#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

[ecto-phool]

[in Justice league meeting one of first times being fully introduced, directly after cyborg]

Cyborg finally recovered, clearly dizzy and clutching his head, “why do I want a book about gorillas?”

“Wait- purple back gorillas?” Red Robin gets interrupted before cyborg can respond

“Who are you and what are your goals with hacking into cyborg” Batman demands the disembodied voice that had been coming from cyborg.

“First of all- you’re welcome. I was not hacking cyborg I was killing the program that HAD hacked him. It was complete happen stance that I even saw the alert and realized I could help.” The voice was now coming from the main monitor of the watchtower.

“How did you get access to this computer.” Batman demands again

“Dude after getting through the stuff oracle set up for the bat computer? I could do this in my sleep.”

“Who are you.”

“Uhhhhhhhhh you can call me pharaoh.”

“Wait pharaoh? THE PHARAOH! YOU FUCKER STOP SENDING SONIC MEMES!” Red Robin shouts

“Red Robin you know this person?”

“No just that he has completely gotten into the bat computer just to send shitty memes and horrifically incorrect conspiracy theories.”

“There was a breach in the bar computer and you didn’t think to tell me”

“I may have done that first but everyone else has too.” Red Robin completely ignored Batman to turn back to the monitor. “What’s the fucking deal with purple back gorillas!”

The resulted in a long suffering sigh followed by a slightly muffled response, “my greatest achievement and worst mistake, it was code to get rid of one of our rouges but now I can’t get it out of almost every code I create I have no idea what I did to do it and I have never managed to do it again or get rid of it! I made it in high school! In the middle of an attack with like three hours of sleep! Why is it the most powerful thing ever!!!

…

Anyway it annoys me to no end, if it keeps bothering you actual read up a bit on purple back gorillas and it should go away.”

“How long have you been in our system?” Wonder Woman asks

“The league…a couple hours the bats like a year, your guys’ security really is top notch no one has gotten even halfway through your stuff, completely venerable to ghosts but the security I added should take care of that!”

“Where do your allegiances lie?”

“Uhhh with phantom…I mean you guys are great, but in terms of heroes that guy has taken on shit just as bad if not worse than y’all and he’s completely on his own. I mean I’m cool with you guys but if my friend meets you she might either punch you or give you a talking to about distress signals and answering calls for help…actually knowing her it will be both at the same time…”

The justice league seemed to be prepared to jump in with more questions and demands but before anyone could break their shock pharaoh spoke again

“Oh shit the ghost alarm just went off I have to go see what that’s about, anyway your welcome for the save and Red Robin I’ll message you later! Toodles!!!!”

“Please don’t—” but the click of the disconnect interrupted RR

“Ghosts is a Constantine thing right?”

Short DPXDC Prompts #682

Tucker finally gets his hands on a Wayne Tech phone. It’s far more powerful than his PDA. The universe trembles in fear with what he can do with just a little upgrade.

[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: 😱

[mirajaneswritingshenanigans]

Fandom(s): Love and Deepspace

Pairing(s): Sylus x Reader

Summary: You go to Sylus for comfort after a hard time. Later that night, you comfort Sylus after he has a nightmare.

Disclaimer: I do not own any character(s) mentioned in this series. They are owned by the creators and game developers of Love and Deepspace. I simply borrowed them for this lovely creation.

A/N: Self edited. Y/N-Your Name. ✨️-Scene change. This was an idea I came up with and just rolled with it. Sylus is a big softie only for you and no one can convince me otherwise. 🤣 On this blog we love a soft Sylus! ❤️

Warning(s): Out of character? Nightmare. Feeling Overwhelmed. Petnames(kitten, sweetie). Vulnerability. Reader nickname(boss hunter, beloved).

Word Count: 3,378

Sylus was quietly reading over a document as the twins wreaked havoc throughout the base. He could hear the chaos they were creating, even with the door shut. He was so distracted by what he was reading that he didn’t notice the sudden quietness. It wasn’t until he heard the door open and then close that he finally noticed how quiet it had become.

He glanced up from the paperwork and saw you walking towards his desk. He could tell by your body language that something was bothering you. “Kitten, are you-” “Please, do not finish that sentence.” You said, cutting him off. He nodded and decided to stay silent. You had stopped in the middle of the room. Looking everywhere, except at him.

He wasn’t sure what he should do, so he slowly stood from his chair and began to walk around his desk. You finally looked at him when you heard movement. His heart clenched when he noticed the tears welling up in your eyes. This was a side of you that he had never experienced before. He had always seen your strength and sometimes your panic and fear. But this, this was new to him. He began to walk towards you but stopped when you had taken a step back for every step he made towards you.

You raised your hand up. Signaling that you wanted him not to come near you. He saw the slight tremor before your hand dropped back to your side. You broke eye contact with him by looking down to the floor. You began to hug yourself. Trying so hard to hold yourself together. Lately, things had just become overwhelming. The only person you wanted to be comforted by was Sylus. Standing before him now, made you begin to doubt yourself. A part of you began to believe that seeking him out was a terrible idea. The other part of you wanted nothing more than to be held by him.

Sylus silently stood in place. Patiently waiting for you to make a move. It felt like his heart had dropped into his stomach as he watched you. A part of him wanted to run to you and pull you into a warm embrace. A different part of him told him to wait.

After several minutes you finally made a move. You practically ran from the spot you stood in and wrapped your arms around him. With a sigh of relief Sylus wrapped his arms around you. Relief that you chose to embrace him. You nuzzled into his chest, hugging him tighter. His body stiffened when your body suddenly began to shake. A loud sob escaping your lips. A sound he hadn’t heard in ages. A sound he could never forget. The last time he heard this sound was when the sword went through his chest.

He began to relax. Leaning forward a bit to rest his cheek against the top of your head. “Sylus.” You choked out his name as you tightened your grip around him. His heart broke at how broken you sounded. He gently tightened his grip on you. “It’s okay, kitten. I’m right here.” He whispered as he began to rub soothing circles on your back.

The two if you had stayed like this for several minutes before your sobs had slowed down. He heard you sniffle before you gently pushed yourself out of his embrace. You kept your hands pressed against his chest. He gently placed one hand on each of your shoulders. You couldn’t meet his eyes. So, you kept your focus on your hands. Slowly moving your right hand to where his heart was. You closed your eyes for a moment. Focusing on nothing else except his heartbeat. His erratic rhythm grounding you.

Sylus glanced up at the door when he heard it open. Before the twins could even speak, Sylus shook his head no at them. They nodded at him in understanding before quietly exiting the room. In this moment, Sylus felt that whatever the twins had to say could wait. Right now, nothing else mattered to him except you.

He turned his full attention back to you when he felt your hands on his arms. You were pulling them away from your shoulders. You let one of his hands drop to his side and held the other in both of your hands. He raised his free hand towards your face. He gently used his thumb and index finger to raise your chin. Making you look into his eyes. Tears were still steadily streaming down your cheeks.

“I’m not too busy right now. Tell me what’s bothering you. We can figure it out together.” He spoke softly to you. He moved his hand away from your chin to cup your left cheek, wiping the tears away with his thumb. You kept eye contact with him as you leaned into his touch. “Nothing is wrong, yet nothing is right either.” You whispered to him. Nuzzling further into his palm. “I’m right here.” Sylus said in a reassuring tone. He leaned forward to press his forehead against yours. “I’m not going anywhere.” He whispered.

“You really do try to make my every wish come true.” You told him in a teasing tone. He began to stand his full height, freeing his hand from your grasp, pulling you back into a warm embrace as he did so. “Of course. Only for you, kitten.” He told you. You began to feel a little bit better. The tears had finally stopped.

You sighed in content as you nuzzled against him. “I wish we could stay like this forever.” His chest filled with warmth when his mind finally registered your words. He squeezed you just a little tighter, causing you to laugh. “How about you come with me to the kitchen. I’ll cook your favorite meal.” He suggested to you. You pulled away from him, looking into his eyes with a wide grin. You wiped away the last of your tears before speaking. “I’d love that.” You told him. He let you step out of his embrace. He didn’t protest when you locked your fingers with his, gently pulling him in the direction of his kitchen.

If you dare ask him how he was currently feeling, he wouldn’t be able to describe all the emotions swirling within him. One thing he was absolutely sure of, is he wanted to be the only person you’d seek out for comfort. He chose not to press you further about what was bothering you. He wanted you to speak openly and willingly to him about it, and not feel pressured to do so. Even if that meant he would have to wait a good long while.

Luke and Kieran were in the kitchen when the two of you entered the room. “Hi, boss-man and boss hunter.” Luke spoke around the food in his mouth. Kieran playfully smacked Luke’s stomach. “What?!” Luke exclaimed as he shrugged his shoulders at Kieran. Their silly banter made you laugh a little bit. Sylus was completely unfazed by their shenanigans. “We’ll leave now, boss-man, boss hunter.” Kieran said as he pushed Luke forward, causing Luke to stumble slightly as they began to walk away. “Watch it!” You heard Luke yell in a playful tone. “You were too slow.” You heard Kieran’s response before the two of them were out of earshot.

Sylus continued to hold your hand as he guided you to a stool at the kitchen island. Before releasing your hand, he slowly turned it over and placed a kiss on your knuckles. Smirking as he released your hand. Walking away to prepare the meal. You sighed in happy contentment as you watched him move around the kitchen.

Without knowing, you softly said my dragon. You startled when the cup Sylus had been holding fell to the floor and shattered quite loudly. Pieces scattering across the floor. The noise had caused Luke and Kieran to rush into the room, knives at the ready. They both froze when their eyes landed on Sylus. They couldn't quite make sense of his expression at the moment. “Maybe, we should leave.” Kieran whispered to Luke. “Good idea.” Luke whispered back as they started booking it out of the room.

If the food hadn’t been sizzling in the background, the kitchen would be completely silent. You gave Sylus a puzzled look. He had been staring at you intently without saying a word. He hadn’t even moved a single muscle since dropping the cup. His expression is currently unreadable to you. You began to fidget with your fingers. You didn’t understand why Sylus was staring at you without speaking.

