manic-panic-beach-boy

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

”I don’t know about that.. but if you ever want to do that to me, honey… My schedule is wide open.~”

Is anyone gonna snort this coke off my tits or do I have to do it myself?

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

send me 🕯️to hear my character's inner thoughts about your character.

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

Send ♡ to see what my muse thinks of yours

○○○○○ | ATTRACTION ○○○○○ | AFFECTION ○○○○○ | INTEREST ○○○○○ | LOYALTY ○○○○○ | TRUST

LOW | ●●●●● | HIGH

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

Send my muse pick-up lines to see how my muse would react!

My muse will rate it on a scale of 1-10. 1 being the worst, 10 being the best.

For multimuses, please specify the muse.

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

”Looking good baby.”~💜

VA got a haircut

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

── .✦ “My place! Duh! Bring some 🍺 and 🍃 if you want! See you there! ;]

𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝚎𝚡𝚝⭑.ᐟ ── .✦ “Hey. Are you down to party? XOXO ㅤ♡

@manic-panic-beach-boy

[txt] OFC! Wheres the party??

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

”I can see that. I only offer good times.. so..” He pulled out his business card, a matte surface with only the letters reflecting in holographic print. “Call me if you ever cool off enough to play.”

”Huh. I’ve only heard of guys like you.. You like club hopping?”

@manic-panic-beach-boy

HELL YEAH BUT WHY WOULD I DO IT WITH YOU???

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

”Relax, baby.. I was only curious.. didn’t think you’d be so uptight.”

”Huh. I’ve only heard of guys like you.. You like club hopping?”

@manic-panic-beach-boy

HELL YEAH BUT WHY WOULD I DO IT WITH YOU???

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

𝚅𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕 – 𝟷:𝟷𝟺 𝙰𝙼

Beeeep.

“…Hey. Hey it’s me. Miami. Obviously.”

A drunken breath. A pause. You can hear music faintly in the background—laughter, maybe. Glass clinks.

“I don’t—uh… I don’t even know why I’m calling. You’re probably not gonna pick up. You never pick up when I actually need you to. Funny, huh?”

Another breath. A sigh this time, then a weak little laugh.

“I just—shit, I was lying in bed, and I remembered how you used to just.. leave me wreaked.. and I missed it, okay? I missed the way you used to talk shit in the morning and how your hands… your hands used to—”

His voice falters, and something sharp creeps in. Like the edges are starting to show.

“God. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Another pause. Longer this time. A rustle like he’s shifting, maybe wiping his face.

“You didn’t even care, did you? Never fucking did. All that crap about love and needing me—just bullshit to keep me quiet. To keep me obedient.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow now. Mean.

“You loved hurting me. Loved watching me fold myself up just to be something you could fuck and forget. And I still called. Still waited. Like some dumb bitch.”

A beat. Then the voice drops low—tight, raw.

“You don’t get to ignore me now. You don’t get to pretend you’re the victim.”

Silence. You can almost hear his teeth grind before the final words spit out, slurred but sharp:

“Pick up next time, asshole. Or I’ll come say it to your face.. and I’ll fuck up more then just your legs next time, bitch.”

Click.

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

Miami was spread out like a man who had wrestled a hurricane and come out drunk, glittering, and victorious. His crop top was half off one shoulder, a smear of lipstick—not his—on his collarbone, and his pants were still on, though someone had definitely tried to undo them at some point. His lashes fluttered as Pastel stirred beside him, and a dreamy, crooked grin tugged at his lips.

He blinked up at Pastel, dazed and warm, then let out a snort of a laugh. “Honestly? I think I’ve been treated like royalty and roadkill at the same time.” His voice was hoarse, wrapped in smoke and sleep and whatever was still humming in his bloodstream. “But I’m not complaining.”

He leaned up just enough to brush his shoulder against Pastel’s, water rippling around them. “You’ve got a hell of a way of rescuing a man, you know that? One minute I’m crying in an alley, next I’m apparently half-naked at a pool I don’t remember you having, with my favorite bad influence in my veins like fever dream.”

Miami tilted his head back, eyes closing again with a lazy, satisfied sigh. “We definitely did something illegal tonight,” he muttered, smirking. “And I definitely want to do it again.”

