raw like prep for a fucking exorcism. Like your pussy needed to smell like heaven and hell at once.

And now look at him. Coked out and feral, grinding into you like his dick’s chasing a signal from god. He pants into your skin. Mouth open. Nose dragging across your chest. “Fucking… fuck- you reek of sex,” he slurs, “your whole fucking body’s dripping in it- I can’t- ” His voice breaks.

He licks up the center of your sternum like he’s tasting the air. And he doesn’t even realize he’s moaning while he does it. “Smell like pussy and perfume and fuckin’ filth,” he mumbles into your skin. “It’s- fuck- it’s like you bottled up every wet dream I’ve ever had and marinated yourself in it.”

You laugh. Or try to. It comes out broken, wet. Your thighs twitch where they’re hooked over his shoulders, his cock dragging your guts with every slow thrust like he’s memorizing the inside of you. “I did,” you whisper. “You think this is an accident?” He grunts. You dig your nails into his back. “I made myself for this. Every inch.”

“You- fuck- fuck- ” he stutters, hips jackknifing forward, desperate now. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what you’ve done.” You do. He’s gone. He’s drenched in it. In sweat and slick, and your scent all over his mouth and chest. His body’s twitching like his nervous system is buffering. He’s mumbling into your skin, grinding deeper, making pathetic, strung-out noises like his dick is connected to his brainstem.

You can feel it- how fucked he is. How fucking high. How obsessed. “You’re worse than coke,” he gasps, pressing his face into your neck again, rutting into you like a fucking animal. “I’m still hard- I’m still high- I don’t even need another bump, baby, just let me keep fucking this perfect pussy- ” You moan. Loud. Legs shaking now. “You want me forever?” you pant, breath ragged. “You gonna edge yourself to this for the rest of your life?”

“Yes,” he groans, voice cracked. “Fucking yes, I’ll ruin myself on you. I’ll keep your panties in my mouth, I’ll sniff your sheets- anything- just don’t fucking stop- ” His thrusts stutter. He’s close. You know it by the way his mouth goes slack, by the way his hands tighten like he needs to mark you to make sure it’s real. Like he’s trying to fuck the proof of you into his bloodstream. “You’re not even a girl,” he moans, drunk and glassy. “You’re a drug. You’re porn. You’re filth. You’re- fuck- you’re everything I’ve ever jerked off to, and now you’re fucking real- ”

You let him spiral. You wrap your legs tighter. Let the heel scrape against his back. Let him go down, sloppy and strung-out, leaking down your thighs while he twitches inside you and buries his nose back into your neck like he’d rather die there than ever leave.

You don’t even feel human anymore. Just slick skin and parted lips, all holes and heat and desperation. Gloss long gone. Hair wrecked. Skirt bunched at your waist like a ribbon on a gift he hasn’t finished opening. You’re still on your back, thighs sticky, your bare feet dragging along the sheets with every snap of his hips.

Your brain? Gone. You burned it off hours ago- in the shower, in the mirror, on your knees in front of that Pinterest board like it was porn. You shaved until your skin felt holy. You exfoliated like a sinner. Lotioned like you were begging to be fingered. Drenched yourself in pheromones and pressed perfume behind your knees just in case he noticed.

And he noticed. He fucking noticed. His mouth is on your neck again, groaning into your skin like it’s soaked in something addictive, like you’re the drug that’s eating his brain. “You like how I smell?” you whisper, dazed, pretty, and rotted. “You like what I did for you?”

His hips stutter. You moan like you’ve been trained to. Head thrown back. Voice is high, fake, and filthy. Your mouth is still wet, your cheeks pink, and your chest flushed all the way down. “I got ready just to get ruined,” you babble, fingers digging into the sheets. “I shaved everything. Everything. I fucking lotioned my ankles- who does that?”

He growls. You giggle. “I’m so fucking soft,” you whimper. “So smooth. So ready. Please- fuck me like I’m nothing. Like I spent hours getting ready just to be your mess.” He thrusts harder. You squeal. “Please,” you gasp, “please- I want your cum on my thighs. I want it in my fucking belly. I want it to ruin the lotion, the serum- I want you to fuck me until I’m ugly- ”

He’s losing it. He’s gripping your thighs like he’ll keep them when this is over. Biting your shoulder like it’s candy-coated. Still fucking you like he’s trying to reach your throat. “You did this for me?” he mutters, high and gone the fuck out.

You nod so fast it’s pathetic. “Yes. Yes. Please.” It sounds wrecked already, whined straight through your open mouth like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been sure of. Your thighs are shaking where they wrap around his waist, hips arching into every thrust, even though your body’s already gone soft with overstimulation, glittering with sweat and gloss and lotion you’d rubbed in with shaking hands hours ago.

His breath catches- then he laughs. Low. Disbelieving. Like the high is still peaking, and you just knocked it sideways. “Shit,” he says, right into your mouth. “You’re sicker than I thought.” He presses his palm to your cheek and turns your face toward him. His pupils are blown wide, his nose still a little raw, lips bitten. He looks like he could come just from looking at you like this- ruined, glowing, glossy with spit and sweat and effort. All of it just for him.

“Know what I want now?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your mouth. His hips are still moving, slow and deep, like he’s fucking every word into you. “Next time I see you- I want you high.” Your whole body tightens. “Yeah,” he breathes, “I want you all the way gone for me. Dumb as hell. Pretty little thing in this same skirt, makeup all fucked, drooling on my cock while I ask you if you even remember how to speak.”

You moan without meaning to, sharp, cracked, soaking straight through the next thrust. “Fuck,” he groans, “that’s it. That’s what I want. You are all slippery, sweet, and brainless, smelling like lotion and begging me to use you. I’ll lay you out right here, heels still on, dumb smile on your face, and fuck you until you cry.”

You gasp. Arch. Whimper. “And you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he whispers, eyes locked on your mouth. “You’d show up high. Glazed out and glowing. You’d let me feed it to you, so that you could fall apart in my lap.” You nod, again, too fast, too desperate.

“I’d pet you the whole time,” he keeps going, breath hot against your jaw, hips grinding deeper, slower now, like he’s savoring every inch. “Tell you how pretty you are while you shake. Tell you I’m proud while you whimper around my cock and forget what day it is.” You’re not even blinking.

“You’d look so good like that,” he says, almost dreamily now. “So soft. So perfect. Just mine. Just something I get to keep.” You make a sound. Choked. Shattering. And he groans. Deep, guttural, like your body just drugged him harder than anything he snorted upstairs.

“I’m not even high anymore,” he pants, thrusts harder, sharper, lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re doing more to me than the coke did. You’re- fuck, baby, you’re better than anything I’ve ever tasted.” You don’t even answer. You don’t need to.

Because when he fucks back in again, when he chokes on your name and grabs your hips like he can’t bear to pull out- you snap. Right there. Legs twitching, skirt hiked up, chest gleaming, mouth open in something that isn’t even a word. And he keeps going. Keeps moving.

Keeps pressing his face to your throat like he’s trying to brand you with the scent of yourself. Because in this room, right now, with your thighs shaking and your voice gone? You’re the high. And he’s not planning on coming down.

Fingers splayed like he’s trying to feel the shape of himself through your skin, like he needs proof that he’s that deep. Each thrust sends another ripple through your body- your back arches, your cunt pulses, your hands scrabble for something to hold that isn’t his sweat-slicked shoulders. He’s panting against your throat now, lips open, nose buried in your skin like he can’t stop smelling you.

“You feel that?” he mutters- voice rough, breath shallow, still twitching inside you. “That’s me. That’s my dick, baby. Right there in your guts.” You moan, cracked and glossy, head thrown back into the pillow. You can feel everything- his cock dragging against every swollen nerve, the heat of his palm on your stomach, the mess building between your legs. It’s wet. It’s filthy. The room smells like sex and lotion and Victoria’s Secret and him.

He rocks forward again- deeper this time, like he’s pushing for your lungs. “You fucking did this,” he says, dragging his mouth down your jaw. “You showed up dripping. Soft. Waxed. Smelling like I’m supposed to own you.” You whimper. It’s pathetic. It’s perfect.

“I wanted to,” you breathe. “I wanted you to see it. Smell it. Lose your fucking mind.” He groans- shattered and low, mouth grazing your collarbone like he’s trying to keep himself upright by scent alone. “You shaved your whole pussy for me,” he mutters. “Lotioned every inch. Put that fuck-me perfume on your knees like you knew I’d be here.” You nodded to every word. “I did,” you whisper. “I knew.”

“You made yourself into a fucktoy and walked in like a fantasy.” His cock twitches inside you. Your body clenches. His breath stutters. “I almost came just smelling you,” he says, delirious now. “You smell better than coke. Sweeter. Dirtier. I swear to God I could shoot a load just from licking your skin.”

You’re soaking him. You know it. He knows it. His thighs are slick from it, and your cunt is sucking him back in every time he pulls out like your body can’t fucking bear to let go. “Can I keep you?” he rasps. “Keep you around? Fuck you like this every time I need it?”

