#and he’s not really the type to kill unnecessarily

[meli-meliai]

I find it interesting how, out of all the boys so far in Blush Blush, Fuyu is the only one who has been directly implied to have killed a child through his genocide of the Summer Clan (as well as the highest kill count, most likely)

[yandere-sins]

Monstober - Day 3: Alien

I've read so much alien romance by now—it's a good way to incorporate monsters ngl—I feel like I have seen it all. And yet, there is just something about it that I will never tire of ♥

Prompt: Day 3: Alien | Otherworldly // Uncanny Valley // Space Warnings: Yandere, Violence (Threats, (Alien) Blood Mention, Killing (of aliens), Getting cut), Abduction & being auctioned off situation, Belittling of Humans, Alien Manipulation

"And next up: A very rare pet of the type "human"! Directly imported from their home planet, "Earth," to be loved and cared for! Bidding starts at one million GSC!"

You felt terribly exposed without your clothes, merciless, harsh lights burning down on you, and no shade to hide in. Even with your arms tightly wrapped around your body, legs tugged in and crossed over, you still felt the stares of the creatures below, even if you couldn't see them. Their hungry growls and huffs echoed all around you while the price kept rising.

The lanky stature of the monster that hosted this auction paced back and forth on the edge of the stage, asking for participation and making this deal worthwhile. The creature looked like a humanoid cricket, with spindly legs, four arms, and three fingers on each hand that it kept pointing left and right.

"Four million GSC! Four-point-five million GSC! Do I hear five? Five million, thank you!"

You couldn't help the tears filling your eyes as you listened to the worth of your self, something you never had a say in determining. Even with your father swearing up and down that he adored and cherished you more than his own life, you knew that his gambling addiction would one day ruin everything you loved. You just didn't think he'd go as far as to sell you—to aliens nonetheless.

On earth, you had thought you had seen it all—highs and lows, in person or on television. But in your cell on the spaceship that flew you through the cosmos, you learned you knew nothing. You were a tiny speck in this endless design, and it left you feeling empty and meaningless.

You met quite a few species back when you were waiting for the auction to take place. Humanoids, insectoids, and some completely unexplainable. You learned that most aliens sold themselves to wealthier species to live a better life, not so much concerned with pride or shame as humans were. Thus, the existence of an enslaved human caused quite a ruckus in the galaxy. You had yet to learn the worth of GSC—the currency beyond your planet—but apparently, one million was akin to a yearly income here.

"Twenty-five million GSC! What an amazing price for a priceless pet! At this point, it will only be fair if you lovely participants know what you're getting into!"

At this, you finally raised your head again, bracing your eyes against the painful light as the thumping of steps closed in on you. A three-fingered hand reached out for your arm, and as green and gnarly as it was, its movements were fast and precise. You cowered away but weren't as quick and nimble, and the fingers were large enough to wrap around your upper arm, yanking you back.

Without any warning, a small claw emerged from one of the alien's free hands, cutting you right above its own fingers around your flesh that held you in place. You gasped but the creature hummed approvingly before it dabbed a white tissue to the wound, soaking up the blood. Unnecessarily harsh, the monster discarded your arm again, making sure to let you know how much you really meant to it with all its actions—nothing.

You were simply a means to an end. One that would hopefully bring lots of money.

If not for the precarious state, you should have been angry. Angry at your father, angry at the world—the whole galaxy even! How dare they sell you like a piece of meat with no regard for your well-being and wishes! Sure, they weren't used to the pridefulness of a race they deemed weak yet untouchable by the laws of their organization. But the way they treated you, abused you, and disregarded all of your self as if you truly were a mindless animal only seeking food and shelter to simply survive was beyond insulting!

You were still a human! The superior race on your planet. You still had intelligence and empathy and deserved so much more than their belittling treatment!

But here, you were nothing. The alien disappeared with the sample of your blood, and you saw it bend down at the edge of the stage, leaving you to assume it was passing the tissue to someone else, who, in turn, probably gave it to the patrons of this establishment. The crowd suddenly erupted in a heated cacophony of sounds. More groans and huffs spread through the masses, and the alien auctioneer clapped his four hands together as more offers were yelled into the room.

You were just a piece of meat. One to purchase and show off, play with, ruin, break, and then force to be the good pet that they paid millions for. At this point, you were pretty sure that they wouldn't stop and keep your dignity intact. That no one here truly cared whether you'd be happy or scared or embarrassed.

"Fifty-three million! Sixty-four! Do I hear sixty-five—Seventy million GSC!"

