#SORRY FOR THE REALLY UNNECESSARILY LONG RESPONSE

[taketheringtolohac]

Yo I didn't know you were into les mis!

LOL oh my god. ohhh my god. i just. look. this is a perfectly normal ask to receive and thank you for sending it and you have done nothing wrong but. just me knowing the history of my blog and knowing that i am STILL "the les mis mutual" to SEVERAL of my mutuals that i have had since my musical phase. jesus i feel old. again this isnt a bad thing! but wow really puts things into perspective!

but yes, i am into les mis. one could even say that i have been into les mis for nearly 9 years now. les mis was in all honesty probably my first big fandom (that i posted about on tumblr) and the thing i was KNOWN for for many many years. it was a monumentous occasion when the aa tag on my blog surpassed BOTH les mis tags i used (bc i used both. and for the longest tagged every post meticulously so i could keep track of things- whoopsies!) ive never changed my blog title and i likely never will. i never actually made les mis content but i was there for every moment of peak les mis fandom and can recall it with painstakingly accurate memory. yes. i am into les mis. please talk to me about it 😭

[trinketstar]

The Amazing Toybox Circus!

A storybook - Part 1

Once upon a time, there was a very old toy shop.

An unremarkable sort of place with very few visitors. The shelves were lined with antique curiosities which had collected dust over the years.

Among these, atop a colorful wooden toy chest, was a simple kaleidoscope. It was inscribed with a strange design of teeth and eyes, and a poem about a magical circus.

...

Now, one might imagine the type of person would walk into such a place. Perhaps someone who has worked far too hard. Someone who feels unsatisfied with the tedium of every day life, and who longs for an escape into the fantastical world of imagination that playthings can inspire. This sort of person might look through a kaleidoscope and dream, just for a moment, of a new life filled with bright color, of fun and adventure.

This was the sort of person who suddenly woke up on the floor, surrounded by darkness and extremely confused.

Feeling dizzy and thoughts hazy, she righted herself and began to wander. A soft jingling noise followed her with every step, though she paid it no mind. There were more pressing issues at the moment.

She strained her mind trying to remember how she could have possibly ended up here. She clearly remembered entering a toy shop, but her thoughts beyond this were blank besides a vivid image of swirling colors. Red and blue spirals. All she knew at the moment was that she felt terribly afraid, and very very small.

Timidly, she called out-

"HELLO, MY NEWEST SUPERSTAR!"

An enormous wooden ventriloquist dummy suddenly burst from the shadows. His painted eyes gleamed, one blue, one green. His wooden teeth chattered as he loomed overhead. He pulled a white balloon on a string, which sported an equally large toothy grin.

The sight was positively terrifying.

"Welcome to the amazing toybox circus!"

"The ... the toybox what?" She squeaked in response.

"Why, the toybox circus of course! You're sure to have a grand time, my dear! " She was suddenly lifted up to meet his unsettling wooden gaze.

"My name is Caine! I'm your ringmaster," he continued at an unnecessarily loud volume.

"My dear, you've entered a wonderful world of whimsy and adventure, where anything can happen! Soon you'll meet your new friends and we shall put on a show!"

He spun her around before setting her down on the floor again.

The girl was speechless. Be part of a circus? Led by a talking puppet? Surely this was all a strange dream!

"I'm sorry, sir," she eventually said, somehow managing to speak politely considering the circumstances. "But I really must be getting home! If you'd kindly show me the way-"

"Oh but you simply must stay for the performance, my dear! I've prepared all sorts of activities that are sure to delight! Oh the audience will love you! You shall be the star attraction!"

The puppet was very insistent. At a loss, the girl considered her options were either to continue wandering the darkness or to trust this "ringmaster". Now she was an intelligent young lady, but she was also a curious sort. After all, curiosity was what brought her here in the first place, and curiosity compelled her to see what would happen next...

So despite better judgement, she finally said -

Hesitant but hopeful. Perhaps this would be interesting? At the very least, she could play along until finding a way out of this strange place, out of the toyshop and back home. Or until she woke up, as this was likely a dream after all.

"At any rate, this may be fun," she hoped out loud.

Something cackled from atop a large shelf. The silhouette was that of a rabbit, but with a wide yellow grin.

"Heh HEH! You'll soon see, little clown," he said, before hopping out of sight.

What an odd place this was...

----part 2 coming soon!

[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

[polarisjisung]

SILENT TREATMENT

synopsis: your boyfriend broke some guy's nose for you, but what he doesn't realise is he also broke his promise to you

wc: 0.9k

pairings: bf!jeno x fem!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: mention of blood like once (feel the need to mention I don't want to romanticise violence 💀)

notes: jeno lee is driving me insane.

Jeno doesn't like it, the silence. He liked to hear you ramble about nonsensical things, the sound of your awkward chatter filling the room, not the incessant pattering of rain against the roof above.

That's the first sign, he figures

On most days, you'd warn him before pressing an alcohol soaked cotton swab against his wounds, delicately pressing down on his jaw with a worried stare. Today you grip his chin firmly, tilting his head upwards and swiping over the cut less gently than before.

That's the second.

The air is cold coming in through the open bathroom window, the dim lighting not sufficient for him to make out your features, when you step a little further away, but still just enough for him to notice the way your nostrils flare and you bite at your lip when reaching for the antiseptic gel kept in the cupboard to your right.

Three of three, he thinks, and jeno comes to the only valid conclusion there is.

Your usually talkative, enthusiastic, and bubbly self now so cold and stand offish, it only meant one thing, something you could argue the lee found entertaining judging by the innocent smile on his lips.

"Are you angry at me?"

A glare is the only response jeno gets.

Not angry enough to leave him to tend to his own wounds, he figures, so really just how angry could you be?

"ow, it hurts" he whines cautiously, taking ahold of your hand as it passes over the deep red, bloody incision in his bicep— which by the way, was doing nothing to help you maintain your rage.

your eyes, however, don't widen, and your lips don't move forward into a pout, you don't react.

nothing except pulling your hand back.

maybe you were a little angrier than he thought.

"silent treatment huh?" he seems amused, a short chuckles escaping his busted lip as you  disinfect the wound, the laugh echoing through the room.

You couldn't stay mad at him, not for long at least, jeno knew that much, so despite watching you walk away to replace the first aid kit just where you found it, ready to use the next time jeno got himself like this, he knows he hasn't got a thing to worry about

Equally, you know jeno just as well, and you know that walking anywhere in his reach would end in you wrapped up in his arms, being showered with soft sweet apologetic kisses like always

Only you both realise your phone is left forgotten on the counter beside him, and if bothering your boyfriend after a long day wasnt on your list of things to do, scrolling for unnecessarily long hours through twitter certianly was.

In hopes to outsmart him you try and lunge to grab the device, only to find yourself in the very position you imagined, lee jeno's strong arms wrapped around your waist, sweet brown eyes staring back.

"can't run now can you baby?"

You scoff, only managing to turn your face away from his— getting uncaged from his arms was far beyond you.

Jeno let's his head fall into the crook of your neck, your floral perfume overtaking the medicinal smell in the air as he pecks the corner of your lips, slowly tracing your jawline with soft kisses until you finally turn to face him again.

"I'm sorry" he whispers, calloused, bruised hands holding your chin with utmost tenderness. The rough skin of his thumb traces over your lower lip, a soft kiss placed there once again.

"you said you wouldn't"

jeno pauses, confused.

"you promised you would stop"

the desperate tone in your voice is clear as day, and it doesn't take jeno much longer to realise, this wasn't about what he'd done, it was about what he'd said he wouldn't do

the cracks in your shaky voice are enough for the bitter taste of guilt to bubble in his stomach and rise to the tip of his tongue, your glossy eyes staring back, disappointed

"I'm sorry" he sighs, eyebrows furrowing as he stares down at you, "I'm so so sorry my sweet girl."

The hair messily sprawled across your forehead is pushed to the side by his index finger, an apologetic kiss pressed to your temple. Jeno's hand is placed at the crown of your head, soothingly passing his fingers through your hair when you're pulled forwards into his chest, resting your arms at his side as you let your weight fall onto him.

"Please, don't get hurt because of me" your hands reach for his, and jeno realises you're asking him once again, to promise he wouldn't do it—this time he doesn't know if he can.

"I can't stand it." his tone differs from the sweet one he uses with you, or the mocking one he'd taken on earlier, now he spits harsh words at the floor, eyes rolling instinctively. "those scumbags talking about my pretty girl like that."

you notice the way his fist tightens, the plasters you'd just placed over his knuckles slipping off his skin in seconds.

"if you can fight them for me" with a cold hand against his cheek, you reach up to guide his eyes back to meet yours, "can't you, not, fight them for me too?"

he smiles— you giggle, the very man who'd just taken on another 2 guys almost twice his size just a few minutes ago now looked at you with a wide grin and two crescent moons in place of his eyes.

"I'll try" and suddenly you wear a smile just as wide as his "I'd do anything for you"

You don't doubt it.

[bratbarzal]

https://kawhh.tumblr.com/post/784202736767057920/im-sorry-to-any-anons-on-here-who-will-only-feel

I know you're most likely sick of talking about this by now but this rubs me the wrong way.

Its like she's trying to downplay it all as 'drama' all the time and its getting so tiring. I'm pretty sure i've been blocked as anon even though i was never mean and she won't actually say what is going on or let anyone try and discuss it even though she says she doesn't mind asking for her side on things?

I think it's really hard for me to speak on this element of the situation and not come across as a bitch, or that I'm unnecessarily targeting someone and deflecting blame from the person who is at fault - but I've skipped out on answering a lot of anons who have either sent me links to things (I've said before, this person has me blocked and I can't view them, so I haven't responded) or had something to say about how it's being handled on this end, but ultimately I do think this user is a part of the overall conversation - and I can't really ignore the impact their actions have had on everything that has happened since this all started last month

a point I really want to make by speaking on this is that it's important for everybody that these things are spoken about publicly, and spoken about honestly, regardless of personal bias, because Brynn's actions genuinely hurt people and caused genuine harm to the writing and reading community on here. ignoring it or sugarcoating it does not take away from the pain caused or the damage done, and it's important to look at multiple perspectives to form an opinion

** I never have and I never will condone hateful messages sent to anyone - that is not the purpose of me speaking on this - and I urge people who want to have any conversation with anybody about this to be respectful, constructive, and not to shout over what is a serious point to be made, because it gets us all nowhere **

under a read more because it's long:

will preface by saying, this is not me trying to stand here on my soap box and point fingers and say that anyone is to blame for brynn's blatant and persistent content theft but herself. that isn't why I'm responding to this. and like I said above, this user has me blocked, I have her blocked, there's no other way for me to speak on it but to do so publicly (as much as she might hold the opinion I have no need to do so) and I sort of just want to show how all of this has had a wider impact on others in this space

I'll also preface by saying kawhh has said throughout that she doesn't agree with Brynn's actions, but as I'll explain below - actions speak louder than words, and the words she's said just aren't enough.

for anyone blocked, this is the post in question:

*most screenshots throughout this post are going to look different bc some of them come from others that have sent these to me - oftentimes by people trying to make me aware as it’s assumed they are about me, I don't know if that's the case, and nor do I actually care, this isn’t me trying to insert myself - the general consensus seems to be that anyone who speaks on this situation is a mean girl, a bully, or a bitch, and I think whoever she's trying to apply that to, it's a problematic take to have. I’m including pictures for context because I can’t link to posts.

my first point from this, is that she does have a responsibility to speak on this situation, and the reason I'm so insistent on responsibility and accountability, is because this user has a documented pattern of choosing to ignore and sensor the facts in favour of platforming, enabling and excusing her friend, despite her repeated abhorrent actions

when announcing brynn's return to the platform in a post that was encouraging forgiveness and giving second chances (no mention of all the other chances given for her to do the right thing), there was also no mention of the specific things she did that caused her to delete in the first place. there were several mentions of "brynn's actions" with no specific detail of what those were, and when she was explicitly asked, she then linked to a post which was an apology from brynn (again, not detailing the full extent of these actions, with repeated references to "what she did" or "her actions" and not a single one explaining in clear, direct terms what that was) and an ask she answered that said "she was taking other people's work from other websites and posting it here, at least some of it" - it's a watered down version of the truth used as a manipulation tactic to people who aren't getting the full story to be able to make an informed decision. she keeps adding that "nobody is saying that stops the hurt" but her repeated disregard of the severity of everything does take away from it

the point I'm making here, is that in situations like this - where she was encouraging people to forgive and forget - there needs to be a clear, unbiased reference for what they are supposed to be forgiving and forgetting, and the repeated cover up, in my opinion, was deceptive and manipulative

there were several available, unbiased posts that she never reblogged to her audience - one including a statement from brynn herself, made with the utmost respect on that user's part, and including screenshotted proof and a clear intention for transparency - that she could have linked to, but she repeatedly disregarded these, and even belittled, shamed and blocked the people who posted them on multiple occasions - stating that people were "stirring the pot for drama", "cashing in on drama and poking around" "being rude or bullying" and engaging in "drama book clubs"

several points then stem from things being handled this way

one being the repeated disregard for how many times people did address this privately - there were screenshots in the aforementioned posts circulating at the time that showed this was addressed privately to brynn dating back to 2023, with her continuing to steal and lie - handling it privately was no longer an option

and the second being the way these statements then trickled down into vicious messages spread across to the people who had the integrity to speak on it, and were shamed and ~virtually spat on for doing so

*these are asks that were posted publicly, and I have no doubt don't reflect the extent of how many people this sort of stuff was sent to, I haven't said who they were sent to but if you read this and want me to, I'll happily do so - not including the vitriol that has been sent to me over the last month, because like I said above, I'm trying to make a point of how far and wide this stuff spreads when handled poorly, however (obviously as someone who had to witness some of the things sent my way, it is clear where the source of the hatred came from, and that is not me saying she herself sent any hate, but that her posts inspired such a reaction - including specific verbiage used within her posts/responses)

tying into the above, and going back to my point about responsibility, throughout the time brynn was then gone, this user was encouraging people to send anons to forward to brynn, actively engaging her in a toxic environment that she, herself, said was the cause of her stealing in the first place, didn't give her a chance to distance herself from it or reflect on why she, for so long and without regard for anybody's feelings, let herself be consumed by engagement on this site, and played a big part in her returning to the platform when a lot of her other friends (who have made public posts that I won't link, because this isn't about them) were actively encouraging her to stay away, grow and learn - friends who then faced the same level of backlash and anon hate when brynn returned despite them trying to help in private

*I am basing this off of the excuses that brynn herself gave for her actions, not any assumption or opinion.