You don’t answer- your mouth is too slack, your brain too soft. All you can do is moan, a helpless, high-pitched sound, and grind your hips up into his cock like you’re trying to make it stay. He grins, manic and gone, and rocks forward hard, deep enough that your legs jolt on either side of his body. “I’ll text you,” he breathes. “I’ll text you and you’ll come running. Pretty and shaved and soaked and smelling like this.”

You moan again. You nod. You’d say yes if you had words left. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he groans. “Gonna make me start jerking off to the memory of your thighs.” His hand slips lower, finds your clit, rubs slow and wet and mean.

“I want to see you high next time,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Want you gooned out for me. Mouth open, legs spread, dumb and desperate. Want to fuck you when you can’t even blink straight.” You gasp- sharp, broken. Your thighs shake. Your nails claw down his back.

“I want you like this every fucking time,” he says, fingers still working, cock still driving into you like he owns it. “Wet and dumb and pretty. Giggling for me. Slick all over. Fucking perfect.” You clench once, tight, hard, and you break.

Your body seizes around him, cunt spasming, eyes fluttering as the orgasm rips through you hard enough to make you sob. Your hands fist the sheets. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He groans- long, raw, low- and fucks through it, hard and fast and shallow now, chasing his own. Then he’s spilling inside you.

It hits hot- thick and messy, deep in your cunt, his hips pressing flush to yours as he keeps grinding, keeps moaning, keeps breathing like you’re the air keeping him alive. His body shudders above you. His mouth finds your neck again. “You’re fucking addictive,” he breathes. “I’m not gonna be able to quit this.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[halfadiamond]

You Think It’s Love- Part 6

Masterlist

This is not required to read but if you’d like to read a bit of the Author Notes then you can read it! ‼️warning‼️ it’s kinda long cuz I rambled on for a bit but if you’d like to see my next plans then check it out!

Christmas in Apartment 47.

That’s what your friend called it, every time she brought in another gift. The gifts ranged from stuffed animals, flowers, takeout from your favorite places, and letters. You read a few of the notes attached to the gifts and they all contained a similar message of wanting you to forgive them or them wanting to talk. You can’t count how many times you heard the door close as your friend rejected yet another of their attempts to talk to you. She kept repeating the same thing every time they came:

“She’ll talk to you when she’s ready.”

The gifts were nice, you had to admit as you squeezed the latest gift, a teddy bear with a messed up Mohawk. The letters were even nicer, you knew that these men were definitely watching some romance movies to think of these lines. But the voicemails and texts? It broke your heart. To hear how hurt they felt, to see that all they wanted to do was just talk.

We know we screwed up but can we just explain ourselves?

We’re missing you.

Whenever you’re ready to talk just tell us.

We’re so sorry for everything, give us a call at least we just want to hear you voice

But you were lost. You didn’t know what to do. Should you give them that chance to talk? Or are you better off leaving them in the dust? Perhaps it’s best to give your sister a call.

—

“You dummy!”

You couldn’t help but wince a little at the harsh tone your sister had as you told her about everything that had happened between you and the men. The one thing you liked and hated about her was that: she was too brutal and if you screwed up, she wouldn’t hesitate to let you know.

“How can you break up with them but not even tell them where they went wrong?”

“I mean you know why I did what I did.”

You felt compelled to try and defend yourself even if you knew that in the end. You’d be nodding along with everything she said. It was survival of the fittest. Where if you’d try to defend yourself, she’d keep you there the whole night arguing about it.

“Well yeah… they shouldn’t have done that but still you got a mouth. Use it. When something’s bothering you, you have to speak up, not jump ship.”

She huffed slightly as she gave you that judgmental look. You should’ve known that she wouldn’t blindly side with you even if you were family. But you trusted her advice above all and you knew that you needed to hear it from someone that didn’t already have the men’s head on a stick.

“You guys need to sit down and have a proper talk. Not ignoring each other or jumping ship without giving the men a reason as to why you’re leaving.”

“I suppose you’re right. It wasn’t fair to them to leave like that even they did deserve it.”

You quietly spoke, laying your head down on the table. You were exhausted. You should’ve just blocked the men and ran away. You’re pretty sure you could’ve came up with a believable fake name, but you knew that you’d needed to end this chapter right and part of that means listening to how much you sucked too. Your sister must’ve seen how exhausted and hurt you were because she took a few seconds to think before continuing.

“Look I’m not telling you to take them back, that’s up to you, but all of you guys deserve to either end the relationship on a good note or to work it out.”

You nodded to what she said as she finally moved on from the topic and started talking about some old family drama before calling it a night.

It’s when you’re laying in bed that you think about what she said. She was right. You did suck. You swore that you’d communicate with your lovers about any issues that was present and yet you kept quiet. Why? You’re not sure. Maybe you were scared of causing a fight or you didn’t want to hear it from them that they didn’t love you anymore. It was stupid now that you think about it, if they didn’t love you anymore you could’ve been more okay with it because you guys would split amicably. If it was something else, you guys would’ve worked it out. You should just leave it be now. Leave the Rubik’s cube alone.

Yet as much as you wanted to leave the Rubik’s cube alone and let someone else mess with it. Your sister was right, it wasn’t fair to the men to end it the way that you did (even if they deserved it in your opinion); regardless of personal feelings this story should be ended on a good note not one where the men are forever wondering why you never voiced your complaints nor one where you never got the answer as to how you guys got here in the first place.

You could pick up the cube one last time, you figured as you grabbed your phone and went into the group chat shared by you and the men.

—

Let’s talk tomorrow at your place I’ll be there at 2

—

This felt like a watching a rerun of an old TV show, being seated at the kitchen table with all of the men seated nearby. This must be entertaining for whoever is watching because why else would they put you back at this same spot where you were asked to be theirs and the same spot where you ended the relationship. The air felt different though.

When you were asked to be theirs: it felt nice because maybe deep down you were hoping they’d like you as much as you’d liked them.

When you broke up with them: it felt murky like you were stuck in a pit with no one reaching for you, but when the men did reach out for you, you had already gotten out.

And now: it felt stiff where none of you guys knew what to say or even who would start talking. you guys gave each other side glances as you waited to see who’d break first and speak up. and it got to you as you spoke up.

“I…”

You took a deep breath before continuing.

“I wanted to say sorry. I’m sorry that I broke up with you guys without giving you guys a reason as to why. It was shitty of me to not say anything and leave like that.”

“‘is alright. I think we all screwed up.”

Johnny laughed slightly as he tried to give you a genuine smile but everyone knew otherwise. The men looked at each other, waiting to see who’ll speak up about the situation at hand. You weren’t here for small chatter, just the truth of what had happened that led you guys to this point, and you made it clear as you spoke up.

“I want to know why. Why did you guys ignore me like that? It made me feel like an outsider in our relationship.”

The men all hesitate to speak not wanting to explain, but Kyle, the one who prides himself on being a great talker, took the mic and spoke up.

“During our mission, we worked alongside a guy who had recently gotten married to his girlfriend. Lad was boosting about it to anyone who’ll hear. We went off on a mission and—"

Kyle got a bit choked up but he didn’t let it stop him as he cleared his throat and continued speaking.

“and he didn’t make it back. It got to us. We all got scared that we wouldn’t make it back and that’ll leave you all alone.”

You couldn’t help the little tug on your heart seeing him choke up slightly. You’re not sure how close they were to each other, but you knew from what the men said: you form a close bond with those who are experiencing the same hardship as you are so it truly must’ve been a significant loss to the men, no matter how little they knew the poor soldier.

Where Kyle stopped, John continued trying to maintain a calm demeanor but you knew that he was struggling on explaining as to why they did that because now it seemed stupid and avoidable but understandable.

“That lady only had to mourn her husband. If we all died, you’d have to mourn four men. It’ll all hurt the same but we just got scared and tried to distance ourselves, we thought it’d hurt you a little—”

You couldn’t hear anymore of this. You really couldn’t. You felt horrible for the unknown women who was mourning her husband (especially hearing that they had barely gotten married), but why did that give the men the right to treat you that way? Mourning someone was not wrong, but when you don’t let the person, who you’re supposed to love most, come in and try to help you then are you really healing or are you running away?

“Did you guys think that was fair? I was your girlfriend whatever was wrong you could’ve told me what was bothering you guys. We could’ve worked through it. You don’t just ignore—”

You felt yourself starting to get angry, heard your voice starting to raise in volume so you took a deep breath before continuing.

“You don’t just ignore me like that. You can’t do that then expect me to go back to being lovey dovey with you guys. Life doesn’t work that way.”

You wanted to yell, you wanted to scream and maybe throw a few things but you couldn’t. As much as it would’ve made you feel better, knowing that the men understood the depth of the pain you had dealt with, it wouldn’t do no good in the end. All it would’ve done was cause more tension between you and the men because you knew them, they wouldn’t let you scream at them without talking back. Even if it was deserved, nobody likes getting screamed at and everyone had the right to fend for themselves.