The enthusiastic grunts and murmurs made you sick to the stomach, and you hunched over, cowering in your position. Maybe they were right; perhaps you really were just an expensive piece of meat.

You hadn't given the future too much thought yet, too afraid of the present after you were kidnapped and shipped to space. But what if, despite them calling you "pet", you'd actually be killed and eaten? What if once you weren't new, weren't special anymore, you'd simply be discarded, ending up on the streets of an alien planet where you were at the mercy of those creatures? What would you do if they were all hulking, strong beasts that could throw you around like a ragdoll, hurting you, abusing you?

Or worse... Oh god, you could think of so many more things they could do, and yet you were too afraid to form the thoughts in your head.

There were so many cruel ideas in your head as you sat there, hunched over, despair filling your body and mind. You had to do something, had to get away. Pride was one thing, but survival was the most primal need you had in you. And as much as you wished for it all to be over, how could you possible achieve this? How could you, a simple human make them stop tormenting you? Secretly, you had already accepted their superiority; it had been this way since the old ages. Masses made you humans strong, but you alone? No chance.

"Do you wish to end all of this?"

Your ragged breath came to a halt, your head slowly turning to the side from where the voice came. There was no explaining what you were looking at, those humanoid features so similar to humans, yet somehow their features were sharper, elongated, cheekbones too high to be real, the nose too slim to look functional. The creature's body was lean and tall, its torso almost entirely in view from above the stage. You examined them for a long time, their blue skin standing out against the harsh lights. You spied the flick of a tail behind them every so often, sleek with a puff of hair at the end. And despite being so different, somehow, they scared you less than the aliens you had seen on your journey here.

"S-Sir, with all due respect, you're not supposed to approach them without them being restrained."

The auctioneer called out to them, stepping in front of you and blocking the line of sight unsuccessfully with its spindly, insectoid legs. You shuddered at the thought of going back into the restraints you had woken up in after being knocked out and readied for shipment. "What if they attack you or get filth all over you? These creatures are known to spit," he added more quietly, hoping to appease the one standing in front of the stage, their tail flicking more often now. Was it annoyance that crossed their features? Or did the light blind you to see the truth?

The creature's gaze lingered on you for a while longer, their eyes drilling into you from between the gaps in the legs before their head snapped upwards rapidly, lips parting in a menacing grimace. "Let them speak," they growled, and the auctioneer jumped back, sputtering before moving to the side.

Only now did you notice the deadly silence in the hall, and you slowly unfurled from your hunched-over position, looking up. But not without your arms tightening around you, shielding you a little from being exposed.

The alien's head fell back down, facing forward, the movement much gentler, less frightening—intentional. Their dark blue gaze softened, no pupils but swirls of lighter blues and purples swaying in them. And then they smiled, and it almost seemed comforting, if there weren't two rows of spiked teeth. One of their hands raised from below the stage—another uncanny feature as their arms were just too long—and the other settled on the stage tapping on it, beckoning you closer.

When the other arm emerged, it held a smooth kind of fabric in it, maybe a coat or a rag, but the dark blue color glistened in the direct light made you assume it was something better than a poor person's rag as they spread it out on the edge of the stage, pushing it in your direction as far as possible.

"It's okay now," they purred, and a sudden relief washed over you, their words sinking into you like a warm hug and reassuring backrub would, your jaw unclenching and shoulders sinking. Something about them calmed you, and although your brain was telling you to be extra careful, you couldn't help but feel connected to them. Hesitantly but curious, you inched closer, fingertips reaching for the fabric. Part of you expected the creature to pull it away from you the moment you attempted anything, but they didn't move, didn't even breathe. It was unnerving how still they could be, still like a trick of your mind, an illusion, but the soft fabric beneath your hand was very real, and you tugged at it warily.

It followed your pull, and soon enough, you pressed it to your chest, covering up your naked body. Greed settled in as you reached for more with your other hand, spreading the blue around you, the fabric seemingly never-ending, at least not until you had utterly cocooned yourself in it, nothing but your face and a few strands of your hair still looking out of it.

It had this grounding smell that enveloped you like a second layer of fabric, sweet and earthy, but also reminded you of the ocean you used to visit at home. Your heart ached as you took another deep breath, unwilling to part with the memory.

You couldn't help a shuddering breath from escaping as you looked back up at the creature. So much closer to them now, their size was even more towering, yet you didn't hesitate to look into these intriguing eyes of theirs, the swirls now creating pools of depth inside of them with how fast they were circling, looking as if they were entirely fixated on you.

"Thank you," you muttered, genuinely grateful for the help.