*I'll follow on from this by saying, I understand wanting to try and lighten the load of what was happening for her friend, and wanting her to know that there were people that were worried or cared, but if you're putting out statements saying this whole thing was brought on by an obsession with attention, you should not then be weaponising said attention when the girl clearly needed to remove herself entirely for a chunk of time and reflect on her actions - and all of that while continuing to cover up the actual thing she did

**an anon has since pointed out to me that you cannot send an ask, even on anon, if you don't already have an account, meaning brynn was active when she claimed to be offline, had full access to any content kawhh was forwarding to her without the need to encourage anons to get involved, and in my opinion, anon messages were being utilised to garner sympathy and again, manipulate kawhh's audience - this is my opinion, you can make your own mind up on whether or not you believe in those intentions, I don't want to force it on you but I think it's important to include she had a presence when she claimed not to, and at a time when a lot of other people were dealing with the aftermath of her actions unfairly, and I can't speak on whether kawhh would have been aware of this, but regardless, the whole anon thing should never have been encouraged

and encouraging these sorts of asks obviously then led to a premature return (which again, from public posts and private conversations, I know others were actively encouraging brynn not to do), to an audience kawhh had built of people who did not know what brynn did entirely, and were led to believe others being "bitches" was the problem - there is a public response to one of kawhh's posts that I won't sc, bc the user who commented was doing so based off of a lack of information, but this post was basically saying "SHAME ON EVERYONE TALKING ABOUT BRYNN AND BEING MEAN ABOUT BRYNN, YOU WOULDN'T LIKE THE SAME THINGS BEING SAID ABOUT YOU", proving that there was a false narrative that had been created around the whole situation

obviously it caused another wave of hurt and upset when brynn did come back, at which point kawhh repeatedly platformed her, again, never mentioning the specifics or the extent of her previous actions, despite several "explanation posts" from both of them, trying to enforce her own bias on her audience, and reblogging posts from brynn to her audience who she thus far has withheld the complete truth from (which are still on her page at this moment in time, with, again, no acknowledgement of anything that came to light yesterday)

and this is the point I'm trying to make - and why I have a problem with "it's between me, brynn and her friends" - kawhh herself utilised her own following to create a platform for brynn to come back, and to do the exact same thing over again, therefore perpetuating the same hurt to more people than will ever come forward - people came to her for updates on brynn, with messages to send to brynn, and for an explanation of what she did because they trusted her

and while she has said in vague and non-committal phrases, that she doesn't agree with what brynn did, she has never once publicly held her to account to the following she then manipulated into engaging once more

labelling this entire thing as "drama" and acting like she is above it belittles what brynn did, which includes but is not limited to

stealing multiple fics from other platforms

stealing multiple fics from this platform

stealing multiple fics from her FRIENDS

stealing multiple IDEAS from her friends, posted in private forums, and claiming them as her own

using conversations with her friends or posts by her friends to suit her own content, and pretending like they were her own

*also important to use the correct wording - she didn't "copy writing for some of her posts" - she STOLE writing, oftentimes full fic, changing names only, and at this point with all the evidence shown and everyone who has come forward, it was not some of her posts. It spanned asks, blurbs, fics, mood boards etc, and is presumably most of what she posted, including even random things said in a text post and down to random meme reaction pictures used. Her entire presence and most of her interactions with others were based on plagiarism and theft.

all across multiple years, having been confronted multiple times, and all while refusing to actually, explicitly, say what she did whenever she apologised, and who she did it to - and I'll assume (having spoken to double digits at this point worth of people) it's because the depths at which this whole situation spreads would absolutely disgust people. she blocked people who called her out - people who ended up being bullied back into deleting any post calling her out after receiving anon hate and nasty comments - and she played innocent to anyone who approached her (there are multiple screenshots of messages calling her out, and she gives the same watered down excuses in each one)

assuming 2023 is as far as it does go back, people have been bullied into silence, and the point I'm making here, and the pattern I'm trying to show - is that you can see how something as seemingly innocent as not wanting to condemn a friend's actions to others, contributes to them continuing to purposely hurt others for their own gain

too many people have tried to handle this privately, and have ~unintentionally enabled her over time

all of the things said above have directly contributed to a toxic environment for others on this app, where anyone who speaks on it is sent hate, people who were privately trying to support their friend were sent hate, and someone who repeatedly hurt and stole from others was given a platform to do so

like I said in the beginning, I have no delusions that I can say all this without seeming like a bitch, or like I'm deflecting blame from who is truly responsible - and I have no expectations that kawhh will respond well to this, but something needs to be said when she's constantly undermining the situation while lying to her audience, making endless indirects, and all in the name of "staying out of drama land" and pointing the finger at "mean girls"

she is the one who consistently makes an effort to cover up what brynn did, and so when she continues to do it, she should own up to the fact she can't shirk responsibility for her part in it happening again

AGAIN, I don't condone hate sent to anyone - I'm trying to bring awareness to the multitude of ways in which dealing with this situation with such little regard for anyone but brynn, has caused a ripple effect throughout the community, and I'm hoping it opens some eyes who might have been convinced by the deceptive posts made by kawhh throughout this mess that there's more than one side to a story

I also understand this seems like a vast overreaction to this particular ask, but I had a lot of asks yesterday that I didn't respond to until I could gather my thoughts, and am using this as one singular response

[catboymoments]

I was scrolling back through your tumblr and I know that in nextgen Luz was initially made pretty sick by her pregnancy. I'm curious- how did the hexsquad deal with that? Luz has saved them so many times, and she's usually super positive, so I think seeing her in pain would be really awful (even beyond the way that seeing your friends in pain is awful). I think Amity in particular would see herself as responsible for it.

Love your art btw!! Sorry if this is like. unnecessarily angsty.

ITS OKAY this ask actually made me get silly and uhhhh this happened and it got outta hand but. Oh my god this would’ve been so scary for them… I love them. They love each other so much. Luz and Amity have wanted this baby for so long and when it finally happens, turns out modern day humans have a hard time providing half witch children with the magical energy they need if the human parent carries… so that baby is gonna start draining energy from anywhere else they can.

(Luckily, there’s a freshly eighteen year old Titan who loves his sister enough to give her any amount of his blood to help.)

I wanted to do more with like lil bronnie and hyacinth but I had to hold back for the sake of my hands LOL

[dazedantics]

You were disoriented.

The whole building was dark but filled wall to wall with blindingly colorful neon lights. People lounged about on plush lounge chairs, hands dancing across heated skins, others swayed enticingly to the raving music. Dopey grins and giggles echoed through the place, speech slured and broken unnecessarily. A heavy smoke filled the air, encouraging inhabitors to give in to the chill haze.

It was getting difficult to breathe.

But you had to talk to the Queen. All you needed was a quick signature from them and then you were free to leave. Plenty of others had asked for the same thing before and had gotten their wish with no problem ... Eventually ... This should be easy.

Slipping around the fluid bodies, you trudged closer to the stand.

The court was large, podium standing at a height much grander than you, further emphasizing how small you were in comparison. But sitting with his boots up on the ledge sat the Queen. So engrossed with his gaudy phone, he didn't notice you as you approached, nor did he turn to you when you cleared your throat.

"... excuse me, Your Majesty?"

He laughed, thumb scrolling through his feed.

"Your Majesty ...?"

He bit his lip, shifting to rest his cheek on his knuckles.

"Your majesty!"

At last, he hummed in response. "Hm? Yeah, what's up?"

You took a shuddering breath, wiping the sweat from your brow. "Sorry, for interrupting, Your Majesty, but I have a request. I've gone through all the regular customs in trying to move back to my hometown and all I need left now is to get your help signing all the papers ...."

Still looking at his phone, he chuckled. "Ah, I didn't know this had become a trend. I really need to get on it."

"... a-as I was saying, I've brought everything you need to sign and I understand it'll take a few days to actually go through but-"

"Hey you, look over here. Say 'Queensies!'"

You were caught off guard as the Queen shifted around in the stand so you were facing the same way, he raised his phone up and pouted his lips with a wink while he made a peace sign with his hand. The flash from his camera seemed to heightened your jumbled mind and you could feel the start of a migrane coming on. He shifted back into his seat, cheeks glowing with a smile, feet on the chair, knees to his chest and he kept typing on his phone.

"Hashtag hard at work, hashtag servant of the people, hashtag queen cay!"

You rubbed your eyes, "Y-our Majesty, please-"

"Awe, look at this, we're so cute. You know you're not so bad looking, but I think you could smile more. I could give you a makeover one day when I have time. Busy, busy, busy, you know how it is."

"I just need your pen on the paper-"

"Ooh, you know what," he lifted the tubed pen from the messy storage under the desk, "I should make that the point of the next party," he took a puff, exhaling a cloud of color changing smoke, "tips on making the most of your looks, hashtag becoming a sexy bitch," purple, blue, green, orange, yellow, "That'd be great, right? I'll schedule it right now."

You chest rose and fell heavily, trying to gain enough breath to beat the smoky air, but you only inhaled lungfuls of his puffs.

"Mmm, I haven't really gotten around to this shindig though, have I? I think it's time to mingle. You don't mind waiting a bit longer do you? I promise I'll be back soon, but I gotta let the people know I care, lmao."

Your brow curled as he stood, brushing himself off and tidying up his stand.

"You care?"

"Hey, card suit boy? Make sure to close off any appointments for the night, I'm gonna be busy till tomorrow, m'kay? Thanks hon, you're a doll."

You looked down at your bundle of papers, subconsciously crumpling the edges, "you haven't listened to a thing I've said ... and writing your name doesn't take long at all ...."

"Hey you, what was your name again? Anyways, coat on or coat off? It's very nice, makes me seems all posh-like. But it can get stuffy dancing all night. What do you think? Off right?"

You glared up at him. "It's no wonder so many other people are trying to leave."

"I think I'll go with off. Ah, look at that! Cute! Am I eating or what? Gotta take a selfie of that. Chu~ hashtag diamond swag. There we go, now I think I'm ready to-"

"You're a shit ruler."

For once, his emerald eyes turned to you.

"Excuse me?"

You stumbled backward, nearly tripping over your own two feet. "You heard me. All you do here is throw your flashy parties and take forever to help the people who come to you everyday. Do you even know the problems that are going on outside of your so called palace? People are trying to make the necessary changes adhering to the Queen's rules and standards but everything needs your approval and supervision to get started. Nothings changing cause we need to rely on an indolent guy like you. I feel bad for anyone planning on living here."

You turned, planning on leaving and finding another way to get your things done. But you were stopped by a firm chest you bumped into.

You were met with the boy who had been up in the pedestal.

Confused on how he got down to you so fast, you looked back.

"You have quite a mouth on you, don't ya?"

He was still sitting up on the stand whilst being an inch in front of you.

He prowled forward, each step forcing you to take one back until you bumped into something. You looked over your shoulder. It was ... him? Three of him? But, how?

"I'll admit I haven't been the best I could be, but I've made sure to give you all a place to let go of your worries haven't I? Look at the people here tonight. They all go home with a smile on their face and come back saying they're happier than when they left. This kingdom has the highest happiness rating in the world if the surveys are to say anything. Doesn't that merit me some credit?"

He brushed back a tawny curl of hair, tucking it gently behind his ear. The shimmery gold and scarlet makeup he wore shone distractingly under the bright lights.

"And the people all chose to anoint me Queen, didn't you? Surely there was a reason for it. I'm not that bad, am I?"

You inhaled sharply, clinging to his shoulders to keep yourself upright. "M-maybe you were good at first but ...."

He chuckled, resting his gloved hands on your waist. "See? I just got a little content is all. Just need some time and motivation to get back on track." His thumbs rubbed soothing circles into your sides.

The duplicate of him behind you spoke up, nuzzling his nose into your neck. He spoke in a soft, pouting little whine. "It's hard being a ruler, you know? Can't take care of everyone."

The version of him from up on the stand piped up, voice echoing throughout the chamber. "But if someone wants to take my place I wouldn't mind at all. It's what's best for the kingdom, right? Ah, I know!"

Then the three of them spoke at once, "why don't you take the throne?"

"Wh-what?" You squeezed your eyes shut and tilted your head to the side in attempts to sooth the ache in your head.

Soft kisses were trailed up your neck.

"Yeah! Since you think I'm not fit for the job, you might as well show me how it's done, right?"

"I ... I can't ...." You yawned tiredly.

"Ah, it is a bit overwhelming to start all at once though, huh ...?"

"Tell you what ...,"

"You can stay here with me for a while ...,"

"And I can teach you everything you need to know about this shindig ...,"

"After that ...,"

"I can step down once you're ready. Or ...,"

"If you want me to stick around as your right hand so things go even smoother, I'd be happy to. Keeping our cute little subjects satisfied is the top priority after all ...,"

"Having a new hand to guide them, but with the help of what they're familiar with ...,"

"Would be the perfect path to success, yeah ...?"

"After all, the first Queen did have her helpful little King of Hearts to run things. And the length of their reign was golden ...,"

"I think it's a perfectly swell idea, don't you ...?"