𝕽𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗˖⋆࿐໋

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

The club pulsed with bass-heavy music, lights flickering like the heartbeat of a city that never slept. The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and electric tension—Miami moved through it like smoke, hips swaying, smile painted on just right. He was dressed to kill in a mesh crop top and leather pants that hugged him like sin, pastel hair slicked back but still falling in deliberate wisps over one side of his face. The crowd parted for him, as it always did. He was used to being the one who held the room.

Then he saw him.

It was just a brush of the shoulder at first—someone too close, too solid. Miami turned, ready to flash a flirt or a fanged grin, when his breath caught sharp in his throat.

Pretty Boy Rick.

Older, but not by much. Taller than Miami remembered. The same sharp stubble and cocky smirk carved into his face like a bad memory that refused to fade. But now… those prosthetic legs. Expensive, military-grade. Smooth chrome where muscle used to be. Miami’s gaze dropped for just a second too long before flicking back up.

“…Huh,” Pretty Boy drawled, that familiar gravel in his voice like broken glass on concrete. “Didn’t think they let ghosts in here.”

Miami’s jaw tightened. “Guess they started letting in trash.”

The air between them tensed, but neither moved. The music faded into background noise. Just two past lives crashing into each other under the flicker of neon and trauma.

Pretty Boy just laughed—low, cruel, casual. “Still got that mouth. Thought I taught you better.”

Something in Miami’s chest twisted, but he didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. Just a tilt of the head, a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, stepping past him, shoulders brushing just enough to sting. “And I still remember how to fight back.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He walked—no, stormed—through the crowd, pace quickening with each step until the music felt miles away and the laughter behind him might as well’ve been someone else’s nightmare.

Out the side door, into the alley.

Cool air hit him like a slap. His chest heaved once, twice—fingers trembling as he leaned against the brick wall. His nails bit into the mortar. The tears came quietly at first, then faster, ripping through the mask he’d worn all night.

He slid down to the cold pavement, neon casting pink and blue halos across wet cheeks and painted lashes.

He choked on a sob, trying to catch his breath, trying not to feel like he was that pathetic scared dancer again—bloody-lipped and brokenhearted.

Someone stepped into the alley, casting a shadow over him.

Miami looked up through tear-filled eyes, mascara smudged and shoulders shaking, roughly wiping his eyes, and spat—

“What are you looking at?” 

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

𝕽𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝟸˖⋆࿐໋

- 𝕸𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕬𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

The light pierced through the half-open blinds like judgment—golden and sharp, slicing across the tangled mess of Miami’s sheets. His head pounded with the dull weight of last night’s cocktails, basslines, and laughter that burned a little too sweet at the edges. His mouth tasted like smoke and cheap strawberry lip gloss.

He shifted, groaning softly, the silk sheets clinging to his skin—warm, soft, bare.

Wait.

Bare.

Miami blinked against the light, then turned his head slowly. There was someone else in the bed—heat, the shape of a body, the vague memory of hands and teeth and something that felt almost like joy. He couldn’t remember their name. Or maybe he’d never asked.

Stretching with a lazy confidence that didn’t match the flutter in his chest, he let the covers fall just enough to reveal freckled skin, a smooth chest that rose with a soft sigh, and the bruises blooming on his neck like a necklace of mischief. His voice, still sleep-rough, curled into the quiet space between them like smoke.

“Well,” he murmured, a groan pulling at his lips, “either I had a hell of a night, or you did. Maybe both.”

He lay back down on his bed, shielding his eyes from the sun cascading into his window. “You gonna tell me your name, or do I kick you out of my apartment..” 

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

Miami took Pastel’s hand with a smirk, letting himself be hauled up from the cold ground with a bit of theatrical flair—he made it look like a dance move, like the alley had been a stage and Pastel his scene partner.

“An angel, huh?” he teased, brushing off the back of his pants with a flourish. “Then heaven’s been dealing in blackmail and arson lately.”

But when their hips bumped, and Pastel’s warmth pressed up against him, Miami didn’t pull away. The closeness settled something in his chest—didn’t fix it, but didn’t hurt, either. His arm slid around Pastel’s waist as they started walking, falling into the rhythm like they’d done it before. Like it was natural.