After several minutes had passed by, Sylus sighed heavily before leaning down to clean up the broken pieces. You weren’t aware that the reason he had been staring so intently was to study your face. To see if you had finally remembered the past the two of you had shared. To see if you were aware of the weight that those words you had just spoken in such an endearing tone had. He was searching for recognition but all he saw was anxiousness and confusion. That is what broke him out of the trance he had been in. His heart breaking a little more. For just a moment he felt hopeful that you may have remembered.

“Sylus?” You called out to him. Your tone laced with concern. “Everything is fine, sweetie.” Sylus replied calmly as he began to pick up each broken piece. He stood up without a glance toward you as he walked over to the trash bin. Slowly discarding the pieces into the bin, with his back facing you. “Sylus, what happened to you just now?” You asked him. He was glad that he wasn’t facing you. He’d have a hard time explaining the pain that flashed in his eyes. They have no idea what they had just said. Must have been my imagination then. He thought to himself. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, kitten.” He replied in a calm tone as he turned around. With his expressions being unreadable again, your concern for him grew.

“I’ll grab a different cup for you.” You said with a smile. “No need. Stay seated. Relax.” Sylus said as he walked back to finish cooking dinner. He attempted to flash his signature smirk at you. He realized the attempt failed when he saw the look of concern gracing your features. He turned his attention back to the food. The kitchen almost entirely silent, until you began to hum.

He began to smile to himself when he heard you humming the tune of your favorite song. It's a song he began to memorize all because it is your favorite. He truly did cherish every moment he shared with you. Every loving embrace. The way you had begun to accept him as he is. The way your eyes would shine so brightly with love when you’d look at him. Still, a part of him continued to long for you to remember. To remember that you had been the one to teach him how to be human and how to love. To remember that you gave him the name he is now addressed by. My dragon, he softly whispered to himself. Sadness heavily laced in his tone. Due to your humming, you were oblivious to his whisper. Not that it mattered anyway.

His body suddenly stiffened for a moment before he realized the touch he felt now was you hugging him from behind. “Allow me to warn you, sweetie. Suddenly, hugging me from behind can be dangerous.” He said in a mocking tone. A soft chuckled escaped his lips as he felt you nuzzling your face against his back instead of replying to him. “Yes, kitten?” He questioned you as he turned himself around in your embrace. Smiling softly as his eyes met yours. “I wanted to be close to you, is all.” You smiled up at him. He leaned forward a little to gently place a kiss on your forehead. “I understand. But, if you don’t release me, dinner is going to burn.” He said in a playful tone as he stood to his full height. You made a playful pout before releasing him and returning to your seat.

He chuckled softly at your antics before turning back to attend to the food. Once it was finally ready, he plated it and brought it to the kitchen island. He set one plate in front of you and the other in front of the spot next to you. Before sitting down beside you, he walked to the counter to grab yours and his drink. He gently set your cup down next to your plate and then sat down. You smiled at him before you began eating.

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

Instead of returning to your home in Linkon City, you had decided to stay the night with Sylus. When the two of you had finally grown tired, you both changed into comfortable clothes. You opted to wear one of his shirts to sleep in. He smiled at you before laying down. You let him get comfortable before you lay beside him. He chuckled softly as you snuggled up close to him. Throwing one arm over his chest and one leg over his waist. "Goodnight." You whispered to him as he carefully leaned over to turn the bedside lamp off. "Goodnight." He whispered back. Smiling to himself as he drifted off to sleep.

His breath caught in his throat. Hands trembling around the hilt of the sword. Heart beating like a drum against his rib cage. It was the very sword that was meant for him. “NO! It wasn’t supposed to be like this!” Sylus yelled, voice filled with panic and pain. Tears began to blur his vision. “It’s okay.” You smiled weakly at him. Your hands instinctively holding the blade that was currently in your chest. Blood seeping around the sword. He didn’t understand why this happened. It was supposed to be him at the blade and you at the hilt. He had sworn to himself that he would never hurt you.“No it isn’t okay!” He yelled, finally releasing the sword hilt and rushing to your side. When he was close enough you had collapsed on your knees and then leaned into his embrace. “You were supposed to be the one to kill me. Not the other way around. It was never to be like this.” Sylus had a hard time speaking around the lump that began to form in his throat. His tears steadily streamed down his cheeks as he looked into your eyes. One of his arms gently cradling you against his body, the best he could with the sword in you. His other hand held your cheek. He watched in pain as you weakly raised your hand to cover his. “My dragon.” You whispered. A single tear ran down your cheek as he watched the life in your eyes fade. Your hand slowly dropping to your side. He screamed in agony as he held you closer. Rocking back and forth. “NO!” Sylus’s voice filled with agony as he screamed.

Sylus bolted up hyperventilating, accidentally pushing you away in the process. One hand ran through his hair, while the other fisted the collar of his shirt. In a panic he looked around the room. Trying his best to ground himself. “Sylus?” He startled at the sound of your groggy voice. He laid down again, turning on his side and pulling you closer to him. You could hear his rapid heartbeat. He rolled over on the bed, keeping you in his embrace. You were now laying on top of him. His actions waking you up fully. “Sylus, what’s wrong?” You whispered to him. Settling against him. You wrapped your arms around him as best you could. One ear pressing on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “Nightmare.” That was the only word he responded with. You could hear the pain and fear in his voice. “I’m here.” You said, holding him tighter.

Sylus held you a little tighter as he stared up at his bedroom ceiling. It was only a dream. It wasn’t real. Sylus thought to himself. Even though it was all a dream, he still had trouble calming himself. The emotions that stirred were so raw and so very real. He couldn’t figure out why or when this dream had started. A part of him was terrified that this nightmare would eventually become his reality. The dragon’s curse is that he would be forced to kill his beloved. Back then he made sure he was the one to die by your hands. Not you dying by his hands. In the nightmare he had heard you say my dragon as he held you against him. That was a nickname you had given him. You had always said it in such a loving and endearing tone. Which is why when you had said those two words earlier it had affected him so much.

He took a deep breath, his heart beat finally slowing down. He shifted his focus from staring at the ceiling to staring at you. He could tell that you hadn’t fallen asleep again. “It’s okay. I’m still here.” He heard you whisper. You shifted to be able to look him in the eyes. Immediately you sat up. Straddling him as you held his face in your hands. “Oh, Sylus. It’s okay. I’m right here.” You spoke softly to him. Your thumbs gently wiping away the tears that steadily streamed down his cheeks. He gently held onto your wrists as he closed his eyes, nodding his head at you. Your heart clenched at his actions.

You gently leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “It felt so real.” He whispered as you rested your forehead against his. You nodded your head in understanding. You may not know what he had dreamed of, but you understood his feelings. “It was a nightmare.” You whispered to him. You released his face as you began to sit up. You placed your hands on his chest, so that he could continue to hold your wrists. You silently observed his features as he kept his eyes closed. You watched the way he was trying to stop the tears and calm his breathing.

After several moments he opened his eyes, released your wrists, and shifted himself into a sitting position. His movements had caused you to slide onto his lap when he got comfortable. His back leaning against the bed’s headboard. He met your gaze. “I love you.” Sylus spoke softly. Your chest filled with warmth. This was the first time he had openly said that to you. “I love you too, Sylus.” You told him. You leaned forward to hug him. His arms tightened around you as he began to nuzzle his face into your neck. You could feel fresh tears dampen your skin. “I’m here for you.” You whispered to him. “No matter what. I’m right here.” You assured him. You felt him tighten his grip as you spoke.

He held you in his embrace for what felt like an eternity. You didn’t mind it one bit. You knew he needed you, just as much as you needed him. Come hell or high water, you promised you would always be there for him. “It’s late.” Sylus suddenly said, straightening up. “Do you want to try to sleep again?” You asked as you leaned back. Instead of speaking, Sylus gently maneuvered you to where you laid on your back. Before laying on his side beside you, he placed a kiss on your cheek.

You smiled at him before nudging him onto his back. A light chuckle escaped his lips as you began to cuddle up against him. You tucked one arm between yours and his body, throwing one leg over his waist, and your other arm over his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?” You asked him in a gentle tone. “Not right now.” He whispered. He felt you nod your head. He was glad you were willing to leave it be, for now. An hour later the two of you had slipped into a dreamless slumber.

Main Masterlist~Love and Deepspace Masterlist

[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.

[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. 

[pompillar]

"I've had it up to here with you!"

MC/Luna fic featuring her inevitable breakdown and how the ghouls all come together to handle it

-----

Jin, Tohma, Luca, Kaito, Alan, Sho, Leo, Haru, Towa, Ren, Taiga, Romeo, Ritsu, Subaru, Haku, Ed, Rui, Lyca, Yuri, and Jiro have been added to the group chat

Luna: I'm going to keep this as short as possible. I need a break, and I'm not joking. I'm exhausted and I can't keep doing all of this every single day. Don't try to contact me. I'm not going to be running errands, I'm not going to answer my phone, I won't be reading any texts, I won't be at any of my classes. I will not be receiving guests, even for medical exams. If any of you try to get into my dorm I will call your respective advisor and tell them you're breaking and entering. And that includes those of you who can get in without having to break something, you know who you are. This isn't something that just one or two of you have brought on. It's all of you collectively. Leave me alone for a while and you'll eventually see me again. Bye.

Luna has left the group chat

Kaito: Huh????!!!! Luna!!! What happened??!! 😱😱😱

Jin: Don't just throw us all into one chat like this. What do you fucking mean a break?

Leo: lol wow what crawled up her ass and died?

Leo: u know she already left the chat right??? dumbass lol

Jin has left the group chat

Leo: boring... bet it was one of those nepo babies that pissed her off

Tohma: Perhaps you should reread her message. It's very clearly worded.

Leo: piss off

Luca: What's happening? Why is Luna going on a break? I can't get Kaito to stop crying, can someone explain?

Leo: lol

Tohma: Were we to point fingers, which we are not, I would think a ghoul with a bad attitude would be behind it. Someone who is quite difficult towards her...

Leo: fuck u i didn't do anything to her

Tohma: I never said it was you. That was just an example.

Yuri has left the group chat

Jiro: Please refrain from putting Yuri into group chats as he is very busy with experiments and they are a distraction.

Leo: i know what u meant u three eyed snake

Jiro: Three eyed snake?

Leo: omg not u!!!

Jiro: Does anyone have any ideas on how to contact Luna? Her exams are required.