"My pleasure," they replied, their long-limbed arm reaching out, catching the loose strands of hair and twirling them in their fingertips. You felt like you needed to recoil, but for some reason, you didn't move, completely at peace with the creature touching you, their skin smelling much like the fabric around you. "Now, about my question. Do you wish to end all of this?"

It was a strangely phrased, hard-to-interpret question, but you didn't wreck your head before agreeing with a nod. You did want all of this to end; you didn't want to be a pet to some strange creature that was paying a lump sum just to own you. They were all the same greedy monsters that your father was: heartless and unsympathetic. Why would you not want to end this damned situation?

"Wonderful, but I'll have you know that that power comes at a price," they chuckled, hand falling from your hair to your cheek. A large palm cupped your face, thumb splitting off to caress your lower lip, pressing against it, their gaze fixating on the plumpness jumping back in place after being fondled. Then, their hand slid further down, unwrapping your neck from the fabric and slipping around your throat to the thumping spot of your puls that it wrapped around.

"Are you willing to pay that price?"

"B-But Sir! Please..." someone whimpered from beside you, but it was nearly impossible to break eye contact with the alien before you and acknowledge whoever was speaking. They had a mesmerizing aura to themselves, the swirls captivating your attention, and you felt ashamed to say they fascinated you. It felt wrong, yet... right. Was it supposed to feel that way?

"What's the price?" you mumbled, a part of you still a good human, aware that nothing came for cheap and everything should be in equal value.

"Mhm," the creature hummed thoughtfully, but not appalled by your question, their thin lips curving into a grin similar to that of a human but more foxish and uncanny.

"Your life to do what I please with, in exchange for..."

They made another thoughtful sound before the rumble in their chest turned into a purr. Their lips split into that menacing smile from before, many sharp teeth creating pristinely white rows, and you knew they thought themselves on the winning side. You felt their grip around your throat tighten, and with an unexpected yank, you were pulled forward, just a breath away from their face.

"How about every life that dares to look at you with appalling intentions? Every soul, or the equivalent in their respective race, in this room, calling you a mere pet? Every alien that touched you as if you were an object of their possession? Anyone that has ever or will in the future harm you? Would that be enough, little human? Do you require more from me? It shall be yours. Your life in my hands in exchange for everything you could want—and my coat."

You tightened the fabric around your body, a waft of the sweet scent you smelled before tingling your nostrils. It was a damn good coat, and an even better offer.

Somehow, it bothered you less to hear you'd still be sold like a slave—although perhaps better a slave than a pet. At least it would be on your terms, right? Or the alien's... Your head felt dizzy as you thought about it. If this was the promise, you could live with it. You'd at least get out of this situation and live to see another day. And you were so angry at these creatures around you, your father, everything! Why should you care about them? Right, you shouldn't. You should... agree. Take the deal and be done with it. Dealing with one alien was better than all the others.

"Do you swear to keep your promise?" you asked, and the creature sighed blissfully, nodding their head before resting their forehead to yours. Tension that you hadn't realized had been there before left their body, and you noticed their free hand creeping up on stage, closer to your bundled-up form.

"I swear," they uttered solemnly, and you nodded in acknowledgment.

"So do I."

"S-Sir! You cannot disrupt this auction as you please! There are rules on the Galactic Space Hub that prohibit direct selling of wares and—"

The sound of squashing flesh interrupted the auctioneer's speech, and your eyes widened—as did the creature's cheeky grin. You felt something hot and wet splatter on your coat but didn't realize what it was until it hit the alien in front of you on the face. Your head slowly turned with hesitant movements, but their free hand reached up, keeping your face forward instead while hushing you.

"Don't look," they chuckled, and chaos erupted in all forms of sounds around you. Neighing, squawking, and the occasional grunts were to be heard everywhere. You couldn't ignore the squashing, sputtering sounds of fluids and flesh being cut open, your body shivering with not even the coat being able to keep you warm all of a sudden as you came to a realization of what kind of deal you had made.

"Shh, shh," the alien hushed, bringing a hand up to their own face to wipe away the alien guts that had splattered them. With a flick of their wrist, they returned the arm to your back and wrapped it around you. "Just keep looking at me, don't look at them. It's your turn to keep your promise and not to disobey my orders. I hope you remember your part of the deal and spare yourself the misery."

Pulling you off the stage, you were cradled against their chest, flat and tight under what looked oddly similar to a vest and dress shirt from earth, intricate patterns decorating the seams. The curiosity of any human wanted you to look and witness the devastation that had taken place, but you couldn't tear yourself away from this strange, otherworldly creature, their command seemingly effective.