All of the men except for Johnny were looking at you. Johnny seemed anxious, preferring to mess with Simon’s fingers but you saw how he took a small gulp before speaking up, continuing with messing with Simon’s fingers.

“We know. It wasn’t right. That’s why we tried to brush it under the rug, but it wasn’t right either. We should’ve talked ‘bout it. We’re sorry. Truly. If you’d let us… we’d like to try again. The right way.”

Try again? What an odd statement. You weren’t sure what to think. A part of you wanted to nod and hug them as you guys would laugh and agree to never let this happen again. But another part of you wanted to say no. Say no and walk away from them, never once looking back. But you didn’t want to face your sister’s judgement for not seeing what they had to say about bettering themselves so you’d just had to ask:

“How do I know that this won’t happen again?”

The men looked at each other, not knowing how to promise it wouldn’t happen again. To them, they already knew it wouldn’t happen again but when you’ve broken someone’s trust the first time, it’s harder to gain it back. It’s harder to make them believe you again so the most they could offer was this:

“We swear to you it won’t. But we don’t expect you to take us back. We screwed up. We’re in this situation because of what we did. It’s all up to you if you want to take us back or not.”

Kyle said and he sounded sincere to you. It sounded like they truly were telling you the truth. That you’d have to trust them but if you couldn’t then there was nothing they could do.

“Let’s do it like before alright? You think about it in the kitchen and come to the living room once you’ve decided.”

It really did feel like watching a rerun of a show, seeing how Price repeated the same phrase the day you joined their relationship. You saw how Price left to the living room with the men except for Simon leaving.

How funny. It’s like life wanted to truly do a replay of your relationship.

You thought to yourself as Simon gave you a look over before patting your head and repeating something similar to what John had said before.

“We’ll respect whatever you decide so don’t feel pressured to do something you don’t want to.”

And then he left, leaving you alone in the kitchen table.

You thought about it, was it worth it going back to them? You felt that they truly understood what went wrong and were willing to fix their wrongdoings but what’s to say they don’t revert back to the same behavior later. It was all a game of chance where you had to hope for the best. But to you? That’s the best part of life where you don’t know what the end outcome will be if you don’t take the leap of faith into the unknown.

You took a (well actually several deep breaths and tripled checked with yourself that what you were about to do was the right thing) deep breath before getting out the chair and exiting the kitchen. You knew what you would tell the men and you knew that they would respect your decision no matter what. You just hope you don’t grow to regret your choice.

You came into the living room and saw the men there, ready for whatever you had to say.

You know it’s love when…

Taglist: @reni502 , @z-wantstowrite , @darkangel4121 , @rafaelacallinybbay

If you don’t want to read my authors note which again is not required, I’ll put a gist of what I said here: the story is basically concluded and all that’s left is the two endings but they’re both happy endings and is more just if: reader takes back the men vs. she doesn’t take them back.

When it’s posted- Ending A will be if reader doesn’t take them back, Ending B will be if reader does take them back

Also 😭 this is probably the most dialogue ive ever used, lowkey i suck at writing out conversations. Why can’t they just telepathically communicate; this whole story would’ve never happened if they communicated through the mind.

Also if you’re wondering why Simon never speaks, I just think he’s the type that’ll let his lovers speak for him if possible. But don’t worry, I already have in mind some ideas in both endings that’ll focus on him! Also I’m so sorry bcuz in part 1 I thought that I had written in that where they ask reader to be theirs is in the kitchen, I reread it and it’s not 🧎🏻‍♀️forgive me.

The teddy bear seeing Johnny come over with an electric razor and scissors to give it a Mohawk: 😱

[aventurineswife]

Could I request Aventurine, Sunday, and Welt with a very nurturing and caring reader? She treats everyone nicely, bakes, and acts very motherly around younger folks and children.

Baking Sweetness, Healing Wounds

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Welt x Reader, Fluff & Soft Moments, Slow-Burn Romance (Implied), Comfort & Reassurance, Emotional Introspection, Established Relationship (Optional Interpretation), Mutual Care & Understanding, Small Domestic Moments.

Warnings: Mild Angst (Emotional Baggage, Trauma References), Mentions of Past Hardships (Survivor’s Guilt, Manipulation, Religious Trauma – Lightly Touched Upon), Touch-Starved Characters (?), Subtle Hints of Emotional Vulnerability & Coping Mechanisms, Sunday’s Internal Conflict with Trust & Care, Aventurine’s Fear of True Connection, Welt’s Habit of Prioritizing Others Over Himself.

Aventurine had seen all kinds of people in his time—sharks in tailored suits, gamblers clutching their last chips, desperate men who thought they could outwit fate. He knew how to read them, how to twist their expectations, how to control the game.

But you? You weren’t a player in the casino of life. You were something else entirely—a presence so warm, so effortless in your kindness, that it almost unsettled him.

Almost.

"Darling, you’re wasting your energy," Aventurine drawled, lounging at the counter as you set down a plate of freshly baked pastries. "Why bother making all this for people who’d probably trade their own grandmothers for a winning hand?"

You gave him a knowing smile, setting down a cup of tea beside his untouched dessert. "Because everyone deserves kindness. Even gamblers and scoundrels like you."

He chuckled, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Careful, sweetheart. Someone might take advantage of that generosity."

"I trust my instincts," you replied lightly, nudging the plate toward him. "And my instincts tell me you could use a little sweetness in your life."

Aventurine hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t like sweets—he had a particular fondness for honeyed treats, though he never mentioned it aloud. It was the gesture itself that threw him off. People gave him things expecting something in return, but you? You weren’t expecting a thing.

For once, the odds were in his favor, and he didn’t have to play a single card.

"Fine, fine," he sighed, taking a delicate bite. His lips curled in satisfaction as the pastry melted on his tongue. "Alright, darling, you’ve officially bribed me. What’s your angle?"

You only laughed, ruffling his hair in a way no one had dared before. "No angle. Just take care of yourself, alright?"

Sunday had always carried the burdens of others. Even now, as a member of the Astral Express, he found himself watching over the crew, offering wisdom where he could, ensuring harmony where it faltered.

And maybe, just maybe, Aventurine would.

But then there was you.

You, who brought warmth into every room you entered. Who always remembered what kind of tea each crew member liked, who made sure the younger ones aboard the Express had scarves in the cold and full stomachs before bed.

"You should let yourself rest more," you murmured one evening, carefully adjusting the golden scarf draped around Sunday’s shoulders. "Even doves need a place to land, you know."

Sunday’s eyes studied you, their depths unreadable. "I am not sure I remember how," he admitted softly.

You smiled, offering him a plate of warm bread. "Then let me remind you."

Sunday hesitated, his fingers brushing yours as he accepted the food. He wasn’t accustomed to such care—not the kind that came with no strings attached, no expectations to fulfill. You gave freely, not out of duty, but because it was simply who you were.

A feathered wing behind his ear fluttered slightly, betraying his emotions. You noticed, of course. You always did.

"You’re allowed to be taken care of too, Sunday," you said gently. "You’ve spent so long looking after others. Let someone look after you."

Something in his expression softened, just slightly. "You truly believe in such a world?"

"I do," you answered. "And I believe you deserve it."

Welt was used to responsibility. He had been a leader, a protector, a teacher. Even aboard the Astral Express, he was the guiding hand, the one others sought for wisdom and direction.

And for the first time in a long while, Sunday allowed himself to believe it too.

But you were the one who reminded him that even leaders needed to be cared for.

"You're always looking after everyone else," you chided gently, setting a steaming cup of tea in front of him. "You should let someone return the favor."

Welt gave a quiet chuckle, adjusting his glasses. "Old habits die hard."

"Then I suppose I’ll just have to be stubborn," you replied with a warm smile.

Your presence was a quiet kind of reassurance, a steadiness that he found himself appreciating more than he cared to admit. He had faced crises that shook entire worlds, yet the simple act of having you set down a warm meal before him, insisting he rest, carried a weight of its own.

"You remind me of someone," he murmured after a moment.

You tilted your head. "Oh? A good memory, I hope."

Welt smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Yes. A very good one."

And as he sipped the tea, letting the warmth seep into his bones, he realized just how much he had come to rely on your presence.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he had to carry everything alone.

[vbecker10]

Stop Worrying

Pairing: Steve Rogers x female reader (Y/N)

Summary: Steve comes home early when he hears you're sick but his efforts to help leave you feeling like your super soldier boyfriend doesn't think you can take care of yourself. After you tell him to stop worrying and leave you alone, you run into Bucky who explains how ill Steve was before the serum and how much anxiety it causes him when the people he cares about get even a little bit sick.