Taiga: who the fuck are half these guys?

Romeo: WTF is going on here?! Who let the BB decide she could tell us when she wanted to take a break?!

Ritsu: Well she is allowed to request time off as per the school handbook in section V article 8.

Romeo: I didn't ask you!!!

Taiga: ugghh this is annoying lulu u handle it

Taiga has left the group chat

Romeo: BTH get back here!!!

Haku: Well this is a problem...

Rui: Whaaaat? This is crazy! There's no way ALL of us are to blame right? Right?

Haku: Looks like it

Tohma: This is going to be a bother. We can't have our inspector off on a break for who knows how long.

Ren: Shut up!!! I can't watch my movie if you guys keep yelling in here!

Ritsu: Ah, perfect timing, Mr Shiranami we have a situation.

Ren: What? Hang on...

Haku: So how are we planning to make it up to her?

Rui: Plenty of ways I can think of 😘

Ren: Oh hell no! If she takes off then I'll get stuck picking up her slack!

Ritsu: I believe we should be more focused on what has wronged her, and what was the straw that broke the camel's back so to speak.

Haku: Rui... crickets man, just crickets

Rui: Ughhhh, don't be like that Hakucchi! 🥺

Haru: Hey Ren! Please stop ignoring me and come help me hold Towa back!

Ren: Uggggggh... this blows

Sho: Alright i'm done sitting this out. What the hell are u guys even doing? If u really wanna fix this then quit squawking and start thinking.

Haku: Yes, that's what I've been saying!

Tohma: If we're to get through to her perhaps a letter? She didn't say she wouldn't check her mail.

Ritsu: That could work. There's no way she would expect a messenger cat to be giving her a letter from one of us.

Rui: Genius! So here's what I'm thinking we do, let's call it operation Luna rescue! 🌙

Leo: gross... what's the plan?

---

Hearing the familiar tapping of paws on the window she huffed and rolled over, facing away from it. This was the, what, seventh messenger cat in the past two hours? All the letters from the ghouls were in a pile, each one more pathetic than the last.

One from Jin telling her off for daring to make him write a letter in this day and age and demands, demands, demands. Nope. Goodbye.

One from Sho saying he'd take her out of Darkwick on Bonnie and wine and dine her so they could have a good time and relax together. Tempting but nope. Not trying to piss off the chancellor today.

One from Haru begging her to come to Jabberwock and talk Towa down. That's not happening. You're the animal guy, you handle it Haru.

One from Ritsu asking to negotiate her terms. Not a chance sir, under no penal code are her terms getting changed.

One from Subaru apologizing and inviting her to tea and Zenji adding on how sorry he was at the end for whatever he's done to upset her. Guys... stop it. Guilt tripping much?

One from Rui promising her the most relaxing date he can give her. How is this different from their usual interactions?

Finally getting up she took the seventh letter and read it, tossing it onto the pile with a groan. It was Yuri scolding her for neglecting her health and turning away the best doctor in Darkwick. Give it a rest Dr Tsundere.

Sighing she dropped back onto her bed and curled into the blankets again. Time for another nap.

A couple of hours had passed when she was awoken again by the pattering of paws. She groaned loudly and stood up, eyes wide at the amount of letters piled at her window. Taking them in and the one being brought by the current cat she sat down and started reading through them.

Pleading from Kaito with promises of baking her delicious treats. Something close to a sacred oath from Luca with a packet of biscuits inside. One from Tohma with a bargain and bribery to sweeten the deal. And an actual apology letter from Jin... she was tucking that one away for later.

A messily scrawled confused apology from Alan, it was clumsy but heartfelt. Another one from Sho, this one with a menu and check boxes. One from Leo that had a similar design but was made up of scents and bath products. She put those two aside and stared at the next set.

Haru's had some... interesting offers, including a private one on one tour of the most beautiful places in Jabberwock. The next one was concerning to say the least. Towa's letter was just a drawing of Darkwick with thunder clouds above it and lightening coming down. Ren actually wrote one? And of course... it just says if you're on your period then just say so, we're grown, we can handle it. She's going to punch him...

She steeled herself for the next ones, Taiga... oh. Taiga's was actually... nice? He wasn't even calling her kitty cat. Just a sincere sorry and next time tell me to fuck off if I piss you off. Saving it in the same pile as Jin's. Romeo... yeah there's Romeo's. Smells like high end perfume and sealed in gold wax. Why all the pomp... ah. Because he's being genuine. And apologizing, with threats to never tell a soul or show anyone this letter, but... that's another going in the pile. Ritsu... nevermind, it's another revised contract. But the terms are more favorable...

Looking at the next set she gave a soft smile to Subaru's. An offer to bring her tea and snacks if she wouldn't come to them. Haku... offering a personal massage? Sir? Excuse me? Is this one of your dirty jokes? Inside the same envelope was a parchment with elaborate poetry scrawled across it in gorgeous brush strokes. Zenji and his theatrics.

Obscuary next... Edward Hart... this was some type of sexual harassment somewhere she was sure. Unsolicited promises of the sinful things he could do to take the stress away... dirty old man. No she didn't put that in a separate pile... you're seeing things. Rui's was dressed up with stickers, and a set of pressed flowers fell out as it opened. He was writing with more vulnerability than she'd ever seen from him. Saving this one... Now for Lyca. His writing isn't the best and he still has to work on his spelling, but it's simple and to the point. Sorry and let me make it up to you.

The last two... three? Another Vagastrom one? Huh... There was Yuri's... Dr Tsundere strikes again. You can practically see how red he must have been writing this. Now Jiro's... so few words but so much meaning behind them. I want to take care of you, don't shut me out. These were all mostly a breath of fresh air. Now for that last one.

'Dear Luna, on behalf of all the ghouls we apologize. We know you're tired, we've been dragging you all over and making you do menial tasks. To be honest it's only partially because it helps us, the other part is because we like having you around. You've been through so much, and some of it has been our faults. We know we aren't the easiest people to get along with. And for that we thank you, because you try no matter how hard we fight against you. We want to make it up to you if you'll let us. There's a few lists we've sent you. Fill them out, put them in this envelope and send it back with a messenger cat. Just send it to Rui and he'll let us know. Give us a few hours, can we come by at 6? Please?'

It was all written in different handwriting, the send off a jumble of different words.

'Sincerely' 'Thank you' 'Your's truly' 'With bated breath' 'Love' 'Love' 'Love <3' Several repeating, all in a pile above the sender, 'Your Ghouls'

Her heart fluttered, okay all of these letters were being saved. Looking through them she found a couple of other lists she'd missed the first time. It took her a while to fill them all out and fold them, tucking them into the envelope. Finding a sticker in her stationary set she sealed it and went to the window. Sure enough a messenger cat was waiting for her. Holding it out she smiled, "Can you take this to Rui Mizuki?"

The cat nodded and let out a determined nya! before taking the letter in its mouth and running off.

Leaning out the window she caught sight of a few bright heads of hair scrambling to hide. There was cropped blond, fluffy white, two short greys and a long purple ponytail, all shuffling into the trees to avoid being spotted.

She smiled and sighed, shutting the window. It was only 2pm, what to do with the remaining 4 hours until her ghouls came to woo her? Probably a little cleaning and a shower... yeah definitely a shower. She could hardly wait to find out what was in store for her.

-----

Let me know if we're feeling a part 2. It'll be a while bc possible smut and all ghouls involved buuuuuuuut I love poly mc ghouls. Yes they are her ghouls thank you very much.

[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

[bloodfin]

I hope youre okay with a long comment rb, because I cant fit this in the tags. Etiquette in this fandom is different than what I'm used to, so I hope this isn't a bother.

The short: everything about this is perfection. Incredible. Everyone should read this, truly. The end is... beyond words.

I said the same on Archive but everyone here needs to know how good this is so if you need convincing (you shouldn't, just read it):

"but experiencing it in the present reveals just how much he had been denying it, shoving it away into the corner of his mind and making it as abstract as possible." AUGH MY HEART 😭 can only deny it for so long before it becomes real

"It feels like he’s looking up at the surface of a lake from below, sinking under. He can’t hold his breath for much longer." this is such a beautiful line and if you listen carefully, you can hear my heart shatter

"And when Rain makes his way to his next unofficial mark, returning to the comfortably rehearsed flow of the song, it feels like being stranded on an inhospitable island, having sent his savior away. He’s alone here with his pain, which is becoming harder and harder to push through." okay now I'm really crying

"Rain always knows what he needs. Asking him something like this is not really a request for information, it can’t be. It’s him taking a small step back, giving Dew the space to express himself." rain really is the girlfriend of all time huh 😭

"Something like relief washes over Rain’s face. “Sure, of course.”" this line smacked me so hard... its tough, caring for someone in pain that is resistant to treatment but also absolutely needs to let themself be taken care of. a special type of stubbornness comes in these settings...

"“Well, I do want to.” He picks up his phone and scoots over next to Dew." let him love you dewdles 😭

"This must be what it’s like in a museum after closing time, a curio on a pedestal in the dark surrounded by white walls." what a mental image omg

"“I would have heard you.”" he would have 😭

"It’s hard enough just telling the story to himself, remembering it, the details." this is the kind of line that just... settles. so well, the detail and how relatable it is

phantom so cute aaahhhhhhh

"If Rain sleeps too, he’s not sure. What he does know is that he’s there when he falls asleep and still there when he wakes up." of course he is, of course. where else would he be?

THIS WAS AMAZING. incredible, perfect, beautiful in every way. I already want to read it again. His poor little paw.... but he's surrounded by so much love. Just gorgeous. thank you for sharing 🤍

Hyaline

After Dewdrop is injured during a concert, Rain is there to help him heal.

Ship: Raindrop Characters: Dewdrop, Rain Words: 11.3k

Hurt/Comfort, Broken Bones, Sickfic (arguably), Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Skeletour

Read below or on AO3

When it happens, he thinks nothing of it at all. He’s in a hurry between songs and the stiff sole of his uniform boot skids over the edge of the stair as he steps down onto it. His foot drops onto the step below, then the one after that, with his ankle pressed into an awkward position as it suddenly takes the full weight of his body. His reflexes, mechanical and automatic, have him catching himself before the signals from the event can even reach his brain. He finds himself at the bottom of the staircase with one hand on the railing keeping him upright.