"Your Majesty, it is done. What do you wish to do now?"

"Hm," the creature hummed, leaning forward a little more, lips almost brushing yours. You held your breath, fingers clawing into their shoulders. You tensed in their hold as they carried you out of the harsh spotlight, shrouding you in the darkness that had once given privacy to the aliens trying to buy you for their own pleasure. But nothing more than silence was left now, and it was an eery one, paired with many pungent yet alluring smells around you.

"Ready my ship," the alien ordered, and you felt hypnotized by their eyes paired with their smell so close to you now. Tempted, almost, to have a taste of their lips, see if they tasted the same as they smelled. "Sent a fleet ahead of us and tell the court I am finally coming home."

They grinned again, and you should have recoiled from the sharp teeth shining in the darkness. Their whole body seemed glowing even outside of the light.

"And tell them I bring back my blood mate, my newly betrothed, and prepare for the harvest."

You gasped as you heard the creature announce their plans, pushing away from them and managing to tear away from their hypnotic gaze. No one said anything about your blood! What were their intentions? What did they want with your blood? How much blood did they want? You thought this would merely end in you being a companion, rather than a mere pet, but it seemed you had been entirely wrong.

"Ah, ah," they chuckled. "Remember, it's the price you promised to pay. My kind values clean bloodlines above all else. Imagine how hard it was to find one of your kind that matched mine? Otherwise I would have never been allowed the pleasure to keep one of you, be with one of you. You are simply perfect. Interesting, "fun". Exactly what I want in a blood mate!"

"What?" you winced, feeling a strange sense of betrayal. "Why me then? Why a human? Why not one of your own kind? O-Or the others!"

"Your kind is the most interesting of them all," they explained. "I can't wait to uncover all these emotions you are feeling, one after the other. I must know all about what it's like to feel "pain" and "happiness". You have no idea how boring these other species are, no matter what I do to them. I'm not wasting my time copulating with those simpletons. I want something more from my mate. Something they can't give me, but you can."

Their explanation sounded threatening even when they smiled throughout it, their intentions becoming awfully clear, and you squirmed in their arms that only seemed to tighten the more you moved. You fell for it like a fool! you thought, scolding yourself inwardly for not being more careful. You trusted the creature even though you knew better! None of those aliens would have treated you well! None of them had good intentions!

And you might have just fallen for the worst of them all—a curious one.

"Now, now," they tutted, a hand wrapping around your neck from behind, squeezing until you gasped for air.

"It's time to hold up your end of the bargain, as will I, always."

[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

[brynnsasha191]

(Tldr at the end) Okay here goes.

People really misunderstood Callum in episode two, s7 (that's okay, the writers didn't do a great job of conveying what I'm about to say, no hate to them though) Callum did not betray Ezran

I see a lot of people criticizing Callum for prioritizing Rayla instead of Ez and saying Rayllum is toxic because it got in the way of familial relationships. But that's not what Callum's actions were really about, they weren't about "oh rayla is upset so I'm going to burn down all bridges for her" like a lot of people seem to think. His actions had a lot to do with Rayla but they also had a lot to do with the fact that Callum genuinely believed what Ezran was doing wasn't right.

(btw I'm writing this with Callum's opinions in mind, I'm not just projecting mine on Callum. I believe Runaan did something wrong and deserved punishment for it, and I believe both Rayla and Ez were both right and wrong. I am on everyone's side)

In the beginning of the episode, we see Callum trying to reason with Rayla and defend Ezran by telling her to give him a minute to process what recently happened to him. And he says "he [runaan] did kill it's king" but he never actually said he agreed with Ezran, he was just trying to get Rayla to see Ezran's side.

Ezran and Rayla's fight during the council meeting was understandable upsetting for Callum, his two favorite people were fighting. And when he tried to follow Rayla to get her to come back, Ezran commanded him to do otherwise, as the king, Ezran has a right to do that. But that moment probably felt uncomfortable and belittling and frustrating for Callum, it's the same unhealthy push and pull dynamic that I talked about in my 'why Callum shouldn't be high mage' meta. It made Callum disinterested in the council meeting, and while that's not Ezran's fault, it is the same corner that the broyals keep walking themselves into.

Callum goes outside and sees Rayla crying, that is also understandably distressing for him, but he doesn't blame Ezran at all. He apologizes for his choice in that moment, he says he should've gone after her, not "Ezran shouldn't have done that or said that", if Callum was completely choosing Rayla over Ez, he easily could've deflected the blame to him, but he didn't, he apologized for his own actions which to me shows that Callum isn't the type to blame Ezran unnecessarily.