"What do you say ... um, I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"My name ...?" You looked around with hooded eyes. Maybe it was cause of your state of being right now, but there seemed to dozens of the orange haired boy filling up the lofty room. "Y/N ... I think ... Y/N L/N."

"Ah, L/N and Cay-kun~! Has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Queen Y/N and her loyal Diamond. Why, the whole town would be in a rave after that don't you think? We'd go viral."

You weren't sure which one of him it was, but he guided you deeper into the room, past the grand stage and into a connecting room. Foggy, weak, addle minded and out of breath, you couldn't do much else but lean on him as he guided you to who knows where.

"Why don't you rest here for a bit, then tomorrow we can discuss the arrangements when you're thinking clearly."

"Oh ... o-okay ...." You breathed out, inhaling for every clear breath you could.

This place wasn't somewhere anyone should stay in for long periods of time, much less live in. How did this guy do it?

"Perfect!" He laid you down to rest on a much too soft bed.

The blankets seemed to swallow you as he gave a wave, smiling as he began to walk away.

"Guess I'll be demoted to King soon, but happy to be of service to you! See you tomorrow, Queenie."

Your lids grew too heavy, shutting as the egnimatic Queen walked away and you succumbed to the pillowy sanctuary of the mattress, the papers you held forgotten and now in Cater's hand.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Peace [Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: After an outing to the Christmas Tree Farm goes awry, Loki does a little soul searching in his moccasins. (w/c 1.2k) Warnings: A tiny bit spicy. Like literally pepper. Fluff, some forestry angst(?) A/N: My contribution to the Secret Santa 2023 event hosted by the wonderful @fictive-sl0th - Merry Christmas @coldnique  ❤️ Request: Reader and Loki are burdened with a mission; finding the perfect tree. Unfortunately, our god doesn't deem any of the ones they see at the farm worthy so...

You watched Loki’s frown deepen as he concentrated on the road ahead. A familiar sign flashed by at the roadside, finally. Tony had given you a loan of his cabin in Vermont for the week. But festive, it was not. Not yet.

You turned up the volume on the touch-screen, hoping that Elton would rouse Loki’s mood a little. Biting your lip, you glanced at the god out the corner of your eye. No change. The trip to the Christmas tree farm had not been a success.

“They were all too...bushy, unkempt” he grumbled, switching to fifth gear with an unnecessarily erotic yank. “Well that’s what pine trees do, my love” you replied, letting your eyes run up his chest, up his neck. Loki hurmphed. “-And the needles on them were so jagged. Dry. All arrogance and no substance." He tilted his chin upwards, the hard vein in his neck throbbing at the tip of an elegant turtle-neck jumper. The god let out an incredulous scoff. “My dear you could injure your delicate mortal hands. I simply will not allow it.” He paused, nodding sagely as you approached a bend. "Arrogant. Yes, that's what they were. No individuality, no...depth,” he growled, giving a haughty sniff. You looked out the window, taking a deep and silent breath. Placing a hand on his thigh, you felt the muscles beneath his jeans work, clenching. You gave him a consolatory pat. “I mean really,” Loki continued undeterred. “Once the various trinkets you like so much are added to the tableau it will look truly ridiculous. Pompous, in fact.” “At least they were green,” you murmured. The sound of Loki’s hair whipping as he snapped to face you rustled the air. “Yes,” he snipped. “At least they were that.”

Back at the cabin, you flinched as Loki threw the door closed behind him. He strode into the kitchen, dropping the car keys in a dish with a malevolent rattle. You walked to where he stood gripping the counter top, sliding your hands around his waist. He huffed gently, before his touch covered yours. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I ruined the Christmas ambiance, didn’t I?” “A bit, yes” you replied. He huffed again. The soft, nasal kind that denoted annoyance at himself. He spun to face you.

The fine knit of his sweater pulled against your fingertips. In seconds his lips sealed to your neck, longing kisses wet against the angle of your jaw. Loki pulled you against him, soft tongue darting teasingly against your lips as he sought entry. Your hands slid up his chest, toying with the high collar tight against the sharp slate of his jaw before you slid your fingers up. They tangled in his locks, tugging gently while he moaned into your mouth.

“Ah-” he gasped suddenly, timed with a well-placed squeeze of your hand against his cock.

It pulsed against your palm. You smiled. Fucking on Tony’s counter-top was most definatley on your 'Christmas ambiance' list. The smile fell as Loki touched your hand, pulling it gently aside. He gazed at you with narrowed eyes, a thoughtful glint sparking deep within them. His lip twitched as he straightened, towering over you. Rogue curls fell around your face, the scent of his almond and redcurrant cologne that clung to every strand making your mouth water. “I cannot be held responsible for diminishing the glimmer of Yule in that precious heart of yours,” he whispered gallantly, before clearing his throat. “I shall be back presently to right this most egregious wrong.” And in the swirl of a coat and the click of the latch, he was gone.

Loki walked approximately fifteen steps before he admitted to himself that the soft leather moccasins were a bad choice.

He pulled the coat he was wearing tighter. The hem flapped against his knees as he walked. Unfortunately for Loki, he had neglected to pack alternative shoes in his pocket dimension. And furthermore, he could not abide a return to the cabin after such a flawlessly theatrical exit. A warming enchantment on his feet would have to suffice.

He walked, and he walked. And the forest grew thicker.

The god’s gaze darted between each majestic pine tree, stretching to the sky. Perfect, he mused bitterly. They’re all too perfect. If Loki had learned anything in past years about the power of this so called christ-mas, then it was that the festivities were a time for see the beauty in things oft overlooked. To celebrate that which was diminished throughout the other, more bountiful seasons. Loki could relate to that feeling. It was part of the reason he enjoyed it so much. He came to a clearing, shivering lightly as he stopped. Snow had begun to fall in silent flakes, resting atop already heaving branches. How far had he walked, he wondered. Loki looked up, closing his eyes to the bright, frozen sky. The god would never quite understand how he had found himself living happily on Midgard. In truth, how he had found himself living happily at all. It frightened him sometimes how much he saw his past-self as another. Like one of your documentaries, or a myth. Stories told as a cautionary tale with a flashlight under one’s chin in the dead of night. A fiction. And he would tell them gladly. But it was not himself of which he spoke. Not really. Not anymore. It frightened him, oh yes. Not that he would ever tell anyone that. No one but you.

But Yule is a time for honouring one’s past, he surmised. And so – the first emblem of the season he chose himself should reflect that. "Where are you?" he murmured quietly, spinning in a measured circle with his eyes closed. A flake of snow stuck to his bottom lip. He felt it melt against the warmth it found. Loki opened his eyes. He took a few steps towards the nearest tree. Tall, bushy, perfect – just like the others. But he trusted in the moment, however that worked.

His moccasins crunched, disappearing into thickening snow beneath his feet. Moisture soaked into the suede lining. The god shifted around the plump fir, pushing its branches from his path. "There you are," he whispered against the chill.

In amongst the tightly packed pine trees, sat a rather modest specimen. It was a fine tree. Noble, despite its diminutive state. A little tired. Lack of sunlight from those crowding around it had stunted its growth. Loki could see where its branches had fought for every scrap of light, twisting and adapting at strange angles. He ran his fingers gently across the vibrant spines. Plump, and luscious. None came loose. The tree was free of snow, shielded by the very branches which cramped his ascent to their level. He hummed an Asgardian chant, running his hand to the tip of the branch.

Loki waited for a response. He lowered his head, listening. It was ceremony. "This, I swear," he murmured in reverence. With the greatest care, he summoned the gentlest magic he possessed. The tree roots came away with ease, plucked from the moist soil like sponge from a greased tin. Willingly, he thought with a smile. And Loki cradled the small tree all the way back to the cabin. You were overjoyed, greeting him through the window and then at the door with a smile that would rival the brightest moon. That evening, you and he decorated the small tree with delicate ornaments. Loki was sure that he had never seen a finer Yuletide scene. And every day, in the bright winter light of the living room, and where you and Loki spent lazy nights celebrating by the warmth of the fire – that little tree grew. Love, space, freedom, faith. Loki pondered those words whenever he saw it. The god tended it every day with his magic, keeping the roots fresh in their temporarily home. And when the holiday ended, he would re-plant it. Somewhere it could continue its journey to its full potential in peace. Peace, Loki mulled as he brushed a strand of hair back from your cheekbone while you slept on his chest. Carols played. He inhaled against your hair, feeling your breaths rise and fall in time with his own. Peace.

Secret Santa 2023 taglist: @joyful-enchantress @mochie85 @muddyorbs @holdmytesseract @simplyholl @lady-rose-moon @superficialdomina @cultofcarter @coldnique @give-me-a-moose @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @smolvenger @loz-3 @catsladen @acidcasualties @divine-knight-hand @glitchquake @nyxlaufeyson @fandxmslxt69 @holymultiplefandomsbatman @fictive-sl0th @smolvenger Tags (cont in comments)

@lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips

[stormblessed95]

Hi!

Long time no see....

I did TRY to get this finished as soon as I could, but between the rollercoaster of 'Are You Sure?!', the hellscape that Jikook spaces (on Twitter/X and Tumblr) became (and honestly were already...), and trying to shorten everything down, it took a good while.

But I refuse to keep this past 2024, so here's an gift for the holidays (or maybe not considering the word count 🫥)!

I wanted to articulate exactly what my thoughts and concerns were, especially since this is a more serious topic regarding Jimin’s work and art, but I don’t think it came off that well before.

Hopefully I do better this time!

I’ve seen the many anons that were spamming your and other Jikookers’ inboxes the second WHO and MUSE released because “OMG Jimin said she/her!! He’s single and looking for a woman to love!” became the newest narrative.

While I do think it would be perfectly okay for him to want a female partner, it does make me slightly upset and sad, that people resorted to being homophobic and honestly misogynistic as a response. There is a way to discuss Jimin's potential romantic partners without being nasty to queer fans or possibly invalidating Jimin’s identity (especially since it is not likely that he’d ever fully come out (if he is queer/bi) in the way most people think nor want, given where he lives and his line of work).

Even the way people were talking about women was questionable. Going on about how it is outrageous for Jimin to deny himself the chance to be with a woman, have a biological family, and overall is wasting himself on Jungkook (if they are in a romantic relationship).

Making women out to be objects for men to use and only worth making/raising families, the homophobic rhetoric towards the longevity of queer relationships and same sex parents, as well as the blatant disrespect to Jungkook (that he’s “not enough” or “not right” for Jimin). If someone thinks that Jikook are nothing but platonic friends, that is perfectly fine. But to degrade their bond, as well as Jimin and Jungkook’s characters, is just unnecessarily cruel.

In regards to your response, I would love for nothing more than to say that it helped with my understanding of Jimin and MUSE, but I’m honestly not completely sure of that….

My first ask was sent right after the behind video for MUSE dropped, so before some of your posts that you linked about MUSE and WHO were posted (though I did read them again!).

Before I continue, I do want to make a few things clear:

I’m not stuck on any of my assumptions or thoughts being the “correct” way to interpret MUSE.

I’m not here to convince anyone that Jikook isn’t in a romantic relationship. I’m honestly really just confused.

I don’t need anyone to convince me that Jikook is still real.

I’m simply having a conversation and trying to process my thoughts and MUSE with someone that I trust and respect. Do I always agree with everything said? No, in fact disagreeing with others (Storm in this case) is how I tend to find out how I feel or think about a topic or situation.

I’ve done a lot of thinking about what exactly has been confusing me with MUSE, and I’ve narrowed it down to three main topics or questions: Is MUSE a conceptual album?, Is WHO how Jimin actually feels?, and What does this all mean for Jikook?

This is going to be long, I’m sorry in advance!

IS MUSE A CONCEPTUAL ALBUM?

Initial Thoughts

Since I’m used to Jimin’s recent work, FACE and his Photofolio, having lots of Jimin’s own inspirations and ideas tied into it, like Greek Mythology, German Poetry, Robert Mapplethorpe’s Imagery and Work, ect, with the title being MUSE, the idea that Jimin was going to vaguely write about his inspirations or muses (how Closer Than This is considered for ARMY) seemed likely to me.

Then as the track titles were revealed to be more romantic sounding, it felt like he may have used the concept of love to better articulate another deeper message. Or that he chose to write about a fictional love and focused more on vocal and production styles, in a similar way to what Jungkook did with Golden.

Post MMM

 While watching the MMM video for the first time, I was confused because Jimin had mentioned MUSE being more vague (or conceptual) than FACE but that WHO was his “feelings” after the previous tracks. Ultimately, I took that as him wanting to write about love but not having current personal experiences to pull from, so he decided to make up a fictional love story/crush, and then WHO comes at the end being like “actually that’s not true. i’m not in love, though i want to be.”

Then I saw this post:

https://www.tumblr.com/just-orbiting-you/756542511466643456/muse-is-a-concept-album?

I went back to watch MMM immediately, and was almost horrified at how I managed to miss or maybe interpret parts of Jimin and Namjoon’s conversation differently.

JM: I really tried to express all the emotions I felt at the time. “What do you talk about these days?” “How are things going?” Those were things Pdogg asked me about and I felt that it had been a while since I felt excited about something.

RM: Oh, over something.

JM: Yeah. We hadn’t been active as a team for a while either. I was working hard, I wanted to do well and was trying but it felt like it had been a long time since I was immersed in something or felt excited about something.

RM: So, since your life felt really bland, you expressed your different feelings through Muse?

JM: I tried to capture that in my album. I set my album like this, from tracks one through five, those emotions compared to having a crush and confessing my feelings.

RM: Having a crush is exciting.

JM: Exactly! So I share how I feel, then in track six which is the title track, I go, “no, that wasn’t really true”. “When will I feel excited about something again?”

RM: Then does it connect to Face in any way?

JM: Not really. It’s not that connected.

RM: Face was then?