What’s concerning, though, is when those same reflexes, ones that caught him just moments ago, subsequently prevent him from stepping with that same foot flat on the ground at the bottom of the stairs. A bright electric pain runs up his ankle that, briefly, takes his breath away. He shifts his weight back to his other foot to give himself a second to recover. He pulls the strap of his guitar over his head.

The stage left guitar tech, ready and waiting to help him swap instruments, reaches for the guitar. “You okay?” he asks.

Dew nods. He takes the new guitar and puts it on. He gently rolls his ankle, which aches with the movement. It’s throbbing now, pain only increasing with time.

He’s ready to just walk it off until he takes his first step back up the stairs to the stage. Putting weight on his foot rekindles the same electric pain, so intense that his knee buckles as a structural measure to alleviate it, absorbing his weight and redirecting it downwards until his shin hits the stairs. He reaches out with one hand and grips the railing; the other holds the neck of his guitar away from the surrounding structures.

If he doesn’t get upstairs right away, he’s going to miss the beginning of the next song. They’ll start without him. He scrambles, panicked, and tries again to take another step before he’s even upright. The metal edge of the stair bites into his shin. His throat feels tight, like a hand is grabbing the back of his collar and pulling, holding him in place, keeping him from moving forward.

“You sure you’re okay?”

He collects himself and pushes himself back up to his feet — or foot, balancing again on just one. He looks down at his boot, which looks okay, the same as it always does. Is he okay, though? He can’t get up the stairs, or really walk at all, so maybe not.

“I think maybe I twisted my ankle or something,” he admits. Saying it out loud makes his face burn with shame. He doesn’t have time for this — the whole production doesn’t have time for this. He shifts his weight again, the other way, easing pressure onto his injured leg. It protests with another lance of sharp pain. He grits his teeth and pushes through. It’s bearable, but not ideal. He tries his best to take one step forward and manages a short and inadequate little hobble.

Suddenly everything is too much, too tight, too restrictive. His boots are so heavy. It’s dark, and the ceilings, the underside of the stage, are low. The stairs are insurmountable. He pulls out his in-ear monitors. He wrestles his guitar strap off with an unsteady hand.

His guitar tech takes it from him and nods at the stairs. “You should sit down.”

He does, one hand on the railing again to lower himself carefully onto the steps. His head swims. He leans back, supporting himself with his elbows. Even without any weight on it, his ankle screams at him. He can’t tell if it’s actually still getting worse or if he’s just losing his grip on everything.

The guitar tech is talking into his radio. He’s inaudible from this distance but it’s obviously about him, about the current situation, sharing with the whole crew that he’s unable to do his job and is fucking up the show. He tips his head back, trying to get more air in his lungs. Above him, the next song starts.

Wardrobe is the first on the scene, asking which leg it is. He points to his left one. She kneels and begins to remove his boot.

Despite her clear attempt to be gentle, Dew whines like a kicked dog when she pulls the hard leather over his heel, pressing the stiff sole against his toes and forcing his ankle to bend. There aren’t any laces she can undo, or zippers to open, so she’s pulling the front and back of the upper apart as much as possible, stretching the small panel of elastic on either side. The convenience of just being able to step in and out of them, something he had appreciated, is now turning against him.

It goes beyond that — if he didn’t have to wear these stupid boots, none of this would have happened anyway. Of course, the knee-high boots from the previous uniforms would have zipped all the way down the side and allowed his injured ankle to come out without pain, but with their more flexible soles, thinner and more pliable leather, there’s no way he would have missed a step on the stairs while wearing them in the first place. They were custom made; he and the other ghouls took turns tracing each other’s feet on pieces of paper to send as a reference, and then when they arrived they fit perfectly. The current boots came in logo-plastered shoeboxes from some factory somewhere.

More people start showing up, buzzing around and making the bottom of the staircase a nexus of far more activity than is usual during the show. He avoids eye contact with familiar faces, too ashamed of the drama that he has inadvertently set in motion, that’s still unfolding in front of him. Someone puts his foot up on a folding metal chair.

A paramedic arrives on the scene, ushered in from beyond the curtain. He places a big equipment bag near the end of the railing and squats next to the chair. To some degree, Dew knew implicitly that this would happen, was the sequence of events that he was consenting to when he took his guitar off and sat down, but experiencing it in the present reveals just how much he had been denying it, shoving it away into the corner of his mind and making it as abstract as possible. But, no, there really is a guy in a fancy, official-looking paramedic uniform peeling off his sock right now and asking him what happened.

“Slid down a couple stairs. Twisted my ankle.”

“Right, did you land on this part?” The paramedic points to the outside surface of his foot, in front of the prominent bone of his ankle. A crew member shines a flashlight at it.

Dew nods. He averts his eyes, as if maybe one less viewer will make a difference in how he feels right now. It doesn’t put a dent in the amount of scrutiny.

“Have you been able to put any weight on it?”

“A little.”

“And how much are you able to move it? Can you point your toes?”

He can, slightly, if he pushes through the pain and forces himself to. It feels like his ankle is tearing itself apart at the seams but he keeps going. He should be able to do this — he doesn’t want to think about what it might mean if he can’t.

“Stop, that’s enough.”

The paramedic runs him through several more movements, all similarly painful and difficult, as the song on stage above them finishes. He presses inquisitively on a spot near his ankle that makes him physically recoil, pulling his foot off the chair and towards his body in a protective instinct. The sudden, jarring movement hurts too. He feels like a line of dominoes toppling over. He blinks away the stars in his vision.

He replaces his foot on the chair slowly. He drums his fingers on the edge of the stair he’s sitting on with no particular rhythm. “Can’t we do this after the show?” He doesn’t need to be able to do all these exercises in order to perform.

“You need an x-ray of this,”

“I need to get back on stage.”

The paramedic briefly glances up at the tour manager, who is standing over them with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. “Well… as long as you keep your weight off it as much as possible…”

The tour manager nods and reaches for his radio. “We can put a chair—”

“Absolutely not,” Dew snaps.

“Okay, well, let me get it wrapped up and you should be able to hold out for the rest of the show.” He digs in his big bag of supplies.

Dew lets his head fall back. The stage lights beam down on him as the next song starts. It feels like he’s looking up at the surface of a lake from below, sinking under. He can’t hold his breath for much longer.

The paramedic offers him some pills — “ibuprofen,” he says. Someone else passes him a bottle of water. His hands shake as he brings it to his lips.

He begins to feel more composed as the paramedic wraps his ankle in an elastic bandage, each loop of the stretchy fabric holding him a little more together. The compression is soothing, in a way. It’s a bit uncomfortable in how it presses down against sensitive places but overall it feels like it’s pressing back against the throbbing pain emanating from inside.

When his shoe goes back on, he’s ready for the brief pain of his ankle flexing to accommodate the opening. He squeezes his fists tight and rides the wave of dizziness it brings. Actually, though, once it’s on, the thick sole and inflexible leather that he was cursing earlier make his ankle feel much more stable. Maybe it’s all not as bad as he thought.

Hands help him to his feet, move the chair out of the way, bring his guitar. He puts some weight onto his foot. It hurts, but he can deal with it. He can make it up the stairs, onto the stage. He leans hard on the railing and watches his feet carefully with each step. Someone is following behind him, probably to catch him if he falls again, but he doesn’t. When he gets to the top, he straightens out his guitar over his body and takes a deep breath.

He looks up to see Rain staring at him from halfway across the stage. He can feel the concern radiating off of him, but his thoughts are opaque. What does he know about what happened? And what can he communicate back to him, anyway? Dew just nods at him, an acknowledgment of nothing in particular, or maybe that he’s okay.

Without the support of the railing, walking across the stage is arduous. He takes a few steps forward, just enough that he’s not standing conspicuously in front of the stairs. The weight of thousands of eyes presses into him, a familiar energizing presence now shifting to the forefront of his mind, its usual vivacity twisting into something more hostile, critical.

Despite being back on stage, playing his part like nothing happened, the shame doesn’t fade. If anything, it gets worse, becomes more pointed, digs itself under his skin with sharp claws. What was once a blanket of panic and a singular goal is now crystallized regret, specific flashes of memory, little questions and details, spreading out kaleidoscopic.

But, no, the goal is still singular — to finish the show. And he will. All this angst for a misstep, for what, a twisted ankle? He’s going to put some ice on it and will be fine by tomorrow, he has to be. He focuses on playing, being there, his duty as a live musician.

He’s so focused that Rain ends up sneaking up on him, appearing by his side unexpectedly. He bumps their shoulders together, gently, a barely-there brush of spandex covered skin. Dew bristles at the attention. It would be so normal in any other context, any other show, antics and interactions like this. Now it feels too noticeable, like he’s pointing out that something is wrong. There’s worry in his eyes; Dew doesn’t want to see it.

And when Rain makes his way to his next unofficial mark, returning to the comfortably rehearsed flow of the song, it feels like being stranded on an inhospitable island, having sent his savior away. He’s alone here with his pain, which is becoming harder and harder to push through.

As much as he tries to pour himself into the performance, he can’t shake his mental countdown of how many songs are left. It’s a north star he doesn’t want to be following but it glistens too bright to look past, outshines every other light in his sky, blinds him. Really, it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Everything continues as orchestrated. Phantom comes over to play next to him and then goes back to his own side of the stage. Rain comes and goes. Two songs left. One song.

When the house lights come up after the last note, all the energy he’s been holding onto begins to leave him, faster than he anticipated or planned for. He can’t be on stage for a single moment longer. He turns and limps to the stairs, lifts his guitar strap over his head, vision gray around the edges. His ankle feels like a live wire.

He practically has to be carried off the stage. He passes his guitar to the tech at the top of the stairs, then makes his way back into the underworld with one arm slung over a supporting shoulder, in clear view of the audience — it doesn’t matter.

He’s led to a chair which he carefully lowers himself onto, weight askew on one leg. Feet cross the stage above him. With only plain white lights on, kept at a steady intensity without any strobing or motion, it’s both brighter under the stage and easier to see the motion of those above it, casting shadows through the metal grate.