Warnings: Angst (because why the hell not), being sick (it's just a cold), being a moody person when your sick (sometimes you just want to be left alone to feel awful), Steve getting yelled at for just trying to help, mentioning how Steve's mom died and all of his childhood illnesses (which I googled so hopefully they are right, if not oh well I guess)

A/N: Well... this was supposed to be super fluffy and cute but that's not what happened lol. There's a bunch of angst that was not planned but if you know me you should have known I wouldn't write anything straight fluffy, not sure why I tried lol. I hope you all enjoy this! 💚

A coughing fit forces you to sit up on the couch, reaching for a half empty bottle of water while you cover your mouth with your other hand. After finishing the water, you toss it in the small trash can you brought in from the bathroom and lay back down. You shiver and pull the blanket tightly around your body then sigh and pick up the thermometer next to the tissue box. Closing your eyes, you kick the blanket off your warm lower half and wait for it to beep.

I better not have a fever, you think and close your eyes when you feel like it is taking too long to register your temperature. Hopefully this is just a stupid little cold and I'll be fine by the time Steve comes home this weekend. I'm so tired, I'm really just not in the mood for captain perfect to see me all sniffley and gross.

You're eyes open quickly when a sound interrupts your thoughts but it's not the beeping you are waiting for, it's the front door.

"Y/N," Steve's voice fills your shared apartment just as the thermometer finally beeps. He closes the door and takes off his jacket while you try to stifle a cough and read the results. "I heard you were sick, are you okay?"

You nod, unable to answer as you begin to cough. Steve goes to the kitchen and returns with an open bottle of water, handing it to you as you finish coughing. You look up briefly at him and see his expression full of worry.

While you drink, he picks up the thermometer and checks to see the last reading. "No fever, that's good," he says but he sounds overly concerned when he puts it back down. "Did you have one earlier?"

You shake you head and clear your throat. "No, I was just getting the chills a bit so I figured I should check it."

"Oh, that was good thinking," Steve agrees when you sit up on the couch, covering your legs then bending them to give him room. He sits near your feet and rests his hand gently on your knee over the blanket.

"Thanks," you mumble despite feeling like his approval isn't really necessary. It's not my first time feeling like garbage. If you're hot and cold at the same, you take your temperature, it's not really a big deal, you begin to feel annoyed. You know your boyfriend isn't really what's bothering you, you're completely exhausted from not being able to sleep and because you've felt terrible for the last two days. It's nice to have him home but you really didn't need him to see you like this either.

Steve doesn't seem to notice your sour mood though, his hand gently squeezing your knee when you look at him again. "Why are your home? I thought you didn't get back for a few days," you ask, drinking a bit more water while you wait for an answer.

"They're still out in the field but Nat called and told me you were sick," he explains. "Tony and Clint can handle this one without me."

"You didn't need to do that. It's just a cold," you respond, feeling more than a little irritated that your mutual friend was keeping an eye on you for him. She is a spy though so I guess that's what she does, you remind yourself

"Are you sure?" he questions you. "Did you see anyone in the infirmary? I'm sure Dr. Palmer wouldn't mind taking a quick look at you. It could be the flu or an upper respiratory infection or-"

"It's a cold," you interrupt him, letting your annoyance show more than you meant to. "Stop worrying, I'll be fine."

"I always worry about my sweetheart," he says with a warm smile, his hand moving up and down your shin lightly over the blanket.

You feel yourself forcing a smile and you know he can tell when his smile falters and he clears his throat awkwardly. Normally, you love when Steve is sweet and touchy but right now all you want is to be alone until you feel less miserable.

"Did you eat anything today?" Steve ask after a long moment of silence.

"Yeah," you respond then realize he's waiting for you to prove it. You try not to sigh out loud but you're starting to feel as if he's treating you like one of his new recruits, double checking everything you say or do. "I had a little dry cereal this morning and some soup like an hour ago."

"That's not very much," he sounds disappointed in your answer.

"I haven't really been hungry," you shrug, not making eye contact with him as you reach for a tissue to sneeze into.

"Bless you," he says as you quickly turn so your perfect boyfriend doesn't have to watch you blow your nose. "I could make you something," his hand gently rubs your knee again.

You toss the tissue, "I'll make more soup later."

"No, I think I'm gonna rest for a bit," you look up at him, thankful when he gets up from the couch so you can stretch your legs out again.

"Okay, just make sure you don't forget to eat. You need to keep your strength up to fight whatever you have," his words sound almost like an order and you nod then avoid looking at him by fixing the blanket. "Do you need anything? More water or a new box of tissues?"

"Okay sweetheart," you can feel his eyes moving over your body as you pull the blanket up higher. "How about some tea? It would be good for your cough. I can put honey in it if your throat is bothering you," he suggests when you begin to cough.

You shake your head although you have to admit that might be a good idea. You just can't help feeling annoyed by the way Steve is constantly making suggestions and questioning your decisions. He's always been a fixer and a leader in the field during missions but right now all you want to curl up in a ball and be left alone.

"You sure? That cough sounds pretty bad," Steve says as he begins to clean up the few tissues on the floor that must have missed the garbage can.

"Just leave them, I can clean up later," you tell him, embarrassed as you watch a super soldier handle your snotty trash.

"I don't mind helping Y/N," he says with a caring smile.

"I don't need help," you snap without thinking. "I can take care of myself Steve. I'm not a little kid or one of your new soldiers that you have to lead around because they're useless."

"I didn't say that," he sounds confused by your reaction which only annoys you further.

"You're acting like it though," you tell him.

"I'm sorry, I-" he begins to apologize but you interrupt him.

"Can you just leave? I really want to rest," you lay down and fix the blanket, getting frustrated when it tangles around your foot.

He gently tugs the end of the blanket free from your foot and you sigh. "Maybe you should sleep in the bed," Steve says and you glare up at him. He visibly regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth and he tries to take them back. "I just mean-"

"Stop worrying and just leave me alone Steve," you roll over, facing the back of the couch and folding your arms over your chest. Closing your eyes tightly, you breath deeply to try and avoid a coughing fit when you hear the door open and close.

"Do you know why Steve slept on my couch last night?" he asks.

You walk into the common kitchen, still exhausted from another mostly sleepless night and go straight to the fridge. You cover your cough as you grab a bottle of water then pause when someone knocks on the open fridge door. You close it partially and see Bucky looking at you curiously.

"Oh," you mumble and close the fridge door. "I yelled at him."

"Did he do something stupid?" Steve's friend assumes.

"Not really I guess," you shrug but Bucky's expression makes it clear he's looking for the full story. "I don't know... He's so overbearing sometimes. I know he means well but he left a mission early cause Nat told him I'm sick. I'm not a child or something, I can take care of myself. I've been doing it my whole life."

Bucky rubs the back of his neck with his metal hand then says, "I think you should talk to him."

"Bucky I'm not apologizing cause I don't want to be babied," you tell him, sniffling while you pull out a cough drop from your pocket.

"That's not what I mean," he says and before you can respond he asks, "What do you know about Steve from before they gave him the serum?"

"Not much honestly," you admit after thinking for a moment. "I know he was short and kinda skinny but that's pretty much it."

He takes a seat at the island and you copy him, feeling like this is going to be a longer conversation than you originally thought. You crack open your bottle of water and wait for him to start talking.

"Before he was a super soldier, Steve was a really sick kid," Bucky says. "Poor guy was anemic, had diabetes, a heart murmur, scoliosis, asthma and partial hearing loss from scarlet fever when he was really young."

"Wow," you say quietly in disbelief.

"Yeah... he also had a terrible immune system. If anyone had a sore throat or the flu or literally anything contagious, you could count on Steve getting it. I had to take care of him a lot back then, he was sometimes too weak to get out of bed by himself," you bite your lip as Bucky talks, trying to imagine the super soldier you know needing that much help. "When his mom died, everything got worse," he looks down at his hands while he talks.

"How did she die?" you ask as you quickly realize you've never asked Steve anything about his life before he was the famous Captain America.

"She worked as a nurse in a tuberculosis ward and unfortunately she caught it from her patients. She passed right before Steve's 18th birthday," Bucky looks up at you.

"I had no idea, that's awful," you say, wishing you had gotten to meet her or at least heard other stories about him mom.

"Yeah," Bucky agrees with a slight nod. "Steve was always a bit of a... we'll call him a worrier when we were growing up but he sort of spiraled after watching his mom get sicker and sicker. Now I can see it was anxiety and some sort of panic disorder but those weren't things people really understood or talked much about back then."

You fidget with the water bottle, peeling the label off while you listen to Bucky quietly.

"I tried my best to help him but a few years after Sarah, his mom, died I got the flu pretty bad and he was a wreck," Bucky continues. "He wouldn't leave my side for a minute, even after the doctor told him I'd be okay. Steve did everything he could think of. Brought me food and water, tracked my medicine and read to me when I was too tired to hold the book up myself. It took me a few weeks to get back to normal but it took him way longer to let go of trying to take care of me."