JM: Those were my emotions then. Getting clarity, and this time it’s just vague.

With this in mind, as well as the fact that BOTH Jimin and Namjoon talked about Jimin’s work, singing, and idol identity more than anything to do with love, made the idea that search for love = search for his inspiration/excitement with his art more possible.

MUSE Behinds

Then the Behinds for Muse dropped….

Which led to my first ask:

https://stormblessed95.tumblr.com/post/758126579695190016/hi-ok-so-i-just-rewrote-everything-i-wanted-to

Looking back now, I don’t think I presented WHY I was so conflicted after that video that well in my initial ask.

JM: This album has a lot of cheerful songs. But I wanted to try a different approach for just the title track. There will be a lot of fun songs.

JM: It was harder to write the lyrics this time. I had to pretend to go through experiences I haven’t had before. I’ll explain it one by one in more detail later.

So I know a lot of people have been using the “pretend to go through experiences I haven’t had before” to explain the “looking for love” vibes of WHO, but my understanding of Jimin saying this was that it’s towards the first five tracks (where he sings about having a crush and falling in love). While both relate to it being a concept, it being about the rest of the album (the love part) does make it sound like he’s currently single.

JB (Jon): *interpreting Jimin’s ideas* I’d like to fall in love. I wanna, I’ll do what it takes to fall in love. I still don’t feel it, so what is my heart waiting for?

JM (Through the Translator): It’s just a bit sentimental, so it doesn’t get too intense like, “Where is she?” It doesn’t get too depressing.

JM: It’s not supposed to be sad or anything.

Translator: He’s not like, not too deep into it. He’s like “This is what I’m feeling right now”.

JM: It’s kind of embarrassing to explain emotions. It feels like someone found my diary.

Translator: Thank you for explaining everything so honestly.

JM: My ears are red. *touches ears*

I really do want to hear more of what Jimin told Jon directly about his (Jimin’s) vision for the song.

While Jimin still could be working through the idea of a concept about his inspiration, when he says “It feels like someone found my diary”, to me it really did sound more personal to him than expected.

Especially to be getting so embarrassed about it.

JM: I’ve poured all my emotions into this, so I was very embarrassed just now. Even though they just wanted to ask about the story I wanted to tell. It’s just, everyone…. *laughs*

JM: Everyone’s just living alone, right? That’s what it is.

Yes, technically he does LIVE ALONE or he could have been using the feeling of not having that excitement to being alone….

But I'm curious as to what he meant by “everyone’s just living alone, right?” within the context of WHO, MUSE, or even in general?

Producer: If the album is going to be all about expressing the process, we could just go all out conceptual.

Producer: I thought we could do a story with a specific concept, and I thought it’d be great if we chose a name for a band.

With SGMB, the confusion for me was more about them mentioning it being about “expressing the process” and being conceptual after I had thoughts about WHO being more personal.

Now I wonder if they meant the process of falling in love.

Response to Your Thoughts

I really liked your take on the title of MUSE and relating it to inspiration and the Muses of Greek Mythology. It fits in line with what we’ve seen from Jimin, as well as what I was initially expecting.

Like I said above, after going back and paying attention to what they were saying (I literally typed out the entire video to go over 💀), the search for his inspiration and a version of himself that he’s fully satisfied with seemed likely to be the concept of MUSE.

Rejecting WHO, because “he didn’t write it”, feels not only disrespectful, but stupid to do so. It’d be one thing if Jimin had clearly stated that he had no connection to the lyrics/story and just liked the song that was given to him (though this is still weird, because him liking the song and presenting it to fans is valid and important). But that’s not what happened.

Yes someone else wrote WHO, but we’re literally told AND shown that Jimin was involved when they wrote it. That Jimin himself explained what he wanted to express through the song. Along with his further involvement with the MV and the choreo.

If he is explaining his search for inspiration through the idea of romance, that is incredibly smart and endearing of him. It shows me how much his work and art matter to him. That he’s willing to work on bettering himself (even if I thought he was already amazing) to achieve even better results that he can truly be proud of.

While I can see where topics surrounding his sexuality can come into play with WHO, more so with the MV, I’m under the impression that Jimin has come to terms with any gender expression or sexuality issues he’s had a long while ago. But still, even if he is accepting of who he is, others (ARMY, South Korea, The World, ect) might not be.

I’m happy though that even while in this search (whether for inspiration, satisfaction, or love) that he’s still able to be happy and content with where he is at and who he is.

Producers’ and Jimin’s Thoughts

Hearing that MUSE was born after Jimin was so excited to work on music, especially considering the darker topics discussed in FACE, makes me so unbelievably happy. The songs ending up as upbeat and hopeful, even romantic, really does make sense in that context.

But I'm honestly more and more confused the more people talk about this album.

The producers say the album is about looking for some imaginary woman, while every song other than WHO is gender neutral. Even with WHO, we are shown a version that was gender neutral.

“He’s a Korean Idol. He’s going to be portrayed as straight!”

So why is Jimin not following that?

Most (if not all) of what I hear him talk about in relation to MUSE is gender neutral. I don’t have an issue with Jimin making love songs about women, but make it consistent with the rest of the album that THEY (Jimin and Producers) wrote then!

Is it Personal or Conceptual?

Yes…

It's true that conceptual doesn’t have to mean fake, but the question I’m often left with is “In what way is this album conceptual?” Is it his search for inspiration and excitement of his work through a romantic lens OR is it his search for his person through a made up love story?

The idea of most of the album being love songs about a made up relationship/crush just to be like “I’m actually single and alone!”, does frustrate me a little. Like he’s an Idol, it’s already assumed that he’s single.

“Please misunderstand”, Park Jimin, what does this mean??

At first I thought maybe he meant him being in a relationship, because the songs (up until WHO) read as him confessing to someone or telling ARMY about his partner. But WHO exists on the album… so that narrative is already clear.

So is he not LOOKING FOR A WOMAN? Or is he not SINGLE?

Is the album not about his LOVE LIFE but his work?

Because ANY of those would actually make more sense to misunderstand.

Why is he releasing this in the military? I’d understand if he was planning on revealing a partner, but based on what Jimin, the producers, and WHO are saying, he’s single. So is he announcing that he’s looking for love once he’s discharged? Then we go back to it being assumed that he is already single… and not going to lie, that is a little strange to announce? Why make an entire album for that?

Why is Closer Than This on the album? I’m desperately hoping it’s not some sick way of saying “At least I got ARMY”..... and then what is Letter for?

IS WHO HOW JIMIN ACTUALLY FEELS?

The Song

So the only song that Jimin doesn’t have writing credits on is supposed to be the one depicting his “true feelings”... Interesting.

According to the producers, the song was born out of Jimin having trouble relating to a love serenade they were trying to write initially, and thus ends up asking himself if he can ever really love someone. With the song apparently being about the reality of feeling lonely and melancholy, and asking yourself where the person for you is , it does make me think that he hasn’t been in a long term romantic relationship for years, if it’s directly about Jimin and not just the concept of the song.

“He’s an Idol, of course he’ll say he’s single and doesn’t know what love is!”

Ok, but why mention it at all?

I could maybe see Jimin not being out to his producers (or more so with his possible relationship with Jungkook), but it’s also not hard to just take him at his word (via the producers) that he’s unfamiliar with romantic love.

Jimin mentions that when he meets up with friends, they’re all feeling similarly flat. I wonder if that flatness is towards not being in a relationship or feeling uninspired with life and/or work? He goes on to say it’s not a sad or scary feeling, but it’s also not exciting. This could go for either concept (Love or Work) to be honest.

The MV

Initially with the MV,  I just saw Jimin dancing with girls trying to find the one but ending up alone (in line with the song). The only thing that I really had trouble processing was the billboard…

I’ve read through multiple analyses of the MV since my first viewing, and I’ve noticed a lot more details that are somewhat questionable.

Auto Calibration being the main one as it flashes on screen after Jimin dances with men and then leads into him dancing with women. This does give some queer vibes, and makes me interested in what “story” Jimin had in mind with WHO as the choreo also has similar vibes too.

Jimin mentioning people instead of just women as potential options when passing by is also interesting, especially when he has mostly talked about this album gender neutrally.

The billboard with SOMEONE’S EYES dropping after Jimin sings “Who is my heart waiting for?” does seem as though it's an answer for Jimin, or maybe others. Especially when WHO with NO QUESTION MARK and Keep Going are written on it. In my opinion, it does resemble Jungkook's eyes. But I find it hard to take it as a promotion of some sort when it quite literally interrupts the MV, seemingly for no reason, instead of being a poster in the back.

Then of course, there is the insane potential connection of Taeyang, someone Jimin is a known fan of and is now friends with, showcasing his then girlfriend (now wife) on a billboard in a MV….

The Choreo

Most of the choreo just matches with the lyrics, but there are some parts that I found interesting.

During a Chorus part Jimin joins up with SIX OTHER MEN. I don’t know if this is supposed to be a BTS reference or just formations. But what is the point of having SIX when there is only FIVE later for the girls vs boys part? Why not just keep the seven men (including Jimin) and have seven girls? Where’d the other guy even go?

Next in Verse Two when Jimin sings about “taking her places they ain’t found yet, putting it all on the line, and being that someone she can count on”, he dances with two men. Why? Would it not be better for him to do some sort of partner choreo here?

In the bridge, he repeats “who is my heart, heart waiting for?” as he passes by BOTH WOMEN AND MEN. Sure he only tries to match with women, but he’s a kpop idol and the song uses female pronouns, so that’s expected. I’m sure the male dancers were most likely included just to have it look better, but considering Jimin saying people when talking about it, the gender neutral version of the song, and that Jimin was involved with the choreo, it’s something to consider!

Jimin also keeps mentioning the choreo feeling like a short film or musical, which makes all the film (play, pause, rewind) details in the MV fit.

I am a bit disappointed that he, once again, warned fans about him interacting with women in the choreo. Even to the point of saying “moments that you might find uncomfortable” and “please don’t be too disappointed”

This is part of the reason I’m genuinely confused if this was to be some big “ARMY I’m dating/going to date!” announcement, because why would he care??? He mentions that “it is part of the grand scheme of things”, does that just refer to the story aspect of the choreo or is there more to it?

His conversations with his friends come up again, about how there are few instances to feel really strong emotions and him thinking “Should I start feeling more passion?” while making WHO, and that the writers of WHO worded the story he wanted to tell in such a lovely way.

The choreo has a lot of fun theatrical elements as he seems to want to express a lot of picturesque scenes, and the dance suits him while being simpler and fresh. But he’s still concerned about how to express the emotions for this song, as it isn't a sad song, but it does kind of become one towards the end.

Jimin’s Truth

With the amount of story elements, I’m considering the song being more of a way to describe his feelings about needing passion in his life than a detailed recount of his “failing love life”. It’s still his thoughts and feelings, but maybe expressed in a more digestible way for the audience.

If he is being up front about his romantic past, then I really do hope he finds his person, whoever they might be.

Park Jimin OF ALL PEOPLE deserves to love and be loved!

WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN FOR JIKOOK?

Being More Open

I know Jimin, and all idols, needs to be careful when talking about love. It’s why I’m so confused as to why this concept, and why now? Though with Jin stating that he wrote Falling for someone, maybe this is just part of BTS being more honest and open.

I do want to take Jimin and Jungkook’s words and actions seriously, however part of what has been said about MUSE and WHO from Jimin and his producers, does make me question if I (and the rest of us) were mistaken of what the nature of their bond is.

Why Does It Matter?

I think part of the reason that it's important to me to know if Jimin is legitimately saying he’s single, is that I do want to respect him and his words.

“So why were you shipping him with his bandmate?” 

Personally I’ve always left room for doubt when it comes to Jikook. It’s not everything I think about in terms of BTS, Jimin, and/or Jungkook. Nor is it the end of the world for me if they’re simply platonic friends. I just thought Jikook seemed like they were/are dating.

Now I’m a little confused on where I stand, and knowing what MUSE and WHO are about in relation to Jimin would help. I know you obviously can’t know exactly. But I’m hoping I’ll get something other than “Jikook is real! Stop doubting them! You’re projecting your internalized homophobia!” OR “Jikook isn’t real! Jimin is straight and looking for a woman!”

Random AYS Interjection

I did want to finish this before Are You Sure premiered because I didn't want to keep talking about this past then and really didn’t think I had that much more to say.

But as I was going through my ask, your response to me, your posts you linked, my notes on Jimin’s video, the new videos that were being uploaded, and other anons and bloggers opinions, I realized this was going to take longer than I thought.

Part of me was also curious if my thoughts on MUSE would change how I saw Jikook in Are You Sure. Honestly my surprise when I didn’t find anything that pointed to them breaking up or being just platonic, was nothing compared to seeing that my opinion was uncommon to quite a few in the Jikook Community….

“What about the Car Conversation?!?!”

OK???? What about it?

Honestly, watching people discover that Jimin and Jungkook were busy and missing each other (or at least quality time) in 2023 for the first time this August was interesting to say the least…

We could get into the abuse and bullying allegations, calling Jimin being anti romantic over things taken out of context or making it into some weird narrative that Jimin doesn’t love Jungkook as much or that he sees their relationship as the Devil, or the fifty other weird things some of y’all said on your "Jikook Supporter" blogs…

But this is about MUSE, so THAT RANT will have to wait!

Final Conclusion

I’m still confused, but I do think after reviewing things that there is more to MUSE than I think. Especially with stories and theatrics being involved in so much of the concept.

I really just want to know what MUSE is about. The misunderstanding thing was fun for like a couple days, now it just makes me anxious and stressed. But maybe it was supposed to be like this 😔

Thank you for actually responding to my first ask so nicely and being willing to have this discussion with me!

Sorry this response took forever, hopefully it's somewhat decent 😭

Hope you're doing well, and are having a good holiday!