“Your club, your rules,” he said, voice light but loaded with the spark that had been missing earlier. “But I’m warning you—mix pills, powder, and neon, and I get real flirty. Real bold. Might end up stripping on a table or start a fight with your DJ.”

He glanced over with a sly smile. “You ready to deal with that kind of danger, angel?”

𝕽𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗˖⋆࿐໋

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

The club pulsed with bass-heavy music, lights flickering like the heartbeat of a city that never slept. The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and electric tension—Miami moved through it like smoke, hips swaying, smile painted on just right. He was dressed to kill in a mesh crop top and leather pants that hugged him like sin, pastel hair slicked back but still falling in deliberate wisps over one side of his face. The crowd parted for him, as it always did. He was used to being the one who held the room.

Then he saw him.

It was just a brush of the shoulder at first—someone too close, too solid. Miami turned, ready to flash a flirt or a fanged grin, when his breath caught sharp in his throat.

Pretty Boy Rick.

Older, but not by much. Taller than Miami remembered. The same sharp stubble and cocky smirk carved into his face like a bad memory that refused to fade. But now… those prosthetic legs. Expensive, military-grade. Smooth chrome where muscle used to be. Miami’s gaze dropped for just a second too long before flicking back up.

“…Huh,” Pretty Boy drawled, that familiar gravel in his voice like broken glass on concrete. “Didn’t think they let ghosts in here.”

Miami’s jaw tightened. “Guess they started letting in trash.”

The air between them tensed, but neither moved. The music faded into background noise. Just two past lives crashing into each other under the flicker of neon and trauma.

Pretty Boy just laughed—low, cruel, casual. “Still got that mouth. Thought I taught you better.”

Something in Miami’s chest twisted, but he didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. Just a tilt of the head, a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, stepping past him, shoulders brushing just enough to sting. “And I still remember how to fight back.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He walked—no, stormed—through the crowd, pace quickening with each step until the music felt miles away and the laughter behind him might as well’ve been someone else’s nightmare.

Out the side door, into the alley.

Cool air hit him like a slap. His chest heaved once, twice—fingers trembling as he leaned against the brick wall. His nails bit into the mortar. The tears came quietly at first, then faster, ripping through the mask he’d worn all night.

He slid down to the cold pavement, neon casting pink and blue halos across wet cheeks and painted lashes.

He choked on a sob, trying to catch his breath, trying not to feel like he was that pathetic scared dancer again—bloody-lipped and brokenhearted.

Someone stepped into the alley, casting a shadow over him.

Miami looked up through tear-filled eyes, mascara smudged and shoulders shaking, roughly wiping his eyes, and spat—

“What are you looking at?” 

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

Ask my muse "Would you go on a date with ____?"

My muse can either say yes or no and say why or why not they would date that person.

inspired by @justanotherrpmemeblog

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

actions speak louder than words non - verbal / action prompts from yours truly. (add a "swap" to swap the sender/receiver in the prompt (or just do it manually).)

back, sender gives receiver a back hug.

beckon, sender beckons receiver closer with a finger.

blood, sender cleans blood off of receiver.

book, sender helps receiver get a book from a higher part of the shelf.

care, sender takes care of receiver when they're sick.

catch, sender catches receiver by the waist after they bump into each other.

choke, sender saves receiver from choking by giving them the heimlich.

cold, sender places their jacket over receiver's shoulders.

cry, sender wipes tears off receiver's face with their thumbs.

dance, sender sticks a hand out to receiver and invites them to dance.

dip, sender skinny dips in front of receiver and invites them to join.

dog, sender's dog pulls them in receiver's direction.

drive, sender drives receiver somewhere in their car.

drag, sender drags receiver into a room and closes the door behind them.

draw, sender draws receiver like one of their french girls.

face, sender turns receiver's face towards them.

flower, sender gives receiver a flower.

footsie, sender initiates footsie with receiver under the table.

forehead, sender presses their forehead against receiver's.

grab, sender grabs receiver's wrist to stop them from leaving.

jump, sender jumps onto receiver's back.