A wardrobe assistant is back to take his shoe off again, before he can even catch his breath. He doesn’t have it in him to protest, nor to stifle the pathetic groan he makes when his ankle bends, just like the last time. He’s back to hating these boots again now — why was he ready to forgive them earlier? The assistant sets it aside carefully. The boots are her responsibility, after all, not him. She’s extricating her charge from the scene.

Someone puts his foot up on a second chair. He feels awkward and in the way, vulnerable, bridging a leg-length gap like this in an already tight space.

The paramedic begins unraveling the bandage from his leg. Even the air touching his freshly exposed skin hurts. There’s a huge purple bruise below his ankle now, starting near the bone and spreading down toward the sole of his foot and forward toward his toes. It’s swollen, too, all of the usual edges softened like a crude replica of what it’s supposed to look like.

When he starts poking and prodding at it again, presumably for some medically relevant reason, and not just to torment him, Dew looks away, up at the stage above him. Eight pairs of feet stand in a line. This isn’t part of the performance, so it’s okay that he’s not there with them. The sudden tightness in his throat at the image, an off-center row of bodies, insists otherwise.

And then the show is over. Papa and the ghouls make their way down the stairs and spill out into the underworld. Instead of dispersing to their own individual after-show tasks and personal whims, they gather around Dew’s chair, first Rain, then Phantom, then Mountain, then Aurora, until they’ve all followed each other’s lead and joined in on the fuss. Their chatter and worry settles over him like a dark cloud.

“What happened?”

“Dude, have you been walking on that?”

“Oh no, Dew, that looks really bad.”

All eyes are on him and the macabre spectacle of his bloated, discolored foot. It’s embarrassing, and it’s enough to make him question, briefly, if he really will be on stage tomorrow like he should be, has to be, will be, will be. He will be. Now is not the time to think otherwise.

Meanwhile, the paramedic starts wrapping his ankle back up again, lifting it and pressing on it in ways that make the muscles in his thigh jump involuntarily, sending startling little jolts of pain streaking up along his nerves. It’s all too much. Dew leans his head back and covers his eyes with one arm.

“Let’s leave him alone, guys.”

It’s a relief, but a little part of him wants to reach out and grab them and hold them here, to not be alone. Still, he would much rather be alone than fussed over like this. It’s a trade-off he’s entirely willing to make.

One by one, they filter out through the curtain, off to the dressing room or the green room or the bus or wherever else. Soon the only people left in the vicinity are the crew working on their load-out tasks, the paramedic — and Rain.

Rain is standing right next to him like it’s his own leg propped up on the chair, like he’s just as much a vital and irremovable part of this scenario as Dew is, frowning thoughtfully at his ankle as it disappears under the bandage. When he notices Dew looking at him, he offers him a small, gentle smile.

“How are you doing?” He places one hand on Dew’s shoulder and rubs back and forth.

He’s doing fucking awful, obviously, and he doesn’t want to be pitied. But the hand on his shoulder isn’t pity, it isn’t platitude. It feels like the most normal thing that has happened all night, or at least in the past hour.

“I mean—” Rain waves his hand as if to indicate the general situation. “Considering.”

Dew forces out a heavy breath that doesn’t take with it any of his tension, only serving to keep his frustration from rising further. “This sucks,” is all he can say, and even that catches in his throat.

Rain kneads his shoulders with both hands, pressing his thumbs into the base of his neck in small circles. The heat from his palms sinks through the fabric of his tailcoat.

Meanwhile, the paramedic puts an ice pack over his wrapped ankle. He can’t feel the cold through the bandage. It’s probably more a formality than anything else, one step in flowchart in an emergency medicine handbook somewhere that describes the official procedure for what to do if someone falls down the fucking stairs. What’s next? He doesn’t want to ask.

“Listen,” the paramedic starts, like he’s about to speak candidly, maybe say something that Dew doesn’t want to hear. “You really should get an x-ray of this soon, either tonight or tomorrow. We can take you to the emergency department if you need but you’ll likely be waiting for a while, and there’s not much they can do for you anyway, besides pain management and setting you up with a referral. I talked to your manager… you may want to just make an appointment with an orthopedist in the morning.”

Dew nods. “What time does the bus leave?” It’s the first thing that comes to his mind, despite everything.

“Four, I think?” Rain glances up at a nearby equipment case that has some papers taped to it, any of which may or may not be a schedule.

“Definitely no guarantee that you would be seen by then.” The paramedic zips up his bag. “As long as your pain is under control I would say it’s not necessary to go tonight.”

The expression “under control” leaves a fair amount of room for interpretation. He would describe the pain as… significant. Really, his leg could fall off completely and if he was given the choice he would still rather take the bus than whatever the alternative is. Thinking about it fills him with dread. He’s not sure what’s worse — that he would be abandoning the rest of the band or that they would be abandoning him, leaving him here in an unfamiliar city.

“I’ll be fine,” he says.

The paramedic nods and hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Take ibuprofen every 6 hours, add paracetamol too if you need. Keep it elevated, ice it for 20 minutes at a time. And keep your weight off it as much as you can.“

Once he exits the underworld, through the curtain with his big bag and fancy uniform and medical advice, Dew deflates. He sinks down in the chair and lets his head fall backwards until the crown of his hat comes to rest against a metal truss supporting the stage. He wants to tear it off his head and throw it on the ground, but unlike the boots it’s done nothing wrong. It would be collateral damage, and he would earn the ire of the wardrobe team. He probably shouldn’t even be letting it be pushed up against a solid object like this; it might get dented. He tips his head forward instead.

For a minute, he closes his eyes and just breathes, feeling his upper body rise and fall. His ankle throbs. His whole body is sore from standing unevenly, holding his weight off center and limping, even for such a short amount of time. The muscles around his hips, up his back, down the sides of his thighs, feel overworked.

Rain rubs circles between his shoulders, only stopping briefly a few times to move out of the way of crew members darting about. Dew sits up upon hearing him apologize out loud to someone stepping around them.

As soon as they’re alone again, as much as they can be, Rain asks, “Should we move somewhere quieter?”

The idea of moving sounds miserable, but the underworld has indeed become more and more saturated with activity as the entire crew mobilizes to systematically deconstruct every part of the production and pack it onto trucks. Some time soon, there won’t be an underworld anymore, because there won’t be a stage. And they need to get their uniforms off, anyway.

When he tries to stand up, shifting all his weight onto one bent leg, Ran grabs his arm and holds it firmly, all but hauling him to his feet. He waits a moment for him to find his balance before he places that arm across his shoulders, behind his neck. He wraps his arm around Dew’s waist and pulls their bodies together.

The first few steps are awkward, and they have to pause for a moment to figure out how to navigate the curtain, but they soon find a rhythm. It’s not comfortable, and he has to think about every step, but it feels safe and secure to have a hand on his hip, a solid torso pressed tight against his own.

Rain only lets go when they’re at the threshold of Dew’s dressing room, carefully unraveling their arrangement of limbs once Dew is firmly situated with one hand braced against the wall.

“Do you need help with your— anything?”

Dew shakes his head. “I think I’m good for now.”

“Okay, well, text me if you need me?”

“I will. If I do.”

Rain pulls the door almost all the way closed. He peeks through the opening one last time before closing it completely.

Now alone, Dew lowers himself onto a nearby couch with a huff. It’s not like he’s going to fall to pieces if left unsupervised. He takes off his hat and places it next to him, then unfastens his collar and takes that off too. He rolls the zipper pull of his bodysuit between his fingers. He doesn’t need help with this, he’s not that incapacitated. He tugs the zipper open.

Getting out of his uniform is an awkward, partially seated, one-legged ordeal, and showering has the opposite of its usual relaxing and refreshing effect. When Rain returns, knocking gently on the door, he’s flopped on the couch again, bandage dampened around the edges, one pant leg askew to accommodate it.

Rain’s face falls upon opening the door and seeing him there.

“I’m fine,” Dew answers, before Rain can ask anything.

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, do you maybe want to head out to the bus?”

The enclosed space of the bus does sound appealing, as does its familiarity, even if it’s barely more familiar than this dressing room, only by a few days. He doesn’t want to move, though, and he doesn’t want to see anyone else, to be subject to their questioning and scorn.

“Everyone else is going out tonight, I think,” Rain adds.

“Yeah, okay.” Dew pushes himself upright on the couch with a hand against the armrest and starts trying to extricate himself from the depths of the seat cushions that he’s been pulled into.

Rain takes both of his hands and helps him stand. When Dew reaches for his bag, Rain shakes his head. “I’ll come back and get it.”

Pressed together again, arms wrapped around each other, they make a slow step-by-step procession to the bus. Once they make it through the door, Dew is ready to collapse onto the nearest chair, but Rain keeps going straight up the narrow, curving staircase and into the upstairs lounge, where he lowers him down onto an L-shaped couch.

“Put your feet up,” he says, helping him turn and sit lengthwise, nestling him into a leather-lined corner. He arranges throw pillows around him, behind his back, under his foot, like he’s a piece of fragile glassware being prepared for transport, loaded up in a cardboard box padded by butcher paper and bubble wrap.

“Is that good? Comfortable?”

“I’m fine,” Dew says, a refrain that might be more for his own reassurance than anything else.

“I’m going to grab some stuff. Is that okay?”

Dew nods, but his head barely moves. His body feels limp.

“Okay?”

“Yes!” Dew snaps, and immediately regrets it. “Sorry. Yeah, that’s fine.” He swallows the lump forming in his throat “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back.”

As promised, Rain comes and goes, taking care of little tasks and bringing with him various provisions and amenities. He brings another pillow for Dew to rest his foot on, and a new ice pack from the freezer. He puts away their bags. He brings them food, which Dew picks at. He puts on a movie, which neither of them really pay any attention to.

Dew’s foot, on its improvised pillow pedestal, radiates an irritating but overall bearable ache. The cold of the ice pack eventually does sink all the way into the bandage and provides some comfort as well. If he holds completely still, it’s not so bad.

“Did you want me to get you something else?” Rain’s eyes are fixed on Dew’s barely-touched plate, brow creased with worry.

“No, I just—” Even thinking about food makes his stomach turn. He really should eat something, if he’s so worried about being ready to perform tomorrow, but that worry sabotages itself too ironically. He has to look away to quell the wave of nausea that rises.