"I'm not saying Steve isn't a lot, cause we both know he can be," he chuckles lightly and you smile a little, "but maybe cut him a little slack? I know how much he cares about you and I think you getting even a little sick brings back those feelings from when we were younger."

You're quiet for a moment, digesting everything Steve's oldest friend told you then you shake your head. "I can't believe I didn't know any of this," you frown and wonder how well you really know the man you're living with.

"Go talk to him," he says encouragingly. "He's probably still in my apartment if he didn't head down to the gym yet."

"I will, thanks," you get off the stool, grab your water and head to Bucky's.

Steve sits on the couch, tying his shoes without looking up when you open the door. "Sorry Buck, I'll be out of your hair in a minute." He stands and finally sees you waiting quietly by the door. "Y/N?"

"Can we talk?" you ask him, fidgeting with the water bottle in your hands.

"Yeah," he sits back down on the couch and you sit next to him, placing the bottle on the coffee table.

"I talked to Bucky," you start, "He told me you were here."

"I wasn't sure where else to go," he shrugs.

"I shouldn't have told you to leave, I'm really sorry Steve," you tell him and he reaches for your hand squeezing it gently. You sniffle and he hands you a tissue which makes you crack small smile. "Thanks."

"I just wanted to take care of you," Steve says when you turn away from him to blow your nose. "I wasn't trying to upset you."

You nod and look back at him, "I know... and that's really sweet of you but I'm not used to anyone helping me like this. I've always done things on my own and the way you just came in and started asking me all kinds of questions and suggesting things really made me feel like you didn't trust me to take care of myself."

"That's not how I wanted you to feel at all," he says. "I was worried about you but that doesn't mean I think you're incapable of getting better on your own. I just don't think you should have to do it all by yourself, I want to be here for you."

"Maybe we can split the difference a little," you suggest and he furrows his brow a bit in confusion. "Instead of throwing a ton of things you think I should do at me all at once, just suggest one thing and if I say no, listen to me."

"I can do that," he smiles as he relaxes for the first time since he heard you were sick. He leans over and kisses your cheek.

"Thank you," you rest your head on his shoulder, covering your mouth when you yawn.

"Should we go back to our place so you can rest?" he suggests almost nervously.

A smile spreads across Steve's face, "I'd really like that. It's been a long time since I've talked to anyone other than Bucky about her."

"Yes please," you get up, holding his hand tightly. "And maybe later, you can tell me some stories about your mom. Bucky told me a little bit about her and I'd like to know more, if that's okay?"

"I guess I never asked you anything about your life before I knew you," you say when he opens the door to the hall for you. "I had no idea you had such bad health or why you got so anxious when you heard I was sick."

"How long did you two talk for?" he asks in a half joking manner.

"A while," you answer with a shrug and a smile as you walk together towards your apartment.

He chuckles, "I'll tell you all about how scrawny and weak I used to be as soon as you're all better. I don't want to make you laugh too much while you still have that cough." He moves his arm around your waist to keep you close.

"I really just can't imagine you being short," you giggle.

"That was the least of my problems back then," he assures you

Steve opens the door to your apartment, his arm gently holding you around the waist as you cough hard. When you catch your breath he asks, "Do you need anything or do you want me to head out for a bit so you can go back to sleep?"

You look up at him, knowing exactly what will make you feel better, "Can I have some soup please? And cuddles."

He smiles and kisses the top of your head lightly, "I can absolutely help with both of those. Go get comfy, I'll be there in a few minutes sweetheart."

"Thanks handsome," you sniffle and walk towards your room, pausing when you get to the doorway to turn and look back at him. "I love you."

"I love you too, now go rest," Steve says from the kitchen. "I'll be right in to take care of you."

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did 💙💙 Please let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!

(I wasn't really sure who to tag for this cause I don't really have a Steve list)

@soubi001 @mochie85 @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @multyunervisesuperfan @cabingrlandrandomcrap @lulubelle814 @goblingirlsarah @alexakeyloveloki @siconetribal @jiyascepter @eleniblue @muddyorbsblr @alyeskathewave @loz-3 @firedrakegirl @km-ffluv @biodegradable-glitter-fest @wolfsmom1 @hopefuldreamers-world @anukulee @trojanaurora @babygirl-panda19 @catsladen @stargazer-luna @gruftiela @bolontiku @scrumptious-finicky-illusion @crimson25 @lokiandbuckysdoll @holdmytesseract @wolfsmom1 @peaches1958 @michellewgrt @jaidenhawke @mochie85 @itscomplicatedx @motherofmischief @lethallyprotected @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

[cheshireliam]

"Once Again, An Evil From Which You Can't Return" Story Event: Chapter 2

Liam Evans & Harrison Gray

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

This event story works in such a way that Chapter 1 is for Suitor A and Chapter 2 is for Suitor B, before splitting into two endings.

The night I went to see Liam’s play.

I couldn’t fall asleep… so I was returning to my room from the kitchen with a cup of warm milk in my hand.

On the way, I heard a voice coming from the dimly lit hallway where moonlight was streaming in.

???: Don’t let it bother you too much. 

I stood there in wonder of who the voice belonged to, and its owner emerged from the shadows. 

(Harrison…) 

Kate: You could tell? 

Harrison: Yeah. You can’t lie to save your life. You’re probably the furthest thing from a real liar I’ve ever met. 

Kate: A-am I that easy to read?

Harrison: About time you realised that yourself. 

He narrowed his eyes like a sly fox from a fairytale story. 

I had no recollection of what kind of conversations I had with them before I lost my memories, or whether we went on missions together. But…

(For him to be concerned about me… Harrison must be a kind person.) 

Kate: You’re right, Harrison… the matter has been weighing  on my mind. 

Kate: Ever since losing my memories, it's like there’s been something lingering deep in my chest… 

Kate: Everyone is telling me how I used to be, what I used to do, but… none of it feels real, and that scares me. 

All the emotions I had been keeping bottled up poured out at once, and Harrison spoke gently in response. 

Harrison: Then why not… treat it like a mystery to solve and have fun with it?

Kate: Treat it like a mystery and have fun with it…?

Harrison: Yeah. Right now, there’s endless possibilities laid out in front of you, the future is wide open. 

Harrison: There’s a possibility you had every member of Crown wrapped around your little finger, or maybe you were their top detective, solving even the toughest cases left and right. 

Kate: Fufu, what even is that… 

Harrison’s absurd suggestions caught me off guard, but they did melt the tension away and make me laugh. 

Harrison: Or maybe, for example—

Harrison: —... Kate. I’m your lover. 

Kate: … 

The tender, aching tone of his words resonated in my ears. When I looked up, I saw Harrison grinning in contrast to the seriousness I heard in his voice.

Harrison: Just kidding… Was that a lie? Or the truth? 

Kate: … Are you saying that’s one of the possibilities too? 

Harrison: Exactly. Did you fall for it? 

Kate: … I did. Your facial expression was so serious, I almost believed you…

Harrison: In any case, regardless of whether what I said was true… you really should try taking things a little easier. 

Kate: Yeah… you’re right. Thank you, Harrison. I think I’ll try moving on and working towards getting my memories back with a more positive mindset. 

Harrison: That’s the spirit. … And if you’d like, I could even help you out. 

Kate: Really? In that case, I’d love that…! 

…

The next day, he really did agree to go outside with me.

He said he’d take me to places I’d been to before, and the first location was—

… 

Kate: That's a lot of books…

Harrison: This is where you chased me down, saying you wanted to know more about my curse. 

Kate: So that happened… 

Harrison: Now, was that a lie or the truth? 

Kate: Geez, there’s no way I’d know that without my memories, okay? 

Harrison: Looks like nothing’s clicking yet. Guess we’re off to the next location. 

…

The next place he took me to was a café filled with the sweet aroma of baked treats.

Kate: Mmm… it melts in my mouth. I’ve never had ricotta pancakes this fluffy before! 

Harrison: Second time you’ve had them.

Kate: Huh?

Harrison: Was that a lie, or the truth?

Kate: This taste… 

Kate: Even if it’s my second time having this, there’s no doubt these pancakes would impress me just as much as the first. 

Harrison: No one asked for a review, gourmand. 

…

And then, when it was almost sunset, we arrived at—

Harrison: Remember this place? 

Leadenhall Market — an indoors market lined with restaurants, cafés, butchers, and bookstores. 

(But anyone who lives in London would know this place.)

Kate: … Did we come here together before? 

Harrison: Yeah, we went to that bookstore over there for research.

Kate: Research? 

Harrison: I work as a proofreader for a living. 

As I scanned the storefronts, hoping to trigger any of my lost memories, I spotted a book cart with wheels set out near the entrance… 

When I approached and started browsing the books on display, Harrison suddenly widened his eyes in surprise. 

Harrison: This is the one! This is the reference I’ve been looking for. I can’t believe I’d find it now of all times. 

He picked up the book and eagerly started flipping through the pages. 