When Callum goes to Ezran and calls him a jerk face (very uncool thing of him to say to Ezran, Ezran didn't deserve that) Rayla and Callum already finished their conversation where Rayla decided to secretly get Runaan out, there wasn't a point to try to convince Ezran to let Runaan out then. He went to Ezran, not to convince him to free Runaan, but to convince Ez he wasn't doing the right thing. As the scene progresses, Callum's voice gets softer and he starts speaking sensibly and reasonably without ad hominem attacks. He acknowledges Ezran's feelings about Katolis being destroyed but also acknowledges that that particular part of Ezran's pain isn't connected to Runaan. And Ezran has no problem sharing his true feelings with Callum, Callum doesn't dismiss them once. He puts his hand on Ezran's shoulder and validates his feelings, also not to mention he apologizes immediately after calling Ez a jerk face. And when Ezran says "he killed our father" Callum doesn't know how to respond because he isn't completely siding with R&R. He knows Ez has a point.

Rayla and Runaan could have been seriously injured during the fight with Soren and the soldiers. Aanya was going to shoot them, and Ezran was going to let her. It's really weird that this fandom seems to think Callum should've sat by and not stood up for them. Callum absolutely shouldn't have condoned Rayla breaking Runaan out without permission, he should've told her to stop and stay put until he had a chance to talk to Ezran's more. But that's not what happened, what happened was a messy game of tug-o-war between two people who love each other that nearly killed people and almost destroyed relationships. Callum didn't choose Rayla, he chose what he thought was right, and that was not Ezran at the time. People get so mad at him for not standing by Ezran's side but he wanted to, but standing by someone's side doesn't mean sitting back and letting them do something that you believe is wrong.

He gave up his role as High Mage because he knew he couldn't continue to play that role after this, for him and Ezran's sake. He can't be his High Mage but he'll always be his brother.

TLDR: Callum actually did handle this situation maturely. The problem didn't lie with Callum or anyone else. This situation was an ugly and messy one that anyone would have a hard time navigating especially a kid who the people closest to him in the entire world were actively hurting each other. He's willing to do anything for Rayla, but this isn't about choosing Rayla, it's about what he thought was right.

[polyhexian]

ADDING ONTO THE LAST ANON TALKING ABOUT THE OWL HOUSE. I also rewatched that scene recently and jesus CHRIST. Darius is SOOOO much more of a total dick than I remembered him being- (and I used to watch season 2 every day!) HES SO UNNECESSARILY MEAN TO HUNTER. (THE 16 YEAR OLD SOLDIER!??) AND THEN HE HAS THE AUDACITY TO SAY "You're very good at doing exactly. what. youre. told."

tldr: I've been completely and utterly captured by fanon propaganda Dadrius/wovengold and forgot just how much of an ass Darius was 😭

I KNOW, LIKE, I THINK PEOPLE OFTEN MISREMEMBER HOW BAD IT REALLY WAS LIKE

I cannot overstate. He knows that Hunter is a soldier. He knows he is sixteen, he's the one who tells US that. He knows that Hunter is disabled, because he mocked him for it. I, personally, would also say that he knows that Hunter is an orphan- he's been in his position for years and hunter has always been in the castle, he's belos' family and he knows he's not Belos's kid, he calls him his nephew, but it's not like hunter has any parents running around. So either his parents gave him to Belos as a child to raise specifically as the golden guard. Or they're dead. I think Darius MUST know, or at least believe, that hunter is an orphan. A disabled orphan child soldier. Like he is THERE he MUST notice this child has a fuckhuge scar on his face, he must see how he bows before the emperor like everyone else, he MUST see that he spends 5/7 days a week trapped in the castle in his room and never leaves. He MUST know there are no other children in the castle for him to be friends with. He MUST know this isnt normal. I feel strongly that Darius is the type to be willfully ignorant; to refuse to see what he doesn't like even when it's in front of him. Not seeing that Belos must have killed his mentor, that hunter is being abused, that the emperor is, like, evil.

And he's so MEAN about it. He mocks him specifically for being disabled. Like not because he's annoying, or he failed at something, he is not mocking him for anything he did, he is specifically doing it because he is a disabled child, and he's pathetic and embarrassing for thinking he could EVER be anyone with status or relevance when he's disabled. That's fucked up! Thats fucked up Darius! Why did we never address this! Jesus Christ!