kiss, sender kisses receiver.

link, sender links arms with receiver while walking.

massage, sender offers receiver a massage.

patch, sender patches up receiver's wounds.

piano, sender teaches receiver how to play the piano.

pin, sender pins receiver's hands behind their back.

pluck, sender plucks something out of receiver's hair.

press, sender presses receiver against a wall.

propose, sender proposes to receiver.

quiet, sender gestures for receiver to be quiet.

rest, sender rests their head on receiver's shoulder.

serenade, sender serenades receiver with a song.

sign, sender walks into a sign and receiver sees.

size, sender measures the size of their hand against receiver's.

shoes, sender removes receiver's shoes for them.

sun, sender rubs sunblock onto receiver's back.

tattoo, sender gives receiver a tattoo.

tie, sender helps tie receiver's tie.

tuck, sender tucks receiver's hair behind their ear.

umbrella, sender lets receiver under their umbrella.

warning, sender presses a knife against receiver's neck as a warning.

zip, sender needs receiver's help to zip up the back of their dress.

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

Miami didn’t back down—not from the voice, not from the smoke, not from the heat curling off Vice’s words like a warning dressed in temptation. His pulse kicked up, a thrum in his throat he refused to show, and he held Vice’s stare with a fire of his own.

“Oh, baby,” he said, stepping in just as close, the space between them molten and dangerous. “If I wanted cute, I’d be on someone else’s lap, sipping pink drinks and giggling about my star sign.”

He let the words drip slow, honey-laced with venom. “I want the door locked. I want the room lit. I want the smoke so thick I forget what my name is.”

A pause. A heartbeat. Then, with a smirk just this side of cruel—

“But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

His fingers skimmed Vice’s collar, just a tease, just a test. “So quit talking like you’re giving me options. You’re not here to save me.”

He leaned in, lips brushing Vice’s ear, breath warm and sharp.

“You’re here to burn with me.”

𝕽𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗˖⋆࿐໋

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

The club pulsed with bass-heavy music, lights flickering like the heartbeat of a city that never slept. The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and electric tension—Miami moved through it like smoke, hips swaying, smile painted on just right. He was dressed to kill in a mesh crop top and leather pants that hugged him like sin, pastel hair slicked back but still falling in deliberate wisps over one side of his face. The crowd parted for him, as it always did. He was used to being the one who held the room.

Then he saw him.

It was just a brush of the shoulder at first—someone too close, too solid. Miami turned, ready to flash a flirt or a fanged grin, when his breath caught sharp in his throat.

Pretty Boy Rick.

Older, but not by much. Taller than Miami remembered. The same sharp stubble and cocky smirk carved into his face like a bad memory that refused to fade. But now… those prosthetic legs. Expensive, military-grade. Smooth chrome where muscle used to be. Miami’s gaze dropped for just a second too long before flicking back up.

“…Huh,” Pretty Boy drawled, that familiar gravel in his voice like broken glass on concrete. “Didn’t think they let ghosts in here.”

Miami’s jaw tightened. “Guess they started letting in trash.”

The air between them tensed, but neither moved. The music faded into background noise. Just two past lives crashing into each other under the flicker of neon and trauma.

Pretty Boy just laughed—low, cruel, casual. “Still got that mouth. Thought I taught you better.”

Something in Miami’s chest twisted, but he didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. Just a tilt of the head, a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, stepping past him, shoulders brushing just enough to sting. “And I still remember how to fight back.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He walked—no, stormed—through the crowd, pace quickening with each step until the music felt miles away and the laughter behind him might as well’ve been someone else’s nightmare.

Out the side door, into the alley.

Cool air hit him like a slap. His chest heaved once, twice—fingers trembling as he leaned against the brick wall. His nails bit into the mortar. The tears came quietly at first, then faster, ripping through the mask he’d worn all night.

He slid down to the cold pavement, neon casting pink and blue halos across wet cheeks and painted lashes.

He choked on a sob, trying to catch his breath, trying not to feel like he was that pathetic scared dancer again—bloody-lipped and brokenhearted.

Someone stepped into the alley, casting a shadow over him.