(I’ve never seen Harrison like this before…)

His mint-coloured eyes were clear and sparkling like the sky after the rain. 

In that moment, I felt like that was the most genuine version of him I’d ever seen, without all the lies and pretense. 

Harrison: What are you staring at?

Kate: Just happy to learn you love books. Ah, and please don’t say that line about whether I think it's a lie or truth. 

Kate: It’s written all over your face. You LOVE books. 

Harrison: … 

Harrison’s expression twisted.

And then his eyes lowered, his bangs casting a shadow over his face. 

Kate: Harrison? 

Harrison: … Sun’s going down, it's about time we head back. 

…

He purchased the reference book from the shop and we retraced our journey back to Crown’s castle. 

(Harrison showed me to all those places, yet I couldn't recall a single thing in the end. And…) 

The image of Harrison’s expression twisting ever so slightly lingered in my mind. 

(He said it was only a possibility when he claimed to be my lover earlier… but was it truly only that?) 

As we walked side by side, Harrison reached into his coat to tuck the book away—

Harrison: … Ah. 

With a light metallic clink, something fell from his chest pocket.

It was a small tin of candy. 

Harrison: Here, catch.

He tossed it through the air, and a mint-coloured candy landed in my outstretched palm. 

Kate: Thank you.

I popped it into my mouth, and a refreshing sensation spread immediately. 

Harrison: … Mint is my favourite flavour out of all the candy in the tin. 

Harrison: Was that a lie, or the truth?

He repeated the phrase he’d used countless times that day.

Harrison: … This is the last time I’m asking. 

Although that last line was said in a murmur, his eyes were gazing directly into mine, with an unwavering look of longing. 

[radioactive-earthshine]

I haven't read any flash comics yet so all my information about Bart comes from YJ98 and I a have question. My friends claim you are the flash family expert so I think you can answer it lol.

If it wouldn't bother you could you please explain why Barry Iris and Wally couldn't take Bart in? Ig I do not understand why his own family wouldn't prefer to raise him instead of putting him with someone they didn't know if that's how I understood it? Like I mean it is great that we have a story about foster care but ig I'd still want to know why he was in foster care at all.

Sorry if I am bothering you and this question is like basic knowledge but it's bothering me.

Hello new Flashfam fan,

There are pretty basic explanations for why none of those characters listed could, would, or should take Bart Allen in when he was evacuated to the 20th century.

Barry

He was DEAD.

Barry Allen died in Crisis on Infinite Earths in 1986, and he remained dead and out of the main continuity barring cameos and random moments for more than 20 years.

When Bart was born, he was dead, when he came back to the past, he was dead.

Deceased.

I know in a lot of Core Four fanfic many authors choose to depict him as alive and well, but in the comics he is as dead as Jason Todd.

Iris

She had studied the past extensively while she lived in the future, and thus obtained knowledge of what was going to happen to her loved ones in the past. She knew their histories.

Terrified of changing said history, and altering the future she understood, she withdrew herself from everyone as much as possible, including Wally. She essentially became a hermit.

She knew if she spent too much time with her family, she would likely give them warnings about tragedies to come. Iris was operating under an understanding that altering history is a big big big big no no. Because of her knowledge, she knew that Max took Bart in and declared it his destiny to do so, not Wally and not her, and they had no choice but to do it.

Agree with it or not, and whether it makes sense or not, and regardless of the more sinister implications of this plot detail, that is the comic explanation.

Wally

He literally could not handle Bart at this time in his life. He was not mentally prepared to deal with someone like Bart and this was actually a mutual decision between him and Bart.

Bart didn't want to live with Wally, they were not getting along, and Wally wasn't going to challenge that.

The Wally West at this time was not the current Wally which is a father to three, a husband, and someone VERY well adjusted - but rather, he was a mentally ill young adult dealing with cptsd, likely imposter syndrome, and prevailing jealousy of his proximity to Barry and infernal feelings of inadequacy. All of those together and how Wally dealt with them made him a pretty big jerk, which is what made him interesting, and what also made him not the best choice at all to take in someone as feral as Bart. It would have been a disaster.

Should Iris and Wally have just tried their best to take Bart in? That's up for debate and personal opinion, but in my opinion, both really did make the best decision they could have. I also stand firmly by the belief that no one should be forced to raise a child. Period.

There is also one final reason why Iris and Wally didn't take Bart in and it's really the most important one ...

That's not the story Mark Waid wanted to tell. Mark wanted to tell a story about aloof, cold, secretive Max Mercury taking in wild Bart and their adventures as they slowly bonded.

I hope this answers your question!

Note 1: I would not call myself an "expert" on the Flashfam, I just have read a lot of comics about them, well over 1000 single issues, but even with this, there are still huge gaps of knowledge that exist.

Note 2: this is for the comics and the comics alone, no other form of media or adaptation.

[earlgreytea68]

Okay, everyone, I'm just going to go off about this book because I really, really need to vent. This is a book that was a bestseller, that received multiple starred reviews in major publications, that was named one of the best romance novels of the years by many outlets, and by the end I didn't just think it was a bad book, I, like, actively hated this book. I learned an important lesson that I am not going to like this author's books and so I never need to read any of them again, but most of the time I read bad books and I just get frustrated by how bad they are but this one was SO bad to me that I have to get it out.

There are obvious spoilers for the book below and I wasn't going to mention the book title because I didn't want to upset people who really, really loved this book (AND THERE ARE CLEARLY MANY, MANY OF THOSE PEOPLE), but then I was like, "Should I tell people I'm about to spoil this book???" and then I was like, You know what? I suspect my experience of this book is SO different from how everyone else seems to be experiencing this book that it's going to seem like I'm talking about a different book. (Although there are some details too specific to make up.)

THIS IS JUST BULLET POINTS BECAUSE I COULDN'T GET ANY MORE COHERENT THAN THAT. AND OMG NO ONE IS GOING TO READ THIS BUT ME lol it was more like therapy for getting through that

Alright, here you go, here is probably the most identifiable detail of the book, but the whole plot is driven by an entire two-hundred-person wedding getting food poisoning from a buffet that everyone ate but two people at the wedding. Okay, fine, I'm sure it can happen, I really wasn't bothered by that plot device. What I was bothered by is the book is very certain to tell all of us that the particular food poisoning involved wasn't caused by the preparation of the fish, and so the caterer can't be held responsible, and yet there are still several conversations within the book about how this food poisoning proves that you should be suspicious of buffets. I'm not saying you shouldn't be suspicious of buffets, but the food poisoning had nothing to do with the fact that it was a buffet and I guess we're all just supposed to forget that fact? And this was the recurring problem of the whole book. Things kept happening that made zero actual sense but apparently we were all just supposed to go along with it.

For instance, the very first event that the OTP does together on their Hawaiian vacation is they take a boat out to go "snuba" diving. Okay, fine, except...the hero suffers seasickness. The hero is in his thirties and we the readers are told he is widely traveled and so I feel like he would definitely know if he was prone to seasickness. Like, this isn't a rough sea where everyone is getting seasick, it's a pretty tame little boat. I happen to be a person who gets seasick. I feel like, if you have ever actually gotten seasick, you would probably avoid putting yourself in that situation ever again. At least, that's what I do. Because motionsickness is horrible. But the hero mentions nothing about how he gets seasick, and then by the end of the boat ride he's throwing up while the heroine tenderly brushes at his hair. Okay, ymmv, this was not something I considered romantic since at this point these people, we are told, still "hate" each other. But also, like, motionsickness ruins my entire day. Once you get it, you can't just easily shake it off once you're on dry land, like, it lingers and it's awful. But okay, I'm willing to believe other people get seasick in more appealing manners than I get seasick. I still think it's weird that this guy wouldn't have mentioned that he doesn't want to do a boat activity. There were a million other choices. I guess maybe we were meant to believe he was too proud to confess this weakness to the heroine??? Idk, the book itself didn't seem to think it was weird and didn't contemplate the issue very much at all. (Also, the heroine keeps the hero belowdecks on the boat for his seasickness, which I think is the opposite of what you're supposed to do, I think you're supposed to go somewhere you can focus on the horizon? But I'm not an expert on how to cure it, I just know when I feel that way I really, really want fresh air, so the idea of being stuck inside made me feel queasy.) We don't get much clarification of this because the book is first-person POV from the heroine's POV, and the heroine's not seasick, so I guess she doesn't think very hard about the situation. But the heroine apparently does somehow magically know every name of every single tropical fish because she details them all for the reader during the snuba expedition and I'm like, ...I do not buy that this woman from Minnesota who doesn't ever express any other interest in fish knows the name of every single tropical fish encountered in Hawaii. That's the problem with first-person POV.