Rain takes both of their plates away.

When he comes back, he sits down carefully next to Dew on the couch and gets as close as he can without jostling him. Their shoulders press together gently.

“What do you need right now?”

Dew looks over at him. Rain always knows what he needs. Asking him something like this is not really a request for information, it can’t be. It’s him taking a small step back, giving Dew the space to express himself.

“Please, just—” Dew’s face heats up. “Distract me.”

“Okay.” Rain takes out his phone. He pulls up an app with black and white squares. “Help me with this.”

Dew rolls his eyes. “Come on, you know I’m not good at these.”

“Just try.” He tilts the screen towards him.

It takes them over an hour to get through the puzzle, and the distribution of work is not equal by a long shot — Rain vetoes most of Dew’s answers as “not crosswordy,” and pulls random trivia out of thin air, justifying it by saying “some things show up often enough that you remember them.” Still, it occupies his mind, more so than when they’ve done this together in the past, which usually ended up being a spectator sport. This time, Rain pulls him in, over and over, prompting him to give answers, even if they’re mostly rejected.

They move on to some other word game, then briefly to a video game on the big TV, which proves to be too much excitement for Dew’s body that would very much prefer to remain as motionless as possible. Rain pulls up another crossword, and Dew mostly just watches this time, letting the letters wash over him. Now that it’s been pointed out to him, he does see the repeated words, EEL and OSLO and TSAR, their component parts all spinning together into a probabilistic blur.

He’s so tired, maybe more than he can ever remember being after a performance, despite standing in one spot for a large part of it. He rests his head on Rain’s shoulder.

Sounds of activity fill other parts of the bus as the rest of the band gets back from their outing. It’s not clear how Rain did it, who he told and what, but nobody comes in and bothers them, which is particularly impressive considering how coveted the space they’ve currently sequestered tends to be. It’s probably as much for their well being as it is for his comfort, considering he would likely bite someone’s head off if they looked at him wrong.

Rain’s phone congratulates him for solving another puzzle. He turns the screen off and sets it aside.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”A reflexive answer. “Tired.”

“Do you want me to help you to your bunk?”

Fuck, he forgot he would need to move again. His bunk is only a few meters down the hall, but the idea of rearranging everything, getting comfortable again, sounds overwhelming, to say the least. He groans.

“Do you want to stay here?”

He nods, his cheek rubbing against the soft fabric of Rain’s shirt. Procrastination probably isn’t going to make anything easier in the long run, but it’s so inviting.

“One second,” Rain says.

Dew lifts his head as Rain’s shoulder eases out from under it. His arm is suddenly cold without a body pressed up against him.

He closes the lounge door behind him. Beyond it, there’s sounds of movement, muffled talking. It’s not possible to pick Rain in particular out of the eclectic soundscape. Nearby, someone laughs, high-pitched and silvery, maybe Aurora. Downstairs, music thrums through the fancy sound system, treble attenuated by the floor, and Swiss sings along.

Rain comes back with an armful of blankets and pillows. He dumps them on the couch, then pulls one blanket out of the pile. He places it over Dew’s body, taking great care not to let it tug at his injured leg.

“Do you want to lie down or stay like this?”

“I’m fine like this.” He leans forward a little bit as Rain puts a pillow behind his head. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” Rain sits down next to him, on the shorter side of the couch, and pulls a blanket over himself. There’s not anywhere near enough space for him to lie down.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“Oh. I was going to sleep here.” He pulls his blanket up a little higher, for emphasis. His brow furrows. “Unless you wanted me to leave—”

“No,” Dew says, whinier and more pathetic than he wishes he would sound. “I mean, as long as you’re comfortable.”

“I’ll be fine.” He pinches a sliver of his lip under one fang, a telltale sign that he’s thinking hard. He’s probably not even aware that he’s doing it. “I just want to be here if you need something. Because I’m not sure you would text me.”

A stalwart champion of independence inside him says that of course he would, that he doesn’t need to be watched over. But it also says that he wouldn’t need anything at all. “I might not,” he admits.

Rain smiles. “See?” For a moment, his expression fades into something more distant, wistful.

Then he stands and putters around the room, straightening up video game controllers and forgotten throw pillows. When he turns off the lights, the room is inky black for just a few seconds, until Dew’s eyes adjust, and Rain is a gray figure sitting back down on the couch.

Dew rests his head on his shoulder again. He closes his eyes. He focuses on remaining absolutely still, breathing steadily in and out. He is so, so tired. Surely, if he just lies here, sleep will come. The lounge is pleasantly dark, calm, quiet enough — the sounds from the other parts of the bus are normal, something he’s learned to tune out.

The only thing that’s really threatening to keep him awake is his ankle. Without any other sensations competing with it, the pain expands to fill all of his awareness. It carries with it a reminder of its context, the troubles it has caused, and that it will cause, the show tomorrow, the unknowns.

Rain sighs quietly underneath him. If he concentrates, he can feel his pulse, beating steadily near where his shoulder meets his neck. Maybe he’s imagining it, or his perception is distorted by the pain that’s throbbing with his own heartbeat. He lets himself believe it’s real for now.

He finally dozes off, evidently, because all of a sudden he’s waking up, the bus is moving, and his foot is on fire. The wail that leaves his mouth doesn’t feel like it belongs to him.

“Dew?” Rain’s voice is quiet, unsure. If he wasn’t already awake, it wouldn’t have been loud enough to wake him.

The bus shudders as it goes over a bump in the road, fancy suspension system be damned, and even that gentle motion sends a lance of pain through his ankle. He yelps, caught off guard. Instinctively, he sits forward and reaches for it, but stops himself halfway. His hand flops ineffectually on his shin, arm heavy with exhaustion. He clenches his fingers and digs his nails in.

The pain is so intense that it ignites a buzzing urge to move his whole body, to roll his shoulders, to open and close his free hand in a white-knuckle fist. Gravity tugs against his every movement. The skin on the back of his neck prickles.

“Dew, is it your foot?”

He nods, frantic, jaw clamped shut. He doesn’t know what kind of sound he would make if he opened his mouth to speak.

“Let me get something for it,” Rain says, already standing up, blanket crumpling on the floor.

Dew sits back against the couch with a thump. Maybe Rain will bring a saw, and he can cut his leg off and be done with it. He presses a fist into the center of his forehead, between his eyes. He bites his tongue, hard.

When he comes back, he’s holding has an awkward armful of items. He pushes the door closed with his elbow. “I’m sorry, I should have woken you up to take this,” he says, handing him a small pile of pills. Dew doesn’t care what they are. He would take anything at this point.

Rain presses a bottle of water into his hand, cold, condensation barely starting to form on the outside. Drinking from it is like an anvil hitting his stomach.

“Do you want ice?” He holds up an ice pack.

“Ice, yes—��� Dew grabs at it. Rain moves at the same time, placing it on his wrapped ankle. It feels like pressure, nothing more.

Dew groans. He leans forward, reaches down and presses the ice pack onto the bandage — he can’t feel the cold at all, just another layer of dull pain on top of the rest of it. He tears at the bandage, pulls the end of it free and loosens the loops tucked around his lower leg. It’s too tight, too intricate, he can’t get it off. His breaths speed up, rushing in his ears, and it doesn’t feel like they’re bringing in any air.

“What’s wrong?” Rain turns on the lights. The sudden brightness jolts through his eye sockets.

“I need the ice to— It needs to be closer.” He pulls on one loop and it tightens another. He pushes the whole tangle of bandage downward, but it just gets stuck around his ankle, which screams in response. The ice pack lies discarded on the couch.

“Okay, okay,” Rain soothes, panic brushing at the edges of his voice. He starts pulling the loops free, one by one, a longer tail of loose bandage dropping onto the couch each time. Cool air touches overwarm skin.

It’s not fast enough. Dew reaches out to join him, to tug on the bandages again too, but Rain takes his hand and places it firmly on his knee, out of the way.

When only a few loops of bandage remain, wrapped around the end of his foot near his toes, Dew takes the ice pack and presses it into the heart of the pain, the point where his ankle bone meets the side of his foot. This, finally, provides some slim modicum of relief. He lets out a shaky breath. The lounge is quiet, filled only by the sounds of the bus in motion — wheels on the pavement, the engine.

Rain rubs his back, slow, firm strokes up and down his spine. “Better?”

“A little.” His voice comes out raspy, uneven, too tight to sustain a proper whisper.

“Can I do something else?”

“What else even is there to do?” His voice cracks on the last word. His eyes burn.

No, no, not over something like this, like he’s a child that scraped his knee on the playground. He looks up, leans his head back. Tears pool against his sclera, creeping higher until they begin to refract the lights above him into a dizzying sparkle.

Rain doesn’t say anything, just keeps rubbing his back. Because he’s right, there’s nothing he can do. He fucked up, and these are the consequences — humiliation, exhaustion, and excruciating pain.

He can’t even keep forcing himself to believe that he’s going to be able to play in the show tomorrow, to do his job. He couldn’t handle the costume and the stage layout and the setlist and the schedule. And on only the third show, too. There’s no point to him being here, he’s going to be sent home.

This is what finally makes the stupid tears spill out onto his face, leaving a hot trail down to his jawline, first on one side and then the other. He inhales through his nose, sharp and involuntary, making a gross sniffling noise.

“It’s going to be okay,” Rain soothes.

Dew shakes his head, vehement. He must not understand what’s at stake. He hasn’t put the pieces together.

“It’s hard right now but it’s going to get better.” So naive.

“It’s over,” he squeaks, followed by another gasping inhale that he can’t control. He clamps his hand over his mouth.

“No, no it’s not, nothing is over because of this.”

He can’t speak. He shakes his head again.

“Are you thinking about tomorrow?”

He nods. Tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.

“Everything is going to get taken care of, you just need to focus on feeling better.”

“I’m trying. I can’t—” His breath hitches. “I’m so. Tired. And I can’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” Rain brushes away tears with gentle fingers. His hand is cold against his flushed cheek.

“It hurts so much.” It’s embarrassing to admit it even though it’s plainly apparent from his behavior, his distress. He’s weak for being unable to endure the pain of a minor injury like this.

“I know.” His hand dances across his face, from one side to the other and back, wiping fresh tears as they fall. “Just hold on for thirty minutes, and the medicine will start working. Less than that, now. Twenty-five.”