Miami looked up through tear-filled eyes, mascara smudged and shoulders shaking, roughly wiping his eyes, and spat—

“What are you looking at?” 

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

Miami stared at him—jaw tight, lashes still wet, breath catching just a little too quick to hide. For a moment, the armor wavered again. Just a flicker. Just enough for the storm Rick had named to pulse under the skin.

Then that grin returned—wicked, wolfish, a flash of something old and untamed. He rolled his eyes, slow and theatrical, like he needed the motion to keep from unraveling.

“God, you’re still such a problem. You just act like you’re hot shit or something talking to me like that,” he muttered, brushing a hand through his hair, shaking loose the night like glitter off a sequined sleeve.

“But damn if I don’t love a good disaster.”

At the door, he paused, backlit in club glow and alley shadow, and looked over his shoulder.

“You frame heartbreak? Fine. Then come hang mine... Hell, I’ll sign it if you want to be so damn poetic. Even if I hate it. It does NOT suit you, Vice..”

He didn’t wait for an answer, grabbing the other by the waist to push them inside with him.

“Don’t get cute with me, baby. You’re the one lagging behind.”

𝕽𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗˖⋆࿐໋

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

The club pulsed with bass-heavy music, lights flickering like the heartbeat of a city that never slept. The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and electric tension—Miami moved through it like smoke, hips swaying, smile painted on just right. He was dressed to kill in a mesh crop top and leather pants that hugged him like sin, pastel hair slicked back but still falling in deliberate wisps over one side of his face. The crowd parted for him, as it always did. He was used to being the one who held the room.

Then he saw him.

It was just a brush of the shoulder at first—someone too close, too solid. Miami turned, ready to flash a flirt or a fanged grin, when his breath caught sharp in his throat.

Pretty Boy Rick.

Older, but not by much. Taller than Miami remembered. The same sharp stubble and cocky smirk carved into his face like a bad memory that refused to fade. But now… those prosthetic legs. Expensive, military-grade. Smooth chrome where muscle used to be. Miami’s gaze dropped for just a second too long before flicking back up.

“…Huh,” Pretty Boy drawled, that familiar gravel in his voice like broken glass on concrete. “Didn’t think they let ghosts in here.”

Miami’s jaw tightened. “Guess they started letting in trash.”

The air between them tensed, but neither moved. The music faded into background noise. Just two past lives crashing into each other under the flicker of neon and trauma.

Pretty Boy just laughed—low, cruel, casual. “Still got that mouth. Thought I taught you better.”

Something in Miami’s chest twisted, but he didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. Just a tilt of the head, a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, stepping past him, shoulders brushing just enough to sting. “And I still remember how to fight back.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He walked—no, stormed—through the crowd, pace quickening with each step until the music felt miles away and the laughter behind him might as well’ve been someone else’s nightmare.

Out the side door, into the alley.

Cool air hit him like a slap. His chest heaved once, twice—fingers trembling as he leaned against the brick wall. His nails bit into the mortar. The tears came quietly at first, then faster, ripping through the mask he’d worn all night.

He slid down to the cold pavement, neon casting pink and blue halos across wet cheeks and painted lashes.

He choked on a sob, trying to catch his breath, trying not to feel like he was that pathetic scared dancer again—bloody-lipped and brokenhearted.

Someone stepped into the alley, casting a shadow over him.

Miami looked up through tear-filled eyes, mascara smudged and shoulders shaking, roughly wiping his eyes, and spat—

“What are you looking at?” 

[manic-panic-beach-boy]

Miami let out a shaky laugh—wet, raw, but laced with that old spark. The one that refused to die, no matter how much hell tried to smother it.

“Oh, look at you,” he sniffed, dragging the back of his hand across his face, smearing the tears and mascara into war paint. “All wise and weathered now. Should I clap, or genuflect?”

His voice cracked just slightly, but he powered through it with a crooked grin, the kind that curled up at one side like a challenge. He leaned back against the brick, chin lifting, defiance rising from the ashes like smoke.

“You talk like you read it off a cigarette pack, Vice,” Miami muttered, a teasing bite to the name. “Like I’m some tragic story you get to narrate now. I don’t need your pity parade or your poetic bullshit.”