Okay, whatever, so far these are all minor things, who cares? I haven't talked yet about the fact that these people are from Minnesota, they fly to Hawaii for vacation, and they meet not one, but two vitally important people from their Minnesota lives. One of the people they meet is the heroine's brand new boss. Who literally wakes her up from a doze at the spa where she is relaxing. If my new boss woke me up while I was wrapped in a robe at a spa, I feel like I would immediately be thinking, oh, great, this guy is a creep and now I need to find a new job. Like, this is all portrayed as if the guy is just a nice guy, and I guess he is, but I find it deeply odd that he woke up a sleeping woman in a robe to be like, "Hey! Fancy meeting you here! I just interviewed you last week for that job!" And then the new boss is like, "Oh, we should have dinner together!" And I get that the heroine felt like she couldn't refuse, but also, god, this new boss is terrible. Why would he bother this brand new employee he has literally met ONCE for like thirty minutes on her vacation????? God, I was so annoyed by this plot twist both because it seemed deeply stupid to me but also because the heroine doesn't think it's at all weird or inappropriate or even annoying that this guy is doing this. Meanwhile this new boss is like alllll up in this woman's private life and I just don't find anything about this appropriate, this seems like a million HR violations to me, I just would be like, god, this is a horrible place to work.

Oh, and then, right after we get the new boss out of the way, we run into...the hero's ex-fiancee with her new fiance. Really???? At the same hotel at the same time????? Okay, fine, we'll just go along with the coincidences, fine. But! In the face of the fact that this hotel is crawling with people they don't want to have to interact with, our intrepid hero and heroine keep going to the hotel restaurant to eat. WHY. WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS. ORDER ROOM SERVICE. The book at least tries to explain this by the heroine saying once that she refuses to pay the $12 room service surcharge, but I'm just like, God, I would do it at least once or twice to save me having to interact with all these terrible people. Literally every time they went to eat they had to endure an excruciating conversation. And they agreed that the conversations were excruciating! So why were they willingly subjecting themselves to these conversations!

So then a rainy day arrives. They're like, oh, noooooo, we can't go to the beach! (we will ignore the fact that they NEVER ONCE WENT TO THE BEACH THIS ENTIRE HAWAIIAN VACATION WHATEVER) What will we dooooooo. So I'm like, ....can't you go back to the spa? There's a spa. That's where the creepy boss woke the woman up to be creepy. Instead of going to the spa, they decide.........to go play paintball in the mud. Look, clearly these people are just people who want to make very different choices with their lives than I want to make, it's fine, it happens, whatever.

The next day the hero's like, "I want to get drunk." Okay, fine. Instead of doing this on the resort, he decides to do this in a local dive bar. Okay, fine, I guess it's about the cost? (The trip was "all expenses paid" but I wasn't clear on what they meant since it clearly didn't include room service.) But...the guy got so drunk he couldn't drive back, and so the woman really couldn't drink because she was the designated driver, and maybe she didn't mind, but I still think it's a weird life choice to be like, "I am going to drink myself into oblivion and make you sit here with me dealing with my drunk self." I mean, she thought this was all very charming, so again, I was just very much not the target audience for this book.

But the bigger issue for me with this book was not that I didn't understand any of the choices any of the characters made, but that is was just so badly written. I mean, partly that comes out in all of these previous issues, because if it had been written better, maybe I'd understand all that stuff happening. But for a romance novel, I do not understand how little romance was in this story????? It was so, so deeply weird to me. Like, every time they had a disagreement, we read all about it, but all of the times they got along happened off-page. So we've got like this whole day they spend together that is just like, "It was awesome, he was great, I couldn't believe what a good time I had." That's....I need more than that? He was great how? What did he say? What did you talk about? There was this throwaway line that they both love books, but, like, the entirety of this was because he understood a Harry Potter reference. She referenced horcruxes and he knew what she meant and she's like, I'm so glad he loves books like I do! What???? I never saw any evidence the heroine loved books -- again, they go to Hawaii and she spends zero time reading by the pool -- and he did seem to spend some time reading but we never learned what book and she never displayed the slightest interest in asking him about it. And instead in every single scene she would be like, I'd never seen him smile so much! And she would make this observation, like, during each successive outing they went on together. I guess maybe he was smiling more and more??? But I'm like, Why is she so amazed every time he smiles! He does it on every page!!! It was just so, like, Idk, I found it kind of insulting actually, but I know probably a lot of people just wouldn't think so hard about it. But I was like, ...all you can think of to prove these two people belong together is to tell me he smiles a lot and to assume I think he doesn't smile when he's not with her?

And the real, real, real problem with this, and the reason why I ended up hating the book so much by the end, is that I have no reason to be rooting for these people as a couple because I don't care about them and then the hero's brother, who happens to be a huge jerk who has been cheating on the heroine's sister their entire relationship, proves himself to be a jerk by propositioning the heroine, and when the heroine tells the hero he's like, "I don't believe you. You're reading this wrong. You're a mean, bitter person who always thinks the worst of people." Like, WOW. If that's how this guy feels about this woman....why would you date him???? And to her credit she breaks up with him, but then the whole rest of the book (which isn't very many pages, only like forty or so) is all about how much she misses him and blah blah blah and I'm just like, ...he was boring, you were boring together, find a better guy who doesn't say things like that to you. Like, I was actively upset that this woman couldn't see how awful this guy was to her, and that this was supposed to be the happy ending.

But then again, as I reached the end of the book I realized that everyone in this book was just awful all the time but it's like I was supposed to think they were nice. Like, on her very first day at work, her weird creepy boss fires her because she lied about being married when he ambushed her at the resort. DUDE. THAT'S NOT YOUR BUSINESS ANYWAY. WHY ARE YOU ALL INVOLVED WITH HER LIFE LIKE THIS!!! So, she loses her job. It's devastating. She comes home from work and her entire family is at her apartment and I'm like, oh, no, they're going to want to hear all about her big day. But no. They didn't. They were in her apartment....just because they like to be there? Like, NO ONE asked her how her day was. Zero. Zip. Imagine starting a new job and not a single member of your family -- not your mom, not your twin sister, not your cousins you're supposedly super close to -- asks you how it went. Okay, so then the family does come in handy because a cousin gives her a job waitressing, and she realizes that...now she doesn't really need to find another job? I guess this waitress job pays really well and comes with health insurance, so great for her, BUT ALSO she was just out of work for two months. We heard all about how it took her two months to find this brand new job and she was desperate and freaking out...and she loses this new job and there are zero repercussions. Why....didn't she just...waitress.....during the previous two months......?????? I was so confused but that seems like a minor point because THEN, her entire family helps set up another ambush where they help this guy show up at her place of work to loudly and publicly proclaim his love for her. Okay, so, like, I love that bit in Love Actually when Colin Firth shows up at the restaurant to declare his love for the waitress, even though it is objectively absurd, but this really squicked me out because, as I have already said, this guy's last statement to her was to tell her how awful she is, and rather than taking her side her family is clearly like, well, you're never going to find another guy so we'll have to get you that one back even though he was awful to you. And even though his brother was cheating on her sister and now everyone knows that and they're getting a divorce!! Like, I know the hero wasn't cheating but it seems so messy to me to have to constantly be interacting with my sister's cheating ex-husband, like, I had better really like the guy to do that and, as has previously been detailed, I definitely did not care about this guy enough to do that and I did not think they had anything as a couple that was worth fighting for this relationship. They dated for like a week when they got back from Maui. And then her family manipulated her into this public apology and I was just so grossed out by it, like, this woman was constantly being ambushed by people!! OH, AND ALSO, the best, most awkward part of the whole thing is the family somehow also invited the creepy boss so he could see that actually the heroine DOES love the hero and so now she deserves to be hired again???????? WHAT???????

But! I realized! That this book thinks that's charming, because in the happy-ever-after epilogue there's this whole bit where the heroine's sister doesn't want to go zip-lining and the heroine bullies her into doing it by being like, "You have to be willing to take risks!!!!!" And I think we were supposed to see this as like, The heroine learned a lesson about risk-taking! First of all: What? What lesson? What risk did she take? Taking back a guy who immediately said horrible things about her and was constantly trying to gaslight her about his brother (she knew the brother was lying to her sister but the hero kept telling her she was wrong about that, and he really never fully apologized for that or acknowledged he was unfair to her????)? Was that the great incredible risk she took? Second of all, god, could the people in this book stop bullying other people! lol I felt like I spent the whole book cringing wishing that people would just be nice to each other.

EVEN WORSE this epilogue was from the POV of the hero and I just could not abide being in his head. He kept saying "my girlfriend," "my girlfriend" over and over and it just felt like so much and I still didn't get the impression even from within his head that he really cared about the heroine or they got along well or anything, like, Idk, it was just such a weird book with such a weird vibe, when I finished it I felt so sad for these unhappy people hahahah god, just an awful reading experience.