[baobpn]

❝ Healing Scars ❞ (Part 1)

——— A mark left by a traumatic event. Not all scars can be healed but it can be soothed to the point of acceptance.

I have this SUPER angsty Caleb x You x Zayne backstory idea that’s been plaguing my mind and I’m cursing my inability to illustrate it so imma write about it

Please don’t kill me, I promise it ends with comfort

⬩ Relationship: Caleb x Female!Reader x Zayne

⬩ Word Count: 826

⬩ Tags: Angst • Hurt/Comfort • Hospitalization • Mentions of depression • Female Reader

On a summer cool afternoon, you and Caleb were playing in the river and discovered a strange metal object. Neither of them knew what it was so Caleb agreed to go find Zayne (since he is a child prodigy and probably would know). In the meantime, you searched for any sticks to help dig out the metallic object.

Caleb locates Zayne seated on his porch reading his book. He practically had to drag Zayne off of his property since asking wasn’t going to convince him. Zayne wasn’t the type to exert a lot of energy so he wasn’t running back to the location like Caleb was.

If only he did.

Before his arrival, a huge explosion went off. That day was the first time Zayne ran with urgency.

It was a devastating sight to see. The thick black smoke slowly rises up into the air and the earth’s surface is deeply disturbed. Off to the side Caleb is unconscious but clearly injured. As for you, you needed immediate medical attention.

. . .

When he was finally permitted, Zayne routinely visited the hospital. Each time he only brought two bouquets of flowers, but today he brought a jar full of origami stars and a portable console.

Making headway to the elevator, he went to the floor where Caleb was stationed. Caleb’s condition was recoverable, however it came at the cost of amputating his right arm. Unsurprisingly, this pushed him into a deep depression. Whenever Zayne visited, Caleb ignored his presence. Zayne knew his friend was trapped in his mind but refused to take that as a sign to give up on him. 

He heads towards his usual sitting area: the wide window with a cushioned bench embedded in front of it. Setting down the items he brought with him, Zayne took the console out of his pocket and booted up a game. 

The obnoxious “You are dead” sound cue repeatedly played throughout the hour of his stay. It has gotten to the point where Caleb groaned after hearing the sound again. Zayne, looking up from the console, stares at Caleb. “Is something wrong, Caleb? Do you need me to get a nurse?”

Caleb stayed still, refusing to respond back to him. However, there was a visible sign of annoyance on his face. 

Zayne glancing back down on his console resumed playing the game. After the next death screen, he sighed in defeat. “I don’t understand how you can play these types of games. They are unnecessarily complex despite being advertised to us.”

Zayne hopped off the bench and walked around to the right side of Caleb’s bed. Pulling himself up, he sits closely so his friend doesn’t have to strain himself to see the screen.

Caleb glances over and his eyebrows furrowed deeper. “You only have to jump the gap.”

Zayne knew that. 

“Really”, Zayne tilts his head. “Mind showing me how?”

What was a few minutes of instructing turned into an hour of collaborating to defeat the first boss. The dull look behind Caleb’s eyes was finally shining with determination and excitement.

That was the first time in 11 months Caleb has responded to Zayne. 

An array of bright orange, pink and purple hues slowly began to blanket the sky. Dusk was Zayne’s least favorite time of day because it was a signal he needed to head back home. 

Retrieving the bouquet of flowers and jar from the bench, Zayne headed towards the door.

“Hey, you left behind your *XYZ Deck!” Caleb called out after him. 

(*This is a make believe handheld console)

Zayne briefly turns around and gives a small smile. “You can have it, consider it a gift from me.”

Joy was bubbling within Zayne as he exited the hospital room. He loved playing video games with you two but he lessened the amount of time after you complained about him always knowing what to do. Since then he preferred to observe but it was still a bad habit of his to call out the mistakes you and Caleb make. 

Zayne enters the elevator and looks up to read the clock on the wall. He still had enough time to spare to make a short visit.

He presses the 11F button and stares down at the floor as the elevator quickly whisks by each floor.

Taking in a deep breath and letting it out, he exits the elevator after the ding. The smell of the hospital thickened on this floor and Zayne hated it. He once requested the staff to implement scented air fresheners to lighten up the atmosphere, but they politely declined his request, informing him that it was against their regulations

As his body auto-pilots to his destination, he stopped in front of a door and stood around for what felt like an eternity. He knew what he was going to see, yet each time he wished it was different.

He raises his hand to lightly knock on the wooden door. “I’m coming in.”