— Nice Muse Anon 🎨

I'm going to cry. I typed this whole fucking thing up. And it got deleted. So here we go again 😭

Hi love, I'm going to do this in a bit of a direct response thing. Copy what you say in red and then reply to it and so forth. Here we go. It won't be EVERYTHING you say, just the parts I wanted to make a comment about....

But I refuse to keep this past 2024, so here's an gift for the holidays (or maybe not considering the word count 🫥)!

And yet here I am months later. Sorry!

Your first 3 opening paragraphs about homophobia and misogyny.... Hard preach!

IS MUSE A CONCEPTUAL ALBUM?

Rejecting WHO, because “he didn’t write it”, feels not only disrespectful, but stupid to do so. It’d be one thing if Jimin had clearly stated that he had no connection to the lyrics/story and just liked the song that was given to him (though this is still weird, because him liking the song and presenting it to fans is valid and important). But that’s not what happened.

Agreed

Yes someone else wrote WHO, but we’re literally told AND shown that Jimin was involved when they wrote it. That Jimin himself explained what he wanted to express through the song. Along with his further involvement with the MV and the choreo. If he is explaining his search for inspiration through the idea of romance, that is incredibly smart and endearing of him. It shows me how much his work and art matter to him. That he’s willing to work on bettering himself (even if I thought he was already amazing) to achieve even better results that he can truly be proud of.

Agreed x 2

Hearing that MUSE was born after Jimin was so excited to work on music, especially considering the darker topics discussed in FACE, makes me so unbelievably happy. The songs ending up as upbeat and hopeful, even romantic, really does make sense in that context.

It does make sense in that context!

“He’s a Korean Idol. He’s going to be portrayed as straight!” So why is Jimin not following that?

This is part of why he is beloved. Him and BTS. They do this all the time and queer or not, it's impactful and meaningful and special to so many people

It's true that conceptual doesn’t have to mean fake, but the question I’m often left with is “In what way is this album conceptual?” Is it his search for inspiration and excitement of his work through a romantic lens OR is it his search for his person through a made up love story?

Personally, I think it's option 1. People can have their own opinions though, no right or wrong answer. Some might even have other options they think it is

The idea of most of the album being love songs about a made up relationship/crush just to be like “I’m actually single and alone!”, does frustrate me a little. Like he’s an Idol, it’s already assumed that he’s single.

1000% fair and I can even agree a bit with that frustration. Mostly my frustration there is with the company and fans though that cultivated this environment for idols

Why is he releasing this in the military? I’d understand if he was planning on revealing a partner, but based on what Jimin, the producers, and WHO are saying, he’s single. So is he announcing that he’s looking for love once he’s discharged? Then we go back to it being assumed that he is already single… and not going to lie, that is a little strange to announce? Why make an entire album for that?

I don't think he is announcing anything exactly. Like it's not a release meant to be for an announcement. If that makes sense. He isn't trying to inform people he is single and/or ready to mingle. He is trying to share emotions and a story. Why during MS? Idk.

Why is Closer Than This on the album? I’m desperately hoping it’s not some sick way of saying “At least I got ARMY”..... and then what is Letter for?

Usually singles that are released before albums get put on the album. Personally I think that was a one off goodbye song for ARMY before the army. I don't think it actually has anything to do with the album concepts or themes at all... Lol it just got stuck on the album because of release times. But that's just me and what do I actually know 🤷‍♀️

What is letter for? Good question. There are soooo many theories lmfao

IS WHO HOW JIMIN ACTUALLY FEELS?

The Song

According to the producers, the song was born out of Jimin having trouble relating to a love serenade they were trying to write initially, and thus ends up asking himself if he can ever really love someone. With the song apparently being about the reality of feeling lonely and melancholy, and asking yourself where the person for you is , it does make me think that he hasn’t been in a long term romantic relationship for years, if it’s directly about Jimin and not just the concept of the song.

Fair enough friend. I disagree but that's totally fair and valid feelings to have

“He’s an Idol, of course he’ll say he’s single and doesn’t know what love is!” Ok, but why mention it at all?

Because with the concept and theme being what they are, it would be discussed to hell and back (low-key hello is us in this post) and it's "damage control" regardless on how I feel about that, it's most likely what it is. No matter how annoying

I could maybe see Jimin not being out to his producers (or more so with his possible relationship with Jungkook), but it’s also not hard to just take him at his word (via the producers) that he’s unfamiliar with romantic love.

I personally Don't form my opinions too much based on things that are second hand. I still take them into account for sure. But I don't put too too much stock into things that via someone else on behalf of any of BTS. Because really, they can just say anything. Now don't take this as me dismissing things said, because I'm not. I'm just clarifying for everyone that I form 85% of my opinions ONLY on things that are direct from Jimin himself and based directly on Jimins actions. Things are going to be influenced by personal bias always as well too

The MV

I think we are mostly just mostly on the same page with everything you said here

The Choreo

Again, mostly think we are on the same page about your thoughts here. Will just comment specially about....

I am a bit disappointed that he, once again, warned fans about him interacting with women in the choreo. Even to the point of saying “moments that you might find uncomfortable” and “please don’t be too disappointed”

Very fair and honestly same. Again, mostly in the fans and company that have cultivated that environment he feels like he has to operate in now. I do wish he would care less about it though.

This is part of the reason I’m genuinely confused if this was to be some big “ARMY I’m dating/going to date!” announcement, because why would he care??? He mentions that “it is part of the grand scheme of things”, does that just refer to the story aspect of the choreo or is there more to it?

Jimin just cares a lot and very deeply about everything that matters to him, which includes his job and his fans. As for the grand scheme comment, I personally think it's in regards to the story aspect of the choreo, but that's just me

With the amount of story elements, I’m considering the song being more of a way to describe his feelings about needing passion in his life than a detailed recount of his “failing love life”. It’s still his thoughts and feelings, but maybe expressed in a more digestible way for the audience. If he is being up front about his romantic past, then I really do hope he finds his person, whoever they might be. Park Jimin OF ALL PEOPLE deserves to love and be loved!

HARD AGREE!!

WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN FOR JIKOOK?

I know Jimin, and all idols, needs to be careful when talking about love. It’s why I’m so confused as to why this concept, and why now? Though with Jin stating that he wrote Falling for someone, maybe this is just part of BTS being more honest and open.

Between Jin saying he wrote falling for someone, and Joon with some of his songs and posts... And some other things and comments, I really really hope that they come out of MS feeling more free and giving less of a fuck about certain fans and their feelings about things. But only time will tell

I do want to take Jimin and Jungkook’s words and actions seriously, however part of what has been said about MUSE and WHO from Jimin and his producers, does make me question if I (and the rest of us) were mistaken of what the nature of their bond is.

Fair enough friend

I think part of the reason that it's important to me to know if Jimin is legitimately saying he’s single, is that I do want to respect him and his words.

Highlighting the respect part, because everyone should want to do the same

Personally I’ve always left room for doubt when it comes to Jikook. It’s not everything I think about in terms of BTS, Jimin, and/or Jungkook. Nor is it the end of the world for me if they’re simply platonic friends. I just thought Jikook seemed like they were/are dating.

Yes

AYS comments....

Honestly, watching people discover that Jimin and Jungkook were busy and missing each other (or at least quality time) in 2023 for the first time this August was interesting to say the least…

It really brings back up that whole media literacy thing I keep bringing up people's lack of and as well as people's lack of understanding of relationships in general (platonic and romantic) doesn't it. Lol

We could get into the abuse and bullying allegations, calling Jimin being anti romantic over things taken out of context or making it into some weird narrative that Jimin doesn’t love Jungkook as much or that he sees their relationship as the Devil, or the fifty other weird things some of y’all said on your "Jikook Supporter" blogs… But this is about MUSE, so THAT RANT will have to wait!

Always willing to have any kind of discussion with you lovely 🎨! Either through asks or DMs.

Your conclusions

I’m still confused, but I do think after reviewing things that there is more to MUSE than I think. Especially with stories and theatrics being involved in so much of the concept.

I agree

I really just want to know what MUSE is about. The misunderstanding thing was fun for like a couple days, now it just makes me anxious and stressed. But maybe it was supposed to be like this 😔

JIMIN PLEASE. YOU ARE KILLING US. And this is for sure how it's going to stay. We are getting NOTHING more from him 😭😂

Thank you for actually responding to my first ask so nicely and being willing to have this discussion with me!

Fucking always. But I feel like I didn't actually DO anything for you here and I'm so sorry! I wish I could be more helpful for you in a discussion. Let me know if there are things I can give a more in depth opinion on if I haven't already?? I enjoy talking with you and hearing your thoughts!

~ Storm⛈️

[another-random-paradise]

Hello! I noticed your account has open requests and I've been searching for a while to find some twst writers lol! I really hope you don't mind this request and I like your works :3

A request about Leona and/or Ruggie realizing that this “naive“ m!reader is actually the king of sunset savannah's entertainer/court jester (you know how kings hired court jesters to entertain them in parties or whatever, I haven't done much research). They can insult Falena and the guards wouldn't beat his ass (since it's literally part of his job) PLUS it pays REALLY GOOD. The beastmen just recently found out because of the reader saying a comment about the King, saying something like “His hair reminds me of a tomato.“ “King Tomato Furry (Falena) said that I'll get a raise lol“ just randomly and went back to work.

I HOPE IT MAKES SENSE PLEASE 😭

A lovers Jest

Your brain is so big, anon. So very big, I love this request so much, you don't even know!! In Leonas part the M!reader is mentioned, but in Ruggies it isn't exactly mentioned, since i didn't want to unnecessarily cramp it in, I hope that's okay! Also Leona finds out during a festival, since i thought it would be funny- Also, I'm sorry this took so long, and thank you for the kind words!! Hope you enjoy :) There are way to many "Also's" in this Intro-

---------------------------------------------------------

Finding out their crush is the Royal Jester

Characters: Leona, Ruggie

Format: Headcanons

Warnings: None that i can think off

Leona

-How did he not know earlier about you being his brothers Jester? well, the man was to busy sleeping to partake in any of the royal festivities 

-How you could be so seemingly naive was a mystery to him, it really stunned him at times, but nonetheless you seemed to grow on him, so, you two started to hang out often

-He liked how, behind the closed doors of his room, you're even willing to joke and make fun of his brother. Falena is usually held in high regards by citizens of Sunset Savanna, not that he really minded. That is definitely why you two started hanging out so much (definitely not because he is slowly developing a crush on you, nuh uh)

-He would tease, how, as the second prince, he could report you to his brother and the guards, because of your jokes, only to get a laugh in response for from you. Truly, how naive could you be to not take threats seriously? let alone make jokes so carelessly about the king?! 

-Well, he was quick to find out, when he eventually was forced to go to a royal event! It's Chekas birthday, and the little man was very insistent about having his beloved uncle there! So, reluctantly, he went, no matter how little he wanted to. He did show up late though

-And when he did arrive, he almost immediately sees you. Well, the prince's birthday was commonly celebrated by the entire kingdom, he supposes it wasn't to weird you're here.. But why is there a crowd around you? and why are you standing so close to his brother?! And then, once he got a bit closer, he could finally hear what you were saying 

-"Why, your majesty, King of tomatoes may just be a better fitting title for you!"

-Oh. Oh no no no no no- he just came to terms with having a crush on you, and now you practically throw yourself into prison?! He knows you're naive, but to openly insult the king?! Even as the second prince he won't be able to save you from prison!

-Leona is panicking to say the least, just as he is about to try and intervene and stop you from being thrown into prison for the rest of your live, he suddenly hears his brother..laugh? The guards stand in their place, a few people in the crowd giggling, as his brother and his sister-in-law are full on laughing.

-He just stands there shocked, till Falena finally notices him. "Leona! how nice of you to finally grace us with your presence! I believe you have yet to meet my Jester?" Jester?! It would explain the situation.. "No, we have met before.." 

-respond to his intense stare with a smile, and suddenly he is looking away and blushing ever so slightly

-Suddenly your 'naivety' makes so much sense. You aren't naive, you just love your work so much, you continue to do it outside of working hours

-The rest of the night he spends silently observing you, while having to deal with chekas antics 

-You best believe, that the next time you two hang out, he'll be confronting you, very much wanting to know why you didn't tell him- You probably thought he already knew, since, y'know, he's part of the royal family and all

-This, along with his crush on you, gave him a great Idea. As a second prince, he isn't required to marry a woman, since he doesn't need an heir.. So not only is he free to marry you, he would get to take his brothers favorite Jester from him. For once, he'd be the one to take something from his brother, instead of the other way around! 

-Of course, that isn't the only reason he wants to marry you, dear reader, this lion is head over heels for you- he's just to stubborn to admit it :)

Ruggie

-You and Ruggie have probably already been close for a while, maybe you even have already gone on a date or two!

-And yet, he has yet to know what you do for work. But he does know that you make A LOT of money! He wouldn't just like you for the money, but if you're the kind of person to use at least a small amount to help those in need like himself by giving to charity, or paying for the meals he takes back home for the kids of the slum during the holidays, then that is a definitely one of the reason he fell for you

-He did notice how openly you insulted the King, and he can't say he minds, that man has so much money, and is supposed to take care of his kingdom, and yet there are still kids growing up the way he did. 

-Nonetheless, he usually stops you when your 'naive' enough to Joke about the King in the open, he doesn't need you going to prison, you pay for so many of his meals! He is genuinely in love with you, but just like Leona, too stubborn to admit it

-Until one day, he once again stops you from Insulting the king in public and you reply with a simple "Why? King Tomato-head even said I'd get a raise for that Joke!"

-"Wait what? What do you mean by that??" - If you translated Ruggies expression into words

-"Oh yeah, I'm the Royal Jester! Did I never tell you that?" No, no you did not- but it does explain a lot to Ruggie, why, no matter how much you joked in the open, the guards never went after you, why you were willing to insult the king at all.. You weren't naive, you were just doing your job!