Still, he didn’t shrug off the hand.

Didn’t move away.

His body was trembling, but his eyes locked onto Vice’s with a sharpness that hadn’t dulled.

“You think I’m bleeding? Please. I paint in heartbreak. I bathe in it. This?” He gestured to himself—runny makeup, glittering tears, leather-clad vulnerability. “This is just a bad Tuesday.”

And then softer, quieter, the thinnest hairline crack under the cool:

“…But thanks for showing up.. or whatever.”

The fight in his voice ebbed, just for a breath. Just long enough for truth to slip through the cracks.

Miami let the silence settle again, then sighed—slow, dramatic, a practiced exhale like blowing out a candle on something too heavy to hold.

His lashes fluttered upward, catching the neon light as he gave Vice a once-over. Not subtle. Not innocent.

“Well,” he drawled, voice smoothing out like velvet pulled tight over something sharp, “if you’re gonna monologue at me like a sexy therapist, least you could do is buy me a drink first.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up in a grin that finally reached his eyes—just a little. Playful now. Dangerous again, as if putting back up his attitude like a shield.

“I mean, come on. I’m crying in an alley behind a club wearing mesh and leather. You’re leaning in like you wanna rescue me from myself or pull me into something worse.” His gaze flicked to Vice’s lips, then back to his eyes. “Either way, it’s hot.”

Miami stood, a little wobbly at first, but he used the momentum like a dance move—graceful, practiced. He brushed his palms down the front of his pants, reset his stance, then cocked a hip.

“You owe me a drink,” he said, voice soft but insistent. “Something strong. Neat. No ice.”

And then, lighter—almost breezy: “Unless you’re too scared I’ll start crying in your lap like some damsel that I’m not.”

He started walking back toward the club entrance, not looking back—but slower this time. Just slow enough to be followed.

𝕽𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗˖⋆࿐໋

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

The club pulsed with bass-heavy music, lights flickering like the heartbeat of a city that never slept. The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and electric tension—Miami moved through it like smoke, hips swaying, smile painted on just right. He was dressed to kill in a mesh crop top and leather pants that hugged him like sin, pastel hair slicked back but still falling in deliberate wisps over one side of his face. The crowd parted for him, as it always did. He was used to being the one who held the room.

Then he saw him.

It was just a brush of the shoulder at first—someone too close, too solid. Miami turned, ready to flash a flirt or a fanged grin, when his breath caught sharp in his throat.

Pretty Boy Rick.

Older, but not by much. Taller than Miami remembered. The same sharp stubble and cocky smirk carved into his face like a bad memory that refused to fade. But now… those prosthetic legs. Expensive, military-grade. Smooth chrome where muscle used to be. Miami’s gaze dropped for just a second too long before flicking back up.

“…Huh,” Pretty Boy drawled, that familiar gravel in his voice like broken glass on concrete. “Didn’t think they let ghosts in here.”

Miami’s jaw tightened. “Guess they started letting in trash.”

The air between them tensed, but neither moved. The music faded into background noise. Just two past lives crashing into each other under the flicker of neon and trauma.

Pretty Boy just laughed—low, cruel, casual. “Still got that mouth. Thought I taught you better.”

Something in Miami’s chest twisted, but he didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. Just a tilt of the head, a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, stepping past him, shoulders brushing just enough to sting. “And I still remember how to fight back.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He walked—no, stormed—through the crowd, pace quickening with each step until the music felt miles away and the laughter behind him might as well’ve been someone else’s nightmare.

Out the side door, into the alley.

Cool air hit him like a slap. His chest heaved once, twice—fingers trembling as he leaned against the brick wall. His nails bit into the mortar. The tears came quietly at first, then faster, ripping through the mask he’d worn all night.

He slid down to the cold pavement, neon casting pink and blue halos across wet cheeks and painted lashes.

He choked on a sob, trying to catch his breath, trying not to feel like he was that pathetic scared dancer again—bloody-lipped and brokenhearted.

Someone stepped into the alley, casting a shadow over him.

Miami looked up through tear-filled eyes, mascara smudged and shoulders shaking, roughly wiping his eyes, and spat—

“What are you looking at?”