PART 2 COMING SOON

✦ Dividers Credit plum98 , bloodibambiidoll , and dollywons

[thebeast-dennis-etcetera]

Training Part 3

Prompt: Enemies to Lovers type. You and Gibbs never got along, and luckily you never really had to work with each other…until now.

Part 1 Part 2

It had been days after your latest lead and both investigative teams had come up with zilch. You and Tobias had returned to the Bureau to continue working on other tasks and that had been the last time you saw Special Agent Gibbs.

“These crime scene photos are trash Stevens. I can’t even make out the license plate number in this one,” you chastised your team probie. His cheeks burned pink as he adjusted his unnecessarily large glasses and scrambled to grab at some of the prints.

“Uh, sorry Agent L/N. I’ll uh- I’ll go get some new ones.”

He scurried out of the conference room, passing by Fornell who raised his eyebrows and looked over at you, knowing how much you terrified the probies.

“You can’t keep scaring off the new Agents, L/N. He’s the 3rd one this month,” he joked, stepping into the room and picking up one of the crime scene photos, squinting his eyes as he brought it closer to his face. “But you are right. These pictures are trash.”

“Any leads on the Ramos case?” you asked, changing the subject.

“That’s what I came in here to tell you. Gibbs and his team managed to find out about a meeting that Ramos’ boss is having with a very high profile drug runner tonight. The plan is to plant Ramos in the meeting with a wire and either get his boss to confess to the killing of Petty Officer Killbourne or grab some of his DNA for a match to the murder weapon used.”

You stood from your seat and grabbed your jacket that hung over the back.

“Well I’m ready when you are. Let’s go-

“Well just a sec L/N. I still need you to finish transcribing the crime scene photos with Agent Stevens and then you can join me. Meet us for a briefing at NCIS at 7pm.”

You sighed audibly and dropped your jacket down onto the table.

“And would it kill you to be a little nicer to Stevens? Maybe smile a little.”

You put on the biggest fakest smile you could muster before dropping it and rolling your eyes. With a sigh from Tobias, he left the room, leaving you with a table of blurry pictures.

————

You stepped into the NCIS squad room at exactly 6:50pm, seeing Fornell already there, chuckling with the team and sipping on a coffee.

“Alright, let’s hear it. What’s the plan,” you interrupted, sitting at the edge of Agent DiNozzo’s desk, successfully blocking his view. Your eyes briefly locked with Agent Gibbs but broke contact once Agent David started explaining the op.

“The plan is simple. Ramos’ boss will be at the Crimson night club with our drug runner and Ramos will be in attendance. McGee and Fornell will be in charge of surveillance, Tony and I will be undercover as employees and you and Gibbs undercover at a nearby table. Ramos will bring up the murder, hopefully getting some convicting evidence from his boss or Plan B, he gets us some of his DNA to give to Abby.”

You nodded in understanding, the plan seeming pretty cut and dry. As everyone got ready and you got dressed in your undercover outfit, you noticed Gibbs clearly avoiding you, snagging the last available spot in the charger, leaving you to ride with McGee and Fornell in the surveillance van.

In the nightclub parking lot, Ramos was a nervous wreck. The plan was for him to go in first, meet up with his boss and then we would come in after so as not to raise suspicion. Tony and Ziva were already inside, just in time for the shift change.

"What if he finds out I'm wearing a wire?" he asked as McGee checked him over.

"Run like hell," Tobias joked. You would have almost laughed if Gibbs wasn't standing there, looking all judgmental.

"Everything will be fine. Just act normal, we'll be there every step of the way. If you act nervous or scared, he's gonna know something is up," McGee explained, calming him down a bit.

"I've got eyes on both of our guys," you heard DiNozzo report through your earpiece. "A couple of bodyguards by the VIP Entrance, all armed."

"That's your cue kid," Tobias responded, giving Ramos a hard clap on the back, pushing him towards the club. You all watched him go in and continued watching surveillance from the live building cameras McGee hacked into.

When it was time, you and Gibbs walked into the club together, getting your hands stamped and paying the entry fee. McGee had previously reserved a specific booth that gave you direct line of sight of the VIP section and the both of you sat down, Gibbs making it a point to keep some space between.

Immediately, Ziva came over and pretended to take your drink orders.

"Two exits besides the main. One down the hall next to the bathrooms and another in the kitchen," she updated before leaving. You turned to look at Gibbs and gave him a once over. He was dressed in a suit like usual but this one was personally tailored with a handkerchief and he was adorning an expensive looking watch to give off some "old money" vibes in order to fit in to the scene. You weren't gonna deny, he looked delicious.