-...Do you think you could also get him a job as jester? He knows a court usually has more than one Jester, and apparently it pays well!.. But that would mean he would spent his holidays at the castle instead of with his grandma and the slum kids. Yeah, he'll leave the Jesting to you

-But suddenly, instead of stopping you from telling your jokes, he'll help you come up with them! He knows, that the funnier a Jester is, the more they'll get paid, and you best believe he's making sure you bring home that bag!!

-...Also, maybe if you have a holiday off, you'd be willing to come with him to the slums and perform for the kids? He can only imagine how exited they would be to see the performance of an actual jester. 

-If you say yes, he'd literally be willing to marry you on the spot, he's already picking a venue

Tbh, not that proud of Leonas part, the words didn't wanna word- But I'm still pretty proud of myself nonetheless ngl

Also, two posts in one day, I feel so productive-

I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is welcomed, just be nice :)

Have a lovely day/night!

[wonderfullyinlovewithlife]

Hi, how are you?

If it wouldn’t be too much may I request a Finn x Reader witchy fluffy? Maybe light jealous Finn?

Hi Doll,

I’m so sorry for the late response! I’ve been really good thank you. How about yourself?

As for what I’ve cooked up, I hope you like it!

Finn Mikelson x Witch!Reader, Fluff

You sat at your vanity, idly picking at the little ceramic cats you had been gifted by a relative a few years back. They were cute, out-dated, but cute. One orange cat, no bigger than your forefinger was dressed in blue overalls, whereas the white pussycat had a pink sunhat. The orange one came to kiss what you assumed to be the girl cat on the cheek. 

‘Are you still upset with me?’ Finn called from where he stood leaning against the doorway, mindful so as to not come into your bedroom uninvited. He was so gentlemanly in that regard. Observing rules of decorum that you thought had long passed. But now, you just founded a little annoying. He could come into your bedroom, for goodness sake, he was supposed to be your boyfriend. 

‘No.’ You said, staring holes into the little pink sunhat. 

‘You are. And I don’t want you to be. I didn’t mean to offend you with what I said.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘Then may I come in?’

You turned to look at him then. In truth, you weren’t annoyed with him for not calling. But your exhaustion at this past week was making it hard to keep your state in check. ‘Do whatever you want Finn, I’m not the boss of you.’

He walked right over to you and placed his hands on top of your head, gently manoeuvring you to look up at him, so your eyes would meet in the reflection of the oval mirror. 

‘You know you have my heart, so I say this in gest, but I hadn’t expected you to be so child-like in your tantrums.’

‘Of course, you’d think that, compared to you, I am a child. Most people would be children compared to you. You’re like a gazillion years old.’

He pinched your cheek at that. ‘I’m not sorry about what I said before. I want you serious. But I don’t like it when you don’t talk to me.’

You looked down at your little cats, but he was having none of it. Again, he brought your focus back to him. ‘It’s an old spell. Unnecessarily complex for the sake of it. I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you weren’t taking this seriously, but I do want you present. Fully.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I know.’ 

‘So, am I forgiven?’

You winked at him. ‘Depends on whether we go out to eat or not.’

—----

Finn had grown accustomed to the Mystic Grill out of necessity. In his opinion, it was too loud and busy, and the food, though perfectly reasonable, was not so good as to have him justify coming to a place like this. But he did, and he did so often because you liked it and all your friends were always here, and it made you happy when he came with you, and so, like the fool he felt like when he was around you, he did as you pleased.

‘Oh look, it’s Kasey!’ You waved at a girl by the pool table. She was of the non-descript type. Mousy brown hair, but with a big smile. She waved back, and in her doing so, the guy behind her, turned to look at you as well. Finn caught how his eyes looked you up and down, licking his lips in a way that felt unnecessarily cartoonish. If this were any other place, he’d have him expelled from the premises, but he didn’t want to upset you any more than he already had. 

—

‘Who’s that?’ He asked as you both got comfortable in the booth by the fireplace. It was the closest thing to ‘intimate dining’ as it got in this place.

‘Oh, Kasey. We were on the cheer team together.’

‘Right. And that man behind her?’

‘The one with the buzz-cut? I don’t really know. I mean, I know he used to hang around Jeremy and Vicki Donovan – I don’t think you know her. Urm, but….I think he dropped out of high school a couple of years ago, he was a little older than Vicki. But everyone always just says that he deals. But, again, I don’t know.’ You craned your neck back to look at them on the pool table, the man in question catching you look.’ Wonder why Kasey’s hanging around him though.’ You turned back to Finn. ‘He gives me the creeps though.’

‘He seems to be intrigued by you.’ 

‘Gross.’

‘You should ask her why she’s associating with a man like that, didn’t you mention something about her wanting to be on middle school girl council thing–’

‘Yeah! You remembered, it’s the Mystic Girls Rep Community, which is just our town's girl scouts. You know how everyone is here, gotta put Mystic Falls in the title otherwise it doesn’t count.’ You smiled at him. ‘What a sneaky way of trying to change the subject. You’re jelly that the guys looking at me.’ 

Finn gave you one of those looks he reserved specifically for Kol, which you had learned was his way of nonverbally asking, "Are you being serious right now?"

‘Look at my man. Jealous!’ You sounded way to happy. ‘Ha. Who would have thought I would have lived to see the day?’

‘Oh shush,’ He said, but not denying it. ‘You should ask her. Something might not be right.’

‘Interesting tactic, Mr.Mikaelson, but the cats are already out of the bag. You must really like me, huh?’

‘Well, I have entered a formal union with you; I would say yes.’

‘Wow, what a way to kill the fun that comes with just saying girlfriend, but sure. I’ll take it.’

‘I won’t feed you if you keep this up.’

‘Oh, you so totally will. Because don’t forget, no food, no motivation, no magic.’

He sighed in what sounded like exhaustion, but a strangely love-sick expression was on his face.’ Pick something and eat.’

‘Yes, Boss!’ You gave him a half-hearted salute and started flicking through the menu, a performative measure, of course. He already knew what you were going to get. 

[velvetvexations]

i kinda have had this weighing on my mind for a while about trans men and mascs in "women's spaces". for context, i'm in an engineering university (known for having extremely conservative populations) in a south asian country. i'm a closeted transmasc and i'm assigned to the girls' hostel.

now, it's like. if i were to come out, i wouldn't really feel safe being allotted to the boys' hostels? (not that the uni has any such facilities though, there was an out trans man who was my senior, and he had to live here as well). it's not that i feel particularly safe in the girls' hostel either, but as long as i stay closeted i'm fine. to explain, i want to quote this one video i saw from a similar (but not my own) uni in which students were asked their opinions on co-ed hostels. almost every cis guy replied "let's just say she (assuming female roommate) would be pregnant by the end of the week" or "i'd tell my mom to start wedding preparations". and while i try my hardest to constantly remind myself that cishet men are not my enemy, i'm so constantly also surrounded by misogyny that if someone were to drop me into a space dominated by your usual, non-woke cishet men (like in many cishet-men dominated spaces), i'd be scared shitless. i find the sentiment of needing to "not infringe on women's spaces and going to go live with cishet men" very tough to reconcile given my lived experiences. and also this constant fear coming from "let's rape and impregnate her into being a real woman" being such an usual response to any transmascs (well, they don't understand "transmasc" usually so they just think you're a masc woman lesbian or so) doesn't help at all.

this is NOT to imply that trans women and fems deserve to go live in men's spaces, my stance is more like. at least where i live, i feel like spaces dominated by cishet women tend to be a little safer than those primarily dominated by cishet men because i actually very rarely see cishet men try to challenge their biases. so whoever needs these "women's spaces" ( or any other such spaces) ought to have access to that. as in, i don't care about what your gender is, i need you to have access to wherever is safer. your safety comes first.

this kind of feeling, in turn, really makes me doubt my transness because shouldn't i want to have access to male spaces? it really feels like i'm "clinging to my birth sex" instead of idk. manning up and dealing with it. i've not had the best experiences in these "women's spaces" either, it's depressing at best, but "men's spaces" feel like a significantly scarier situation to live in given how i hear a lot of them talk. it's one of the reasons my heart goes out to transfems and women and femininely-presenting cis guys and such so much. it's also not that i don't seek companionship with cishet men, i really try, but i have almost always been excluded from my attempts to do that either directly (hey we don't want stupid women here) or indirectly (i hate talking to misogynists and queerphobes, so if i hear someone talking like that i immediately want to not talk to them anymore).

i suppose my general view is that most of these guys seem to act so misogynistic and queerphobic in violent ways that it genuinely scares me for all queer folks and women in their surroundings. i know that it's "not all men (cishet)", but it really, scarily feels like a lot of them. i mean, we can't even ask anyone to put up a poster for a queer event in these hostels for fear that they will be attacked. and i don't know how to reconcile that with the fact that i'm most definitely victimising myself unnecessarily AND demonising a lot of people. so i would like to hear your opinion on this, if possible. no worries if not, and i'm sorry if i've been especially uneducated in my talks. i genuinely want to understand. thank you for any time you've given to this ask, even if you choose to not respond. have a nice day!

It's completely understandable and I wish you weren't in that impossible position. You're not a woman just because you're worried about cis men rejecting and turning on you.

[brainworms-all-night-long]

yk how fanfic authors lament having to write an entire fic just for the sake of a single scene? heh. I am above that *smug emoji* (<- is actually just incapable of making a coherent long winded time sequential narrative) (this scene is meant to be in The Same But different fic)

[4,478 words]

___

"Well, not sure how this is gonna sound but, you're right." Suddenly, his overly crowded internal monologue was dead silent, and Sonic was left grasping at syllables," I, I don't really know you. Or anyone else in the Shatterverse, at least definitely not as much as everyone in Green Hills. They've been my friends for years, since I was a kid, and, and especially Tails you know. He's my little brother." A natural smile made its way across his muzzle as he said that, before it disappeared, "So I guess loosing them, especially because of my own hothead mistake, I, well, it was a tough pill to swallow."

Eventually, it became slightly less difficult to feel his voice, but the fear of loosing that flow left him with no filter or space to second guess what he was actually saying.

"So I just didn't. And I clung to the fact you just, looked and acted similar enough. And than you, and than I realized how stupid I was for that. And I really wish we just had a moment to just, talk before it was too late and instead of, all that happening."

Despite averting his eyes, he didn't miss the well deserved glare sharpening Nine's previously impassive face.

"I'm sorry." was the last thing to fall out of his mouth as no new justification came up clearly in his head. He could all but hope the apology sounded as genuine as he felt it.

"Well at least you're finally honest." Nine sighed and pressed his lips into a thin line. Both of them were plunged into an uncomfortable stretch of silence afterwards. It was rudely underscored by the churning sea, which couldn't care less about either of them and their past mistakes.

Sonic gave himself that moment sort through his unintelligible mess of thoughts and watched the few visible stars reflect off of the distorted, ever-moving mirror the water.

For a second he could swear he saw the Grim's endless sky in it.

"But well, now we have the time to talk." He cut through the almost unbearable tension finally, hoping that any good will Nine might’ve still had towards him wasn’t all lost in an instant, "Now that we're not constantly on a run, fighting against the clock or each other, we can get to know each other. Properly."

Nine's scowl just turned to an uncertain grimace and he fully turned away, face digging into his knees and giving no further response.

But it didn't look like he was done with the conversation, maybe just thinking? Sonic wasn't sure, there were a lot of little habits Nine has that the hedgehog has yet to pick up on. And a lot more that he needs to learn to interpret differently from what he's used to seeing in, another certain fox.

Trying to get back on track, Sonic shook his head and realized just how unbearably itchy his legs have gotten after the minutes just sitting here, and what was supposed to be a relaxing late night outing with a buddy of his, turned into an unnecessarily heavy feelings-talk.

Ugh.

He wanted to just get up and dash away, run off this uneasy feeling sticking to him worse than the sand itself, but he knew he that would only not work, because he already tried that, multiple times this week, but what was worse, he'd be throwing any genuine chance at a proper reconciliation out into the sea.

Nine was letting himself be a subject of this talk too, and he wasn’t having much better time with it either. Either of them could get up and leave at any point, but the unresolved tension must've been keeping both of them glued to the ground and the more they struggle against it, the worse the weight will get, almost like quicksand.

So he took a deep breath and sifted a few fist-fulls of sand through his fingers in an attempt to ground himself in a different manner than running away.

"Because well... I don't think you knew me at all either."

This earned an ear-flick from the other.

"You said that you did, but, I don't think so. I guess, both of us misunderstood each other on a fundamental level since the beginning."

All of Nine's tails stirred across the sand in an eerie unison, and in that moment Sonic realized just how tense all of his muscles were, on the verge of fight or flight.

Just keep talking. That usually works.

"I am, I'm really sorry about the Grim, you know. I wish I realized just how much it meant to you before it was too late." He said as gently as his voice allowed him to, "I guess I didn't get what you saw about it because well, on some level I just knew I wouldn't be happy in there. I guess our ideas of home were so far apart I just, I could never imagine living there long-term. Sorry bud." Sonic hesitated as Nine's ears pinned back slightly, "I knew you had plans for it, and I would love to see what you did with the place if given the chance, but it's just, not for me."

This caused a proper stir in Nine's frame as he finally lifted his head back up to hiss a response.

"I could've made the Grim into whatever you wanted. I could've made it into Green Hills and more. Everything you could've imagined I would've made it. We wouldn't have even been constrained by what was physically possible." Venom was steadily seeping into his tone, and he let out a dry scoff, "But you didn't even consider it. Too preoccupied with your 'friends' and getting back what was lost, you refused to give me a chance. And now the Grim is gone for good because of it."

The news of Grim supposedly no longer existing threw a small wrench into Sonic’s thesis and opened up a couple questions, but he shelved them for later.