ALSO this is so minor and again I think other people think this was charming, but the heroine's name was Olive and for some reason the hero was always calling her Olivia. This was before they got together, before they were friends, like, the day he met her he just decided he would call her a totally different name???? And I guess this WAS supposed to be charming and cutesy???? Idk, it was so weird how it landed for me, like, I was like, Call her by her name. And it's weird because I love nameplay! I was like, "God, is Eames this annoying in Inception and I never noticed???" Like, probably, but I find him charming and for some reason I did not find this guy in this book charming at all, like, the whole thing really annoyed me AS YOU CAN TELL lol I think maybe the wrong-name thing would have been cuter to me if he ever seemed to respect her in any way but to me he just never seemed to be a nice guy. At the dinner he went to with her new boss, he immediately told the boss the heroine's most embarrassing childhood story, which he does knowing that she hates it, and she's annoyed that he does it, but then she's like, But wow, I didn't expect him to even remember that much about me! I feel like that is honestly this book in a microcosm lol

[koojournal97]

When the Moon Forgot to Shine

Episode 1: A Murmur in the Silence

The hospital always smelled like bleach and quiet pain.

Y/N hated in. Not the people, not the patients — but the atmosphere. It was sterile in more ways than one. It dulled laughter. Swallowed hope. But she kept coming back, week after week, because sometimes the smallest moments — holding a hand, reading a book aloud, offering a warm smile — could make a difference

Today, though, something felt different.

She stepped into the Cardiology Ward with her clipboard tucked to her chest, her smile sneakers quiet against the floor. She created the nurses with a nod and a soft smile before checking the volunteer assignments for the day.

"Room 317," Nurse Hyejin said, eyeing her with a smirk. "Your new assignment."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "That's... a private room?"

"VIP status. But don’t let that fool you,” the nurse leaned in and whispered. “He’s a tough one to talk to. Silent. Standoffish. But maybe he just needs the right person."

Y/N didn’t reply, just nodded and made her way down the long corridor.

The door to Room 317 was slightly ajar. She knocked softly before peeking in.

The room was bathed in pale light from the tall window. Machines beeped rhythmically in the background. Sitting near the window, head resting back against the chair, was a young man with dark, shoulder-length hair. His gaze was fixed on the sky outside.

He didn’t turn when she entered.

"Hi,” she said gently. “I’m Y/N. I volunteer here. Thought I’d come say hello."

Still, no response.

She stepped further in. "You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I can just… sit. Or read. Or annoy you with small talk. Dealer’s choice."

The corner of his mouth tugged slightly—almost a smirk. Finally, he spoke, voice low and calm.

"You talk a lot for someone who just got here."

Y/N blinked, then chuckled softly. "You’re not wrong."

He turned to look at her then, and for a moment, she was caught off guard. His eyes were deep, shadowed with something she couldn’t quite place. Sadness? Fatigue? Both?

"I’m Jeon Jungkook," he said. "Welcome to my five-star suite."

She smiled. "Nice to meet you, Jeon Jungkook. Do you want company or should I go bother someone else?"

He hesitated.

"…Stay."

She pulled up a chair beside his bed.

"Cool," she said. "Tell me, what’s your favorite movie?"

He looked at her like she had just asked him what the color of air was. Then, he shrugged. "Don’t really have one."

"You don’t like movies?"

"I used to. Not so much anymore."

There was something final in the way he said it, like a door quietly clicking shut.

She didn’t press further. Instead, she looked around the room. No flowers. No get-well cards. Just sterile white walls and a single pair of earbuds on the bedside table.

"Do you live nearby?" she asked.

"Not really."

"Family?"

He didn’t answer.

Y/N caught herself. Too personal, too fast. She tried to steer the conversation back. "Well, you’re lucky. You got the big window. Most patients fight over that."

Jungkook smiled faintly. "It’s the only thing they gave me that doesn’t beep."

She laughed. It was soft but real.

For a while, they sat in a strange kind of peace. The machines hummed. The light shifted.

Eventually, she glanced at her watch. "I should head to my next patient."

He nodded.

But as she stood, he said, "Hey… Y/N."

She turned. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

She smiled. "For what?"

He looked back out the window.

"For not pretending this place isn’t hell."

That night, Y/N found herself thinking about him. The way he looked at the sky like he was waiting for it to say something back. The way he spoke, carefully, like every word had weight. And the way his heart—hidden beneath bone, silence, and machines—still tried to beat like it wasn’t breaking.

She didn’t know yet what he was battling.

But she had a feeling she'd be back.

Not because it was her duty.

But because he was a murmur in the silence—and she was already listening.

Episode 1: "A Murmur in the Silence

Episode 2: “Heartbeat Between the Lines

Episode 3: “Terms and Conditions”

Episode 4: “Rain in the Chest”

Episode 5: “Borrowed Days”

Episode 6: “Every Beat Hurts” 

Episode 7: “Quiet Goodbyes”

Episode 8: “Love Doesn’t Wait”

Episode 9: “If I Wake Again” 

Episode 10: “The Moon Remembered” 

[bougiebutchbinch]

Number three on your list is fucked up actually.

Nuance is the enemy of viral posts. Kindly, I suggest you read the comments. I explained in far more detail there.

I never expected the post to take off like it did, but I am pleased that people have voiced concerns about patient safety and comfort, as it's something I feel very passionate about. After reading my longer explanatory comments, if you'd like clarification about any of the other stories, you are welcome to ask.

However, you should also read my pinned post and be aware that I am a disabled person who spends a lot of time in hospital as a patient.

Just to be clear: Every story on that list was pared down A LOT to make it pithy and fun, but none involved malpractice or the sort of subtle cruelty that is endemic in the healthcare profession. I have seen (and personally been on the receiving end) of both. I've spoken up about them and reported the fuck out of them. I don't particularly want to discuss those cases online, because they were serious incidents that risked patient health/happiness, which would've been very personal and upsetting to the victims, myself included.

In related news: I will never vent about patients here or anywhere online. I don't agree with the nurses on TikTok etc. who go into far too much detail (which potentially compromises patient anonymity!) and describe negative experiences publicly in a way that completely ignores patient perspective and the inherent power dynamics of healthcare.

This is a high-stress job and you do need to vent sometimes - yes, even about patients - but you do that in private, closed settings with a trusted colleague. Then you push your pride aside and write up a reflection where you actually consider the patient's point of view and how your own actions contributed to the conflict. And then, you get back out there and give even the rudest, most aggressive patient on the planet the best healthcare you can, without compromising your own safety.

If I share a Funny Poast online, know that it's NEVER a case where medical staff acted inappropriately (beyond like. a med student sticking their own foot in their mouth lol) or patients were hurt either emotionally or physically.

[zadig-fate]

Not trying to wade too deep into the ongoing Jance debate (I've already reblogged people who've made the same argument I would)

But for those who interpret Nace's line in the film as him being tired/annoyed with the shipping stuff, I will point out:

That moment was filmed pre-Stožice while they were setting up the stage.

They made that "there's an ongoing conspiracy theory and it's all true" video while backstage before the show... so probably a few days AFTER the exchange we saw in the film.

If they really were tired of the shipping at that point, I doubt they would have thrown fuel on the fire with that video. So, at least at that time, I think it's fair to assume they were more amused than annoyed by it.

How they feel about it NOW... that's a different question. But at least during that moment in the film, I really think they were joking.

[sodaneko]

i don't know which writer needs to hear this, but delete that self-depricating paragraph in your author's note. it will alter your reader's view on your fic and you. seriously, even if you wholeheartedly believe it's the worst thing you've ever written and you don't feel proud of it at all, don't tell your audience. let them form their own opinion, and if you want to or not, it will make you feel better about your own work as well in the long run.

[padfootastic]

No but man child x fun sponge is a perfect way to describe that dynamic. It just really fucking gets to the core of the problem (women must parent the men, the men get to be carefree but the woman takes on all responsibility but man isn’t it annoying how lecturing these women get about doing work?) and like. God. I fucking hate this and how prevalent it is, both in fandom and official fucking media too.

ugh yesss this dynamic is exactly why i hated jily and lily for so so long. every single het ship seems to be pigeonholed into this for some reason? it’s like we’re incapable of writing it any other way and it!! bugs me!! so much!!!

like WHY is it that the women are always concerned about safety and responsibility and the kids and consequences but somehow the men aren’t??? why do the women automatically move into the kitchen or for cooking and the men are fucking around or going out to duel like,,,

i feel like it wouldn’t bother me so much if it was written like so with intention ykno? like, if it was a part of their character, for eg, like say, hermione trying to get her boys to finish their homework. makes sense, i can see where it’s coming from. but lily doing the same? ginny? luna? narcissa? alice fucking longbottom?? there has to be a point where u run out of fem characters who’ll fit that mold no?😭

and conversely, it makes no sense for the guys to be written the opposite way either like,,,if it’s wartime and james/sirius are more concerned about pranking someone idk and lily is shrieking in the background for them to take things seriously like just. where is this coming from.

[corvidcall]

i very rarely get a sense of satisfaction from completing tasks. ive heard people say this is an ADHD thing, but idk. personally i think i might just be bad at being alive

[sskk-manifesto]

Ep 5!!!