He glanced at you, noticing you staring and gave you a warning look, making you smirk and look away towards the dance floor while moving a little to the sound of the music. Ziva returned a minute later with fake drinks that you wished weren't. Between the sexual tension you were creating and just the party atmosphere, you were craving some form of a buzz.

The both of you took turns watching the meeting happen out of the corner of your eyes before something happened.

"I-uh-I gotta go to the bathroom," you heard Ramos say before watching him get up abruptly and walk off.

"Shit. He's gonna blow this op." Tobias cursed.

"Not gonna happen," you said, getting up and following him, hearing Gibbs protest but follow as well. You caught up to Ramos in the dark hallway before he reached the bathroom. You grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"I-I don't know if I can do this. They're not even talking about the murder, how am I suppose to bring it up?"

He wiped the sweat forming on his forehead as Gibbs came over.

"If you can't get him to talk about it then just grab some DNA. Put a napkin in his empty glass and we'll have one of ours grab it."

"Heads up guys. We've got one of the bodyguards coming over to you. Get out of there," McGee warned.

You fixed Ramos' hair and pushed him towards the men's bathroom.

"You're almost done Ramos, don't mess it up."

Once he was inside, you looked over and saw the bodyguard McGee was referring to. He hadn't spotted Ramos but there wasn't enough time for you and Gibbs to leave before he got there so you did what any undercover agent would do in that scenario. You leaned up against the wall, lifted your leg to hook onto Gibbs' waist, and pulled him in for an intense kiss.

You were genuinely surprised when he kissed you back, grabbing your exposed thigh where the slit of your dress opened up and stepped in closer. No amount of alcohol could measure up to the buzz the whole interaction was giving you. You ran your fingers through his hair and draped your arms over his shoulders as your tongues danced with one another.

He pulled away from your lips before dipping his head down to kiss your neck. You let out a breathy sigh and closed your eyes at the contact, your neck being an extra sensitive area.

"Focus, Y/N," Gibbs spoke against your skin, his other hand sliding up your side, dangerously close to running over your breast.

You opened your eyes and looked around, seeing the bodyguard and Ramos exit the bathroom together, both seemingly fine.

"He-uh...They're going back..Don't think he suspected anything," you managed to speak, still caught up in way Gibbs was making you feel.

He ran his lips to your ear, nipping at it before whispering, "I've barely touched you and you're falling apart. How long has it been?"

You were thankful he spoke quietly enough that the team couldn't hear through your mic but peeved by his question. Mainly because he was right. It had been awhile since someone touched you in such a way, let alone, a hot silver fox running an undercover operation.

"I think we can go back now," you replied, avoiding his question and straightening yourself, before walking back to your booth, him following closely behind. You sucked down your fake drink, suddenly dying of thirst and tried calming your raging hormones. Gibbs slid in beside you, now leaving zero space between the two of you, looking completely in control, annoying the shit out of you.

You were a competitive person and absolutely hated feeling like you lost the upper hand in anything. The way Gibbs teased you was no different and you weren't gonna let it slide.

So when you took your hand and let it rest on his leg, feeling his muscle flex beneath it, you smirked to yourself. Slowly, you trailed your fingers up and down his thigh, each time getting closer and closer to his growing bulge. The look he gave you was borderline murderous but it didn't phase you at all, if anything, it egged you on.

"DNA is secured, boss," DiNozzo spoke.

You leaned in close to Gibbs, your hand moving to rub the length of his straining bulge, earning a groan, that he covered up with a fake clearing of his throat.

"Boss? You good?" DiNozzo spoke again.

"Yeah, get out of here DiNozzo. You and Ziva. Go with McGee and Fornell. We'll meet you back at the office."

Before Tony could reply, he reached up to remove his earpiece and put it in his pocket, you doing the same but giving it to Gibbs.

He then grabbed your hand before you could go back to touching him and spoke. "What is your plan Agent L/N? Where do you plan on going from here?"

You brought your lips to his, giving him a simple kiss before pulling back.

"I was hoping you could tell me Agent Gibbs. You're the boss."

He looked at you, then your lips. "This is completely unprofessional."

"Then do something about it, Agent Gibbs," you replied, speaking the previous words from the elevator.

A second later, he pulled you out of the booth and lead you out of the club, to the charger outside. As he drove fast down the streets, you had a feeling you weren't going straight to the office.

Taglist: @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @ainttalkinboutlovesblog @bluebellinatardis

[yannisdesk]

I disagree with the arguments going around that Vander's past was poorly handled in season 2 of act 2, or that it somehow "cheapens" his and Silco's character. This initially was just a paragraph, but it