"I know bud, I know. But, that just, it wouldn't be the same. And I am giving you a chance, so many in fact, and I'll keep doing it whether you like it or not. I know all that happened was just a gross misunderstanding of which the bigger half is on me and I know apologies won’t get back what was lost, but I do just want to make it all right."

The fox let out an angry huff, squared his shoulders and pulled his legs closer, but otherwise remained silent.

A dead end.

"I, well, ok- how about this," Sonic stammered, after a sizable wave crashing down in the distance knocked over his train of thought. Or maybe it was the impenetrable wall Nine's attitude was, but he's used to dealing with a stubborn two tailed fox.

Except this one didn't get this stubbornness after him. Actually, maybe he should stop equating the two, that would be a good start.

Unfortunately there’s nothing more he'd like right now than to crush Nine in a hug not too dissimilar he would give to Tails in the past a few times, one that gave them the feeling of everything being alright whenever either of them needed it.

Unfortunate that Nine didn't like hugs.

Bingo.

The hedgehog almost snapped his fingers in an eureka as he a new argument began to fall into a sentence.

"You don't like people." He stated, a plain fact that was tested time and time again.

"Took you long enough." Nine grumbled but the hedgehog didn't dedicate much brain space for it.

"But I do. I like meeting new people and going to new places and trying the food and listening to local music and all that. All of which, would just be impossible within the Grim." Sonic moved his hands around wildly as he recounted fragments of his past adventures across the globe, reminding himself to one day take Nine along to see all of his favorite places. The day being once all of this is sorted out.

"I'm not doubting your creativity or willingness to try bud, I never would. It's just that, it's different when it's purposefully designed instead of just, naturally occurring, I guess? And while the Grim is no doubt vast, I dunno, I still think it wouldn't feel right, no matter how good the chilli-dogs would taste like."

Nine remained silent, with the only movement being the chilly night breeze ruffling through his fur.

"If I had to stay there, I'd probably go a bit insane in there while you would be unhappy that I'm unhappy, is what I'm saying."

And for the agonizing minute and a half of silence that followed, Sonic just hoped, nearly prayed, that Nine would be willing to understand. That he would at least try to see it from his perspective, despite having his own be constantly looked over.

Because Sonic is someone who cannot sit in one place for longer than five minutes, silence feels worse than physical torture and would simply never stop missing his friends, while Nine was the almost exact opposite .

"What you're saying is that it wouldn't feel real."

The monotony in Nine's voice helped nothing but add sharpness to the icicle running down Sonic's spine in that instant.

"Wait no no, Nine that's not–"

He tried to get out at least something to not repeat his previous mistake because for a second he was back in the cave with any and all hope crushed and compressed right through his ribs, with Nine glaring down at him.

Except once again, the fox beat him to it, with a voice drenched in emotion.

"I don't think you'll ever understand– You have no idea, how much you've hurt me."

And despite the momentary terror he felt, Sonic found himself solemnly agreeing on that fact, because he really didn't know until it was too late. For the fastest thing alive, he sure has the habit of being slow with that.

"Never before I considered another person in my life, because I just couldn't. But for some reason I gave you a chance, and I lost... everything because of it." That unidentified yet distinctly heavy emotion soon turned out to be anger, or disdain and than a mix of both. "Even something I didn't know I needed or even had."

Nine tilted his body just enough so sonic could see his muzzle move, with his breathing growing audible.

"It felt like you ripped out s-something out of me, the same useless thing you planted into me in the first place b-because–" the ferocity he started with faded with every word until Nine chocked on a sob.

"Because you just had to waltz into my life and pretend to care!"

Sonic's hand was halfway through the air to the fox's shoulders when they suddenly stood much higher and in a few seconds Nine towered over him, shining, ice-cold eyes glaring down at him.

"You gave me, so much hope just to rip away. You filled my head with fantasies that never even belonged to me and refused to see me for what– for who I really am. You didn't ever think, you just did and in the end you were the one that got everything you wanted! As if none of what happened even happened and I was left with nothing!" Nine all but actually snarled those last words, with lips pulled back and eyes fixated in a glare, yet Sonic had the impression it was to try and push back the tears threatening to spill.

Once that failed, Nine's entire facade crumpled.

Any threat fell away as he physically shrunk and continued with the most dejected tone.

"And I felt like everything I did was completely pointless. From trying to just s-survive for so long, to, t-to..."

The fox halted as he took deep calming breaths, trying to steady his voice.

"Because I could've just died in the Void and no one would've known. No one would've cared. And I know I brought that on mys-self." He went to hug himself, but for one reason or another decided against it and just ended up placing his hands on his hips, staring daggers at the ground, "It's what I always wanted, to be left alone forever, but… because of you, I just couldn’t handle it again, for some reason."

Sonic eventually scrambled to his feet — the dry sand not making it easy — double guessing if he interpreted Nine's words correctly on the way, and than felt a cold knife twist his gut when realizing that was the only way he could've understood them.

Bewildered he reached out and gently took hold of the fox's slumped shoulders, and when he didn't feel any struggle gains the hold from the other, he gave them a light squeeze.

"B-but you're right. I don't know you." Nine whispered in a grave tone, "I guess, I-I don't even know where my head was back then. I never had anyone call me a friend, much less care about me, and in the way you do."

He could feel Nine's whole frame shaking under his hands and for the second time since he met the fox, Sonic's mouth felt supper-glued together. For that moment he could all but watch the other pitifully unravel in front of him.

"I should've lis-listened to you. I brushed off any mention of your home and friends because I was just so sh-sure what I had planned in the Grim wold make them obsolete to you, but that was s-stupid. I know that now. You were… everything to me, but I was nothing compared to them." Nine let his head hang low, while the few tears that managed to fully escape clumped the sand at their feet. "I never had to care about anyone else, I didn't know- I still don't know- I know I am supposed to know b-but–"

"Hey, none of that." Sonic’s resolute tone seemed to snap some focus back into the other as some structure returned to his hunched over position and he looked up at with such a fragile look in his eyes.

"You're not useless, obsolete, redundant or any of those big, smart-sounding but ultimately demeaning words you keep throwing around."

At this the fox blinked in surprise, as if for the first time actually hearing the words, understanding their meaning and realizing just how outlandish they sounded. Or just being surprised someone told off that mean voice in his head for the first time.

"I might be an air head, but a friend talking down to themselves never goes above it. Or I guess it does since my ears are up there, point is-" that his attempt at deflecting some seriousness from the conversation worked as Nine gave him a deadpan look, which Sonic returned with a lazy smirk that stretched into a gentle smile.

"You are my friend, just as any of them. You’re not lesser or better or have to prove anything." He leaned just a little lower, to be closer at eye level with the fox, somehow resisting the urge to wipe his tears. Something told him that would be a bit too much, "And you know, if it was any more than just a couple hours before we fixed the Prism and you showing up, I'm sure I would've been missing you like crazy."

The other, unfortunately, wasn’t buying any of it and he gave a sharp shrug, almost as if to throw his hands away, "You'd still have your other friends."

"What's wrong with having one more? There's no such thing as a 'maximum amount' of friends you can have, and you have no reason to be expelled from that label."

Nine looked at him with a poignant look and whispered.

"I tried to kill you."

As if that was some kind of a deal breaker.

"And you think you're the first one? Get in lineee bud." Sonic waved a dismissive hand with a devil-may-care grin on his face.

Blinking away temporary surprise, the fox just shook is head. "I'm sure your friends wouldn't be really thrilled if they found out."

"Then it must be a shocker to hear at least half of them had a death wish against me at one point." Sonic said it as nonchalantly as stating its raining on a rainy day, yet it indeed came as a shocker to the fox before him. Sonic forgets most people don’t turn around their rivals into life lasting friends.

Nine just looked at him from below his brows and Sonic couldn't help but snicker.

"You think they really hadn't each tried to kill me at least once? C'mon, ask Knuckles literally any day and I’m sure he’d love to tell ya all about it. Or Shadow! You know Shadow right? Really happy-go-lucky guy? He like constantly has a fist in my face with murderous intent."

Nine actually seemed to consider that, before leveling him with a skeptical look as if to ask 'You sure this is like, normal?'

For Sonic it was anyway, he never really held a grudge, and if he did, he would've missed out on literally half of the good things in his life, so he’s not about to start reconsidering that.

That brought him back to being younger, the memory is fuzzy and it is hard to believe now that he used to be all on his own back than, but while he never asked for permission nor felt lonely, that was a period of time where he hasn’t figured out a way of fitting other people into his life either.

And he couldn’t keep ignoring the constant, both metaphorical and physical distancing Nine keeps from "his" friends, from "them."

Sonic figured this loner fox could use a just a little more pushing out of his shell.

"But, why not make them your friends too?"

Nine gave him the same look of quiet realization again, except this time his mouth slightly parted, as if he were to go and argue for his case, but nothing came of it.

"Ya know, since we are kinda starting from scratch here, new foundations to our friendship and that, I think it would be a fair to give them a chance too bud. Right after me, you're like the second coolest guy they have ever met and with like two exceptions, every single person here is just dying to get to know you better. But nooo, you just keep hiding in your room being mysterious and broody and stuff."

Nine’s brow furrowed, in what Sonic was now confident to indeed be his concentrated thinking face. He really just looked angry whenever he did that.

"Ignoring your pretentious ego, what exactly is so interesting about me?" The question ended on a high end, almost uncertain that Sonic would give it an answer to begin with, fortunately for him this was the easiest one so far.

"You're from a whole different dimension with the best knowledge on that whole damn thing, wear pants for some reason, and have seven mechanical death needles stapled to your butt."

Despite Sonic’s best attempts at marrying humor with fact, Nine stood unimpressed with his word choice and the answer as a whole and sighed.

"I don't know... I just, I feel like I will never really fit in no matter how good you make it sound. I am nothing like you guys." He didn't even sound sad, just fully resigned to that notion, and Sonic couldn't help but wilt a little himself.

"I'm not anywhere near as optimistic, caring or bright eyed as any of you. I don't know how to be around people, or even talk to them beyond necessary. I can barely walk for two minutes without my legs giving out and I can't stand the sun whatsoever, and the list could go on and on."

Nine almost effortlessly rattled off, pointing out his flaws like the back of the hand, yet they were things Sonic either wasn’t bothered by in the first place, didn’t see as a problem, or was willing to help out with whenever it would be necessary.

"I guess I really don't belong anywhere. And definitely not here."

And he looked, so so small, so beyond dejected and hurt, like he was just about to fully crumble, and Sonic wanted to do so alongside him.

Because, while he did just swore off comparing Nine to Tails ever again, this felt so eerily familiar.

Ghost of their past, a shy little kit, too afraid of fast movement, of being left alone, of being seen, found out, hurt and abandoned. Skittish blue eyes and a little pout, saying there’s no real place for him, cryptically and than outright asking when will Sonic have enough, leave him at someone’s doorstep, run away and never come back.

It teared him up inside, because this is the same exact kit, with the same exact heavy questions and fears in his heart, only forced to have lived with it all for so much longer. Sonic wasn’t there for him when he should’ve been. No one was there to tell off all that self doubting nonsense and keep him safe when he was scared.

Tails wrestles with some of his past to this day even if in rarer instances, despite whatever caused it being years left behind with Sonic, their friends and a safe home surrounding him.

A part of him wished he got to break the prism sooner. This wasn't fair.

Sonic opened his mouth without any plan on what to say, when that two minute mark Nine just mentioned had passed and he suddenly collapsed into Sonic, holding on with a very weak hug.

At least that’s what the hedgehog interpreted it as, since the other wasn’t really pulling away once he regained footing, nor did his hold lessen. Sonic dared to say that was as much as he could squeeze him, which was… worrisome. A single hug could not fix everything Nine thought was wrong with him, no matter how much the hedgehog wished it could and would, but there was no question about giving that much needed comfort in a pinch.

The sudden nature of the hug was similar to the one back at the Grim, but unlike then, he was very much fully corporeal, without any buzzing pain and a ticking clock above his head, allowing them to stand unmoving like this just a few seconds longer.

.

. .

"Sorry for snapping earlier."

Nine slowly peeled away, even if it felt like he didn't really want to and quickly wiped at his now mostly dried tears.

Sonic felt an insurmountable weight drop from his shoulders that had been there for weeks on end. Even if everything still didn't feel quite right.

"Hm, it's ok, I figured you were more sad than angry anyway. You did spook me a little bit though not gonna lie." He let out an airless chuckle, but Nine didn't move a muscle, still lost with his thoughts somewhere else.

Sonic knew he had no real grasp on either of the fox’s full backstories. It was obvious none of it was pretty or kind, but Tails barely shared any of it . Whether because he forgot, or simply didn't want to didn't really matter. There were numerous worrisome signs and habits one could infer from, but Sonic was just fine with knowing context to all of them, nor did he want to poke his nose into what clearly weren't happy memories.

The thought of Nine suffering through all of that for years, with no real home or shoulder to lean and rely on when things got tough was a horrible one, and Sonic wasn't about to let it keep happening any longer.

Well, It was always better late than never. Starting now, from the foundation up, Nine will get to have his own home, just not in the same manner as Tails.

"Hey." The hedgehog softly called his attention again, and Nine's defeated eyes flicked up just a bit, "I promise you, there is a place for you. The world is big, and has to have somewhere that will eventually feel like home to you. But first, please let me try to make it here. You wanted to make one for me from complete scratch and I would like to repay that."

It is fully possible a stray cloud just finally passed over the moon, or it could be that some genuine shine returned to Nine’s eyes.

"But home is not really a place or a palm tree, but the people and memories made around it. And yes, yes, I know how much you don't like people, we've gone over that, but just this once you have to give it a chance."

Nine pulled his mouth in a grimace but didn't rebut. It seemed more like just his dedication to the loner bit.