It’s optimistic of him to think that whatever non-prescription drugs he scrounged up will change anything, but it’s enough to focus on for now. He exhales a shaky breath.

“Do you want me to distract you? Or put something on the TV?”

He shakes his head. “I just want to sleep.”

“Okay,” he says, like this is an actionable request and not a plea for mercy.

Rain gets up and dims the lights to a barely-there glow. He fluffs pillows and adjusts blankets. He returns to his spot on the couch.

Dew tries to get comfortable. He sits back against the couch, until that feels wrong and he has to lean forward again. He adjusts the ice pack. Briefly, he tries to lie on his side, but it proves to be too much motion for his ankle. Rain’s careful handiwork falls into disarray, blankets twisted and tangled. Through all the fidgeting and adjusting, he keeps rubbing Dew’s back, arm, shoulder, whatever is accessible.

The minutes stretch on like this, until the pills kick in, all at once. The relief is euphoric. A warm ocean cradles him; he floats on its surface, buoyant in the saltwater. It’s amusing, distantly, to feel a such a dramatic effect from over-the-counter pain relievers. It’s not an absence of pain either, just a decrease that pulls him back over the edge from agony to something more tolerable. Even that makes him feel high.

He sinks into the cushions. His muscles feel like jelly. Next to him, Rain seems to relax a little bit too, slowing his touches. Sleep awaits with open arms.

When he wakes up, light is filtering in through the blinds. The bus is stopped. He’s lying flat with head in Rain’s lap, and Rain is sitting perpendicular to him, legs extended, upper body slumped in the corner where the two sides of the couch meet. He’s still asleep, judging by his breathing.

Dew shifts slowly so as not to wake him. His whole body feels stiff, mildly sore. His ankle aches, but the pain isn’t as bad as it was in the middle of the night.

He looks down at it, tucking his chin toward his chest. It’s still sticking out from the tangled blanket over the rest of his body, resting on a single pillow. The ice pack lies on the couch next to it, melted, as does a heap of elastic bandage. It’s more purple than the last time he saw it, and more swollen too. He wiggles his toes experimentally. He stops right away when pain shoots up his leg with the tiniest movement.

He starts easing his head back down into Rain’s lap but pauses when he moves in his sleep beneath him. He sits up instead, just as slow. His head spins. He blinks and rubs a hand over his face.

His phone is wedged between two couch cushions. He checks the time — it’s still morning. In his notifications is a text from one of the production coordinators about a doctor’s appointment in the early afternoon.

So he wasn’t asleep for very long at all, and has a couple of hours to kill before his appointment. It really would be nice to sleep more, to spend some time not thinking about anything. The idea of actually trying to fall asleep again, getting comfortable, sounds like too much of a chore. He’s tired, but not unbearably so. He should just commit to being awake.

It’s not like he can go anywhere, though, or do anything else. He flops against the back of the couch next to him, tipping over sideways so that he doesn’t have to move his legs. His cheek presses into cool leather. He sighs.

“Dew?” Rain’s voice comes unexpectedly from behind him, raspy from disuse.

He jumps, startled.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Sorry if I woke you up.”

Rain shakes his head. “Did you get any sleep?”

“I just woke up a couple minutes ago.”

“Good. That’s good.” He’s already kicking into gear, getting up and collecting the pillows strewn across the room.

When he reaches Dew’s side of the couch, Rain picks up one end of the abandoned bandage, lifting a long tail out of the limp pile. “I guess we should put this back on?”

Dew grimaces. “I guess.” He’s not interested in anything touching his ankle, but if he wants to stand up or move around at all, he would probably be more comfortable with it at least a little bit immobilized.

“Unless the ice…?”

The tips of his ears start to feel warm. Unless he wants to make a big dramatic scene over it like last night? “No, it’s okay now.”

“Okay, well, did you want to do it? Or do you want me to do it for you?”

“Can you?” His voice comes out small.

Something like relief washes over Rain’s face. “Sure, of course.”

Rain sits down at the end of the couch. He takes one end of the bandage and presses it into his skin, holding it there, on the top of his foot near his toes. Dew hisses through his teeth at the contact.

“Sorry,” Rain says, lifting his hand away. The bandage crumples down onto the pillow.

“It’s fine, just do it.” He clenches his teeth, hopefully not in a way that’s noticeable.

He hesitates, but then holds the bandage against his foot again. He loops it around his foot one, two, three times, then pauses to adjust, pressing down with cautious fingers and gently tugging the free end with his other hand. Elasticized fabric slides under Dew’s arch.

In the end, his ankle is wrapped up again, though not quite as neatly as it was before. He puts his foot down next to his other one. The difference between them, visually, is concerning. The bruising is covered by the bandage, but the swelling is compounded by the additional layers covering it, making it look massive.

Rain helps him down the stairs to the bathroom, gets him things from his bag, brings them both food again so he doesn’t have to go all the way inside. It’s humiliating to need to be assisted with every single task, to do nothing of his own power, but if it had to be anyone helping him… now that’s an embarrassingly saccharine thought.

He takes another pile of pills, at Rain’s direction. He can see what they are now — two tylenol and four ibuprofen. It seems extreme, if not dangerous, but he’s not going to question it, not after last night.

Then they wait. Waiting, in general, is a very normal part of being on tour, but not like this, anxious, with something looming ahead. He should be killing time with the rest of the band, maybe out and about somewhere, excited for the show tonight. So should Rain, but instead he’s entertaining his petulant boyfriend with games and videos, switching to something new as soon as it stops holding his attention.

“I would be fine by myself, you know,” Dew says, as Rain scrolls through a list of movies for the millionth time.

Rain frowns slightly. He puts down the TV remote. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“I mean— you don’t need to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Well, I do want to.” He picks up his phone and scoots over next to Dew.

They’re in the depths of a Wikipedia rabbit hole when he gets a text that a car will arrive soon to take him to his appointment. Rain helps him walk a short distance across the sunny concrete parking lot to where, by the time they make it there, the car awaits. He offers his arm to hold onto as he lowers himself into the back seat, pivoting on his one leg.

The clunk of the door closing feels abrupt. Just like that, he’s alone. Why was he expecting otherwise? He looks down at his feet on the freshly vacuumed floor mat, his single shoe. He feels a little bit like he’s being brought to his execution.

The opposite door opening pulls him from his thoughts. Rain gets in the car and closes the door behind him. Right, of course. He settles back against the seat. Rain is watching him with big worried eyes, like maybe he can see his thoughts spilling out from how hard they’re churning.

He actually isn’t sure what he thinks is going to happen. As it stands, his ankle is simultaneously damaged beyond repair and just a little bruised. He’s overreacting and at the same time his life is ruined. He needs an x-ray just as a formality, but the doctor will give him devastating news which he dreads hearing.

Out the window, trees pass by, weathered brick walls, iron fences. Carbon copy rowhouses sitting pressed up against each other become gated estates hidden behind foliage as they leave the city center. They’re dropped off in front of an unassuming building, and make their way inside.

The waiting area is fancy, in a subtle way. They sit on a real sofa, like one that might be in someone’s living room. It doesn’t quite feel like a doctor’s office. It calls attention to how unusual this whole thing really is, the context, the logistics of it all. It’s not necessarily normal to be able to schedule a same-day doctor’s appointment at the drop of the hat anywhere in the world unless, perhaps, you’re a key part of a concert tour with a budget in the millions. He could put a price tag on his leg.

They aren’t there for long before a doctor arrives and ushers them to an exam room. Her white coat seems out of place at first, at the threshold of the oddly domestic waiting area, but she fits in better once the door is closed, with pale gray cabinets and a little stool on five caster wheels. Dew sits on a padded table.

She asks him what happened, where it hurts, all the same as before. Saying it is embarrassing every time. As much as he can, he leaves out the parts about the concert, the stage, the costume, just mentioning the stairs, that he tripped, that he received first aid right away. Behind her, Rain raises an eyebrow when he describes how he stood and walked on his injured leg for mysterious and vague reasons, with no clear motivation.

She unwraps the bandage from his ankle. He knows what it looks like underneath, but it’s still unpleasant to see it again. The weave of the fabric is imprinted on his skin. She asks him to lie down, and he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

“What do you do for work?” Her fingers press into the side of his leg near near his calf and start to work their way lower.

“I’m a… musician.”

“I see, so are you on your feet much? She digs into his ankle bone in a way that’s unpleasant but not exceedingly painful.

“Um, I’m on tour right now, so—” He flinches when she touches a spot on the side of his foot, his words interrupted by a strangled yelp.

“Is this where the pain is worst?” She presses on it again, more gently, just indicating to it. It’s like the deepest, most sensitive bruise he’s ever had, like an exposed nerve.

“Yeah.” He stops himself from squirming on the table, wriggling away from her hands, from the close observation. “Yes, I think so.”

“Let’s get an x-ray of this, and we’ll take it from there, okay?”

He’s directed to a room at the end of the hall. Rain helps him down from the exam table and supports him as they walk there together. They’re getting better at this, more coordinated and in tune with each other’s motions. It’s a good thing, in the sense that it’s easier to move around, but it’s not a skill he wants to be developing in the first place.

When they get there, a technician asks Rain to wait outside. A door closes between them.

The room inside is dark, and is full of white equipment, austere plastic-shelled machines and furniture, utilitarian fixtures. The technician instructs him to sit on a hard table at its center. She places a rectangular panel underneath his foot. She adjusts his body with light, barely-there touches, bending his knee, extending his ankle, pointing his toes so that the sole of his foot is flat on the panel. Something inside his foot, at the point where the doctor pressed, protests being stretched this way. The chill of all the rigid surfaces, and of the air in the room, sinks into his skin.

When the technician presses a button on the machine looming above the table, it shines a rectangle of light on him like sun through a window. The shadowed lines between the panes form a crosshair that she aims at the middle of his foot. He feels exposed, lit by a spotlight and placed in front of a camera that will look inside him, through him.

He holds still while she steps into another room, leaving him entirely alone. This must be what it’s like in a museum after closing time, a curio on a pedestal in the dark surrounded by white walls. A day’s worth of attention evaporates off him like steam into the air.