"I promise you, not everyone is as all over the place as me and sometimes, the hurt is worth the friendship, if that’s what’s putting you off. I burned you and I am so, so sorry, but you can't lock yourself up for the rest of time and expect to feel happy, 's just not how it works."

After all this, Sonic could confidently say, the fox listened to every word he said, but whether he will actually take them to heart was up in the air.

That angry thinking face returned, this time aimed at a boulder not too far away from them. He glared at it as if it was the source of all of his misery, and Sonic couldn't help but snort. Thankfully Nine either ignored, or didn't hear it.

"Fine. I still don't believe you though."

An unabashed toothy grin spread across Sonic's face and he could just about run two whole laps around the planet in that second.

"Most people refuse to accept indisputable truth that challenges their core principles indeed." He gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and sprawled his hands on his sides.

Nine rolled his eyes again and purposefully bummed into arm while walking past, further from the shore.

Turning to follow, Sonic realized he hadn't felt this light in years. The only trace of any previous turmoil were just the erratic lines etched in sand and slight wobble in Nine gait as Sonic jogged up to him.

If his ears were any lesser, he wouldn't have caught the shy "Thanks." from the fox.

He slowly lifted his hand and let his palm fall flat on the fox's head as they made their way back to the workshop for the night. Feeling the little flinch, Sonic waited for further response, and only when Nine settled in to the touch, did he receive a hesitant pat.

"Thanks you too."

[moss-ridden-owl-creature]

Dude gangggg can y’all help

I think I’ve got some fucked up toxic ass friendship going on rn and I don’t know what to do about it. (it’s super long sorry)

Now let’s call this friend Q (he/they) Now Q and I have been friends for about 4 years now. And for the first 2 1/2, 3 years or so. It was a chill friendship. Pretty close, Yada yada, all that. But in the last year and a half or so, Q has gotten drastically meaner. I mean like genuinely shitty behavior. He’s copied things I do, insults me, and on a few occasions, actually physically hurt me. Usually it was semi-harmless stuff, like on my birthday telling me that I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and another occasion “[deadname], I love you, but you CAN NOT sing.” Both of these instances were about a year ago. Keep in mind, one of my greatest passions, is THEATER. More specifically MUSICAL THEATER. Like dude! That fuckin hurts! BAD. And keep in mind, both those comments were UNSOLICITED ADVICE. I didn’t ask, want or need them, but the moment I ask “Hey, can I offer you some advice on how to adjust your art you made?” (Anthro art, which I am WELL VERSED IN.) his immediate response was “No. and don’t you dare.” OH? SO I GET IT. YOURE ALLOWED TO OFFER UNSOLICITED MUSICAL ADVICE, SOMETHING YOU AT THE TIME KNEW JACK SHIT ABOUT WITHOUT ASKING ME FIRST. BUT THE MOMENT I TRY AND DO THE SAME, AND I ASK YOU FIRST, ITS A BAD THING? You goddamned fucking hypocrite. Just pick a fucking side dude! I’m so TIRED of it. Or recently, a couple weeks ago, me and my friends were talking about this stupid ass like what character you’d be if you were in this show we all watched and I said who I’d be -a character I really liked- and this bitch really responded with “You’re not cool enough to be around to be them.” Like dude, wtf?? Why would you say that shit?? Or the other time when they said “You’re not my best friend” among other things. But the most recent, and imo, the most serious development, is that Q has begun to actually hurt me. Not in a joking way, in a purposeful way. Now, usually as a joke, if you put your hand in front of my face or if I see you do something that I think is pushing the boundaries of one of my friends, I’ll “bite” you (it’s literally just your hand in my mouth dude. I don’t even bite hard enough to indent or bruise the skin.) and Q has begun to respond by slapping me. Keep in mind, I’ve done this for YEARS, this is not a new thing I’ve done, but him slapping me in response is new, But today was a different story. Today when I did it, because I noticed that my friend he was bothering seemed visibly uncomfortable, I “bit” Q. Q decided to respond by sticking his fingers in the bottom of my mouth, taking his thumb and pinching the skin between the fingers inside of my mouth and his thumb on the bottom of my chin (the area on your jaw where it’s only skin) and pulling. Really fuckin hard. And if you haven’t had that experience. It’s fucking painful. Especially for me, who, for a long time has had dental issues in regards to my bottom jaw and teeth. So not only did this hurt, it could have genuine affects on my physical health. Now, about a week ago. I informed a close friend on mine that I wanted to try and distance myself from Q for these exact reasons. He’s gotten meaner. unnecessarily mean, to point where it HAS ME PHYSICALLY FUCKING HURT. and gods I don’t know what to do about it, because my friend was like “oh it’s probably just a misunderstanding” THIS ISNT A FUCKING MISUNDERSTANDING OR A COMMUNICATION ISSUE AT THIS POINT. Because what I am putting into our friendship is NOT reciprocated. Worst part is, he doesn’t apologize for ANY OF IT. he doesn’t even MENTION IT. And I just don’t know what to do about it. I’m so, so tired of this shit.

[ryminsteddiesashanne]

My take on the whole Louie and Della arc

Spoilers for Ducktales episodes Timephoon and Glomtales below

Sorry this is so long but it's really important to me

Timephoon!

I think “Timephoon!” and “Glomtales!” is a serious issue but way to much blame is put on Della by the fandom. We need to stop putting all the blame on Della OR Louie, it’s not black and white. Even splitting the blame between the two of them isn’t right because that ignores everything that happened before and Scrooge and Beakly’s actions. I also want to add before I begin that what Louie did was wrong. He shouldn't have stolen the time tub, he shouldn't have kept using it, and he should've told the truth earlier.

When Della is yelling at Louie at the end she mentions having to see his brothers taken away from her which is completely fair. But it's never even considered that Louie saw everybody, including Della get taken away from him, because of him. It's unimaginable to most how scary it would be to know you're the reason you lost your family. Louie was facing something that can hardly be compared to our world because what he did is simply impossible. It is true that what Louie did is wrong but consideration is never given to the potential repercussions timephoon could have on his mental state.

Some of the most important rules of discipline are disregarded when Della is punishing Louie. She punishes him while angry which has never been conducive to a fair response. She yells which sends mixed messages especially considering the fact that Louie already sees her as a childish and irresponsible person. She also punishes and yells at him in front of his whole family. I don't actually blame Della for what she did because she was under pressure from Beakly throughout to whole episode and was never given legit advice on how to effectively punish a child. However what I do blame Della for and Scrooge and Beakly for letting happen is that Louie is made to be an example to show that Della can be stern.

Glomtales!

What she says in the DT-87 recording is worded poorly and not something that should be said virtually. Della says "Look, your plans, your schemes, they only lead to bad things for your family. If you want to be a part of this family you've gotta stop." Louie replies (while alone) "This is the one thing I'm good at. Why can't you see?" She threatens his place in the family saying that he has to stop his plans and schemes. The only thing that made him feel at home in their adventures was his planning and scheming. It even made him feel closer to her when Scrooge told him that he shared that skill with her. One of the worst parts of everything is that later she says something that would've made Timephoon so much better. She says "Ok, but you need to take care to not hurt the ones you love. And I'll be there to help you see all the angles you can't." I think those lines are so important to hear for Louie and it makes me sad that she didn't say that earlier.

An issue I have with the entire family in Glomtales is that they leave Louie alone with only a robot despite the fact that they have known enemies. Della says "Hopefully it doesn't turn evil" about the robot. Everyone in that house, especially Louie knows that Gyro's inventions aren't safe. There should be no doubt on anyone's part that Louie shouldn't have been left alone with DT-87. It actually does shoot him in the foot although causing no lasting damage.

I need it to be said that Della was not in the wrong for grounding Louie. Unfortunately that isn't what Louie’s punishment is. What his punishment actually is, is isolation from his family, being locked exclusively in his room, and being forced to miss out on the one adventure (something he has been actively avoiding since the start of the season) he was excited for. It is unnecessarily cruel to pick that specific adventure to make him miss out on, especially because they had complete control over what adventure they were going on.

Aside from the fact that he is left under the supervision of a potentially dangerous robot and that Scrooge has an active bet with Glomgold, he still should not have been left stuck in his room alone in the house for multiple days. Isolation from your family isn’t a punishment, it’s just cruel. Della of all people should know what it’s like to be completely without your family and the fact is that Louie shouldn’t have been left alone, for his safety and for him to learn.

Both

I think one of the biggest issues I have with “Timephoon!” and “Glomtales!” is that they send completely mixed messages on top of the already chaotic situation. In the show they often scheme and steal to get their way in any given adventure. You can not expect a kid who is constantly being exposed to theft and scheming often resulting in no negative consequences, to on their own come to the conclusion that this one thing is too far. Time travel is modeled as a possibly harmless venture (Outlaw Scrooge Mcduck) and as stated by Della in this very episode "Oh. But it's just a little caveduck." (Louie was not present to hear her say this but it shows that this kind of sentiment is shared by the Mcducks) Later Louie states "It's one little caveduck." Dewey also remarks later "it's just a dinosaur." Showing a continued pattern of the assumption that nothing is a big enough threat to worry about all that much. This possibly leading Louie to justify his lack of confession believing he can handle it without getting in trouble. There is no consistency in what is right and wrong in the kids lives so it is unfair to randomly decide something is off limits after seeing and being told otherwise. They are always pulling off impossible stunts for fun, treasure, etc and they have hardly ever been told something was too dangerous. Louie is literally being punished for a scheme that turned out to be too dangerous, and is told that if he doesn’t stop his place in the family will be in jeopardy. Yet in the same episode he schemes to save them and suddenly it’s fine. Any rules they may have set (whether fair or not) are completely thrown out the window when he becomes useful.

Other

Ms.Beakley the only one worried, decides to turn Della's earlier mentioned nonchalance into an allegory for her parenting saying quote "Small problems can turn into big problems if not prevented earlier." What excellent advice that has never been applied to the antics of the kids. Scrooge and Beakley are definitely partly to blame because they’ve known these kids for multiple years and are only now trying to make their actions have consequences. I get it’s not Beakley’s job but immediately putting the discipline of undisciplined kids on Della’s shoulders is messed up especially because Della doesn’t have any experience. Scrooge and Ms.Beakley watch Della try to set a rule that she thinks is what they want. Della doesn't do what they wanted her to instead of giving her advice they just shake their heads.

My responses to commonly said counterpoints

“He needed to be punished” True but guess what, humiliation and isolation aren’t acceptable punishments let alone for a 13 year old.

“She needed to show she was a mother and not just a friend” Also true, but having your whole world flipped by someone you’re just getting comfortable with isn’t helpful. Making an example out of your child to assert your dominance and prove a point aren’t very good methods either.

“Louie did something legitimately dangerous that could’ve caused unimaginable repercussions. That’s all he’s learned to do in the last 3 years, why is he independently supposed to come to a different conclusion.

“Della was so hard on him because she doesn’t want him to repeat her mistakes” That’s a talk to have not a yell, and it shouldn’t have even been a public discussion.

[lunarle-old]

my friend and i literally inform each other the SECOND one of us notices you released a new hgh chapter 😭 you’re doing AMAZING btw!! i love this sm

i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again, I LOVE THE BACKSTORY YOU CAME UP WITH KOKICHI AND DICE!!! it always makes me so so happy ^^ will you ever show who is who specifically? because we have vauge descriptions, but i’ve only caught onto two or three 💔

the last part of the chapter was interesting 2 me though, since it was shuichi’s pov, but he was thinking about “white, white, white” so how long was he in the white room to think about that??? (＞人＜;)

♪ヽ(´▽｀)/🤍🤍

Here's a chart! sorry if you can't read it my handwriting is that of a 5th graders

four chose his name cus like. the four card assignment things. club spades hearts and whatever the other one is i forgot ;w; that's my reasoning behind his name though. Ace got that name because i like him. jester is doing one of the Kokichi Poses so i went wirh gut feeling. i dont have an explanation for the others and i know Nothing about chess aside from that one google search i did for m5 so :') ... sorry d.i.c.e

kokichi's name would be "king" btw. i love these little rapscallians. i sure hope nothing bad happens to them

also! I realize I didnt explain that well in the chapter and I apologize. Shuichi didnt spend any time in the white room. In fact, the room he was in was very dark. The only light was on the stage. Sorry if I didn't make that clear, but it was hard to explain background details when even the character i was writing through didn't know where he was ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡

this is a layout of the room i made in 2 minutes on my phone. That little circle on stage is the prop thing that was holding him up. Think of it like a craft room :p just a place to create stuff. which entails nothing good considering it's the cruel one's room @_@;....

anyways Shuichi really only spent like.. three hours in there. A lot more, if you count the time he spent asleep. I originally had him set up like that because I wanted to blast him with the Gender Dysphoria beam by putting him in a more. this outfit.

but i decided against it for the Kokichi confusion mix-up and the minor identity loss. the whole reason i added the trans shuichi tag, the point of propping him up like that and i. didnt do it. Q_Q i literally call the cruel one "doll whumper" in my notes Because they TREAT PEOPLE like DOLLS. TOYS!! That's the WHOLE POINT of their character and i didn't do it. :"> i still like the design though it came from an rp i do with a friend and he let me include it in HGH if i wanted but. y'know.

what was i talking about Oh yeah ok so. he didn't spend any time in Kokichi's white room. But he still did Kokichi's signature triple-word repitition. Why?

Well for one it's mostly just. a narrative thing. drawing parallels or whatever. But also, Shuichi is making an active effort to Not think about what happened to him. He's focusing on what's happening to Kokichi. I tend to have a specific way of writing Shuichi in situations like this, and if we learned anything from Love Letter... You might be able to guess.

I dont want to say too much on the matter since I'm still writing it and dont want to make any false promises, but from the way it's going right now? Oh Boy.

anyways that was an unnecessarily long rambly response from lunarleonardo thank you for your time. goodnight