She comes back after barely any time at all. She takes two more pictures in the same manner, one with his knee tipped inwards and one with it rotated all the way out until the whole length of his leg is resting on the table. Then he’s done, and is sent back to the exam room.

He manages to limp back to the door, where Rain seems surprised to see him emerge by himself. They make their way down the hall again, retracing their careful, methodical steps.

When they get back to the exam room, the doctor isn’t there. Rain leads Dew to the table — no, not again. He shakes his head. There is a pair of chairs on the other side of the room, across from a desk. Rain helps him into one and sits in the other.

Dew exhales; what starts as a sigh becomes a frustrated groan. Every time he sits down he’s reminded how tired he is. The only thing preventing him from curling up right here and trying to fall asleep is that he knows he wouldn’t be able to, not with the anxiety and the pain, the lights, the unfamiliar surroundings. His leg hurts more from having briefly walked on it.

“Doing okay?” Rain is looking at him with big eyes again.

“I guess.” He slumps down in the chair, melting under his concerned gaze. As much as the question makes him squirm he really does appreciate that Rain is being so attentive. If only he could express it in a normal way, instead of whatever he’s doing now. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Of course.”

“And thank you for walking me everywhere. Because I can’t walk by myself.”

“Sure. But actually I was going to ask—” Rain sits up a bit straighter, turns toward him slightly, like he’s about to change the subject to something serious. “Were you walking by yourself earlier? In the other room.”

“Just a couple steps. I think it was a bad idea.” He looks down at his bare foot. “It hurt.”

“You could have asked me to help you.”

“What, through the radiation-proof lead door?”

“I would have heard you.”

Dew scoffs. He probably would have, though. Somehow.

There’s a brisk knock on the door, and then the doctor opens it and walks in without any delay. Dew scrambles to sit up properly in his chair. She sits at the desk across from them. Suddenly this all feels very formal.

“I took a look at your x-rays,” she says. “I’m afraid you’ve broken your foot.”

Dew’s blood runs cold. Branching timelines slam together; disparate possibilities collapse into a single present. He distantly feels Rain’s hand on his arm.

“Here, let me show you.” She turns to her computer, clicks a few times, then rotates the monitor towards him.

On it is an x-ray of a foot, looking down from the front. It looks exactly like the paint on the front of the uniform boots, the same stupid boot that made him fall. A startled laugh bubbles up from his chest before he can stop it.

“You can see the fracture here.” She drags the mouse cursor along one dark line through a gray-white bone. “And here.” She moves the cursor to another, similar looking line.

Dew struggles to formulate an intelligent question. In the end, what comes out is, “It’s broken twice?”

“Yes, it’s broken in two places. Two fractures.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s not uncommon.” She folds her hands on the desk in front of her. “Based on the location of the fractures, and because they are well aligned, I believe it will heal on its own over time. About six to eight weeks.”

She’s saying it like this is the good option, but Dew isn’t sure what the other possibilities might be. How else do bones heal? Probably better not to think about it. He nods.

“I’m going to give you a special boot to wear. You can put as much weight on your foot as you feel comfortable with, but only while the boot is on. Alright?”

That means he can stand, he can walk. He can be on stage like normal. The sudden sense of relief is so potent that he feels lightheaded. He nods again.

“Don’t push yourself too hard. Walking a bit will help with healing, but start slow, listen to your body, especially for the next few days.”

He feels a little bit like he’s been caught doing something naughty, even though it actually hasn’t happened yet. It’s as if she can read his mind. Or maybe everyone thinks this, and she’s just responding to an observed pattern.

“Other than that, elevating your leg and using ice will help with the pain and swelling. You can take the boot off while you’re resting, it’s just to make walking more comfortable ”

Dew nods. “Okay.”

“Do you have any questions?”

He shakes his head. No, not any that he’s going to risk asking, and maybe getting an answer that he doesn’t like. His mind was already made up the moment he got permission to bear weight on his leg, even though it came with some caveats that he may or may not follow to the letter.

“Great, let me get that boot for you.”

As soon as the door closes behind her, Rain is on his case. “You’re thinking about the show tonight, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” He can’t help but smile a little at Rain’s very predictable discernment. At least he didn’t say anything out loud in front of the doctor.

“Just be careful, okay? Take it slow, like she said.”

“I will.”

When the doctor comes back, she’s carrying a very tall and bulky item of footwear. It’s black, at the very least. It won’t be too out of place with his stage uniform. It even has a similarly thick sole.

His foot and leg are wrapped in a soft foam sleeve and then five velcro straps are tightened around it, holding a metal frame in place. The top of the boot ends just below his knee. His toes stick out just slightly from the liner.

He stands up slowly. Involuntarily, he holds his hands out to balance. Rain reaches out and grabs one of them.

The boot forces him to put most of his weight on his heel, which does indeed hurt less than standing normally. Now that he knows where the broken bones are, it seems obvious. He’s still trying to wrap his head around it, that it was his foot, not his ankle. He was so sure he hurt his ankle. It doesn’t really matter that much — it’s all connected, anyway — but the sudden clarity is jarring.

He takes a small, experimental step. This is fine. It’s doable.

“Feels alright? I can grab you a pair of crutches if that would be easier at first.”

He shakes his head. “No.” Absolutely definitely not. “Thank you.”

Apparently that’s enough, and he doesn’t need to convince her any further of his supposed accession to pacing himself and doing as he’s told. He feels almost giddy. It could have been so much worse.

Despite his new ability to walk on his own, Rain doesn’t let go of his arm as they head back down the hallway to the waiting room and out the front door. As he begins to feel more confident, he takes longer and longer strides, but soon reaches an upper limit — the inability to bend his ankle is way more disruptive to his gait than he expected. The sole of the boot is much thicker than that of his other shoe, too, which makes it feel like he’s walking sideways along a small but annoying hill, stepping up with one foot and down with the other.

Outside, the two of them sit on a wooden bench as they wait for the car to come back around and pick them up. The air is pleasantly cool, and warm sunlight shines down on them.

Dew extends both legs out in front of him. The boot is huge in comparison to his other leg. It looks ridiculous on him, completely out of proportion. He should be grateful that he’s going to be able to be on stage at all, let alone standing up, walking, but instead he’s finding new things to be embarrassed about. At least he’s not going to be sitting in a chair with everyone running circles around him. It’s just a shoe, another in a collection of notable footwear from the past day.

They make it back to the concert venue in time for soundcheck. It’s a place composed of seemingly endless hallways. All of them are, but endless is longer than usual today, considering the circumstances. By the time they reach the arena floor, Dew’s ankle — no, his foot — is really starting to ache. In the underworld, he stands with all his weight on his good leg.

It’s strange to be here again. Last time he was under the stage, everything was so different. Memories flank him like a pack of wolves.

It’s not the same place, though, technically. The stage is the same, but he’s miles away from where he was last night. The ground under his feet is different.

Everyone seems very relieved to see him, and keen to express it, which is embarrassing, but thankfully other than that they give him space. If he had to tell the whole story right now of everything that’s happened he would probably combust. It’s hard enough just telling the story to himself, remembering it, the details. He does his best to reassure everyone that he’s feeling okay.

Soundcheck, at first, boosts his confidence. He really will be able to do this. He’s standing, playing, but a new problem arises — he can’t use his pedals properly with the bulkiness of the boot, and his ankle fixed in one position. So close, yet so far.

He’s in the middle of considering if he’s willing to relinquish control of the pedal effects to his guitar tech, or just to some computer maybe, or even leave them out altogether, when Phantom bounds up to him, sprightly as ever, and offers to do it for him.

“I can be your feet for tonight,” he says.

Poor Phantom, like everyone else, probably has been wondering about him after the drama he caused last night, and has been very politely leaving him alone in spite of it. This is the first chance he’s had to offer to help, and really, how can Dew say no?

After soundcheck, Rain helps him to his dressing room, seemingly intent on forcing him to rest for a while. The bus lounge they so selfishly annexed would probably still be available, as would, of course, his bunk, but the parking lot is so far away. Inside, his uniform is waiting for him, including both of the associated shoes.

He collapses onto the couch. Walking is still exhausting, even with the boot, or maybe because of it. Rain sets him up with pillows under his foot and a plastic bag full of ice, and he even manages to take a short but much-needed nap before he has to get ready for the show. If Rain sleeps too, he’s not sure. What he does know is that he’s there when he falls asleep and still there when he wakes up.

Getting into his uniform, when it’s time, is about as much of an ordeal as it was to take it off last night. He has to remove the boot to change his clothes and then put it back on again, which means wrestling with an excessive amount of velcro that seems to have a mind of its own and a desire to stick to everything in its vicinity. When he’s done, a mismatched pair of shoes remains on the dressing room floor, his own right one with the left from his uniform.

The boot looks the same as before — bulky, out of place. It might actually look even bigger now, given how tight the bodysuit is, maximizing the difference between the sizes of his legs. It is what it is, an inelegant, unattractive thing that makes it possible for him to walk, just barely.

Anticipation builds over the course of his final preparations for the show until, finally, he’s standing on stage again, the audience buzzing on the other side of the curtain. He feels an unprecedented level of self-consciousness. The boot really sticks out, literally, and he’s not going to be up to his own standards. He’s going to be a disappointment.

When the curtain falls, everything comes into focus. The important thing is that he’s here, even if he can’t participate in all the ways he wants to. He can still play. Phantom helps with his pedals, as does Rain. Papa comes to him, instead of the other way around.

By the halfway point of the set the pain in his foot has increased to a dull roar. His back and hips ache from the unsustainable distribution of his weight, the unequal height of his shoe and boot. He moves less and less, stands in one place. It starts to be a distraction.

He can hear Rain in his head telling him to take care of himself. Also, he can see Rain in real life watching him, surely eager to say the same thing, given the opportunity.

Dew hobbles carefully to the drum riser. Between parts, in the short interval in which he can use his hands to steady himself, sits down on the steps. In no time at all, Rain is there too, standing next to him on those same steps, perfectly casual — he stands here all the time.

The six weeks or longer that it’s expected to take for him to heal will extend through what remains of this part of the tour. Maybe, hopefully, he will feel better as the shows go on, become more mobile. Maybe the rest of the tour will be like tonight. Suddenly, for the first time, he’s okay with that possibility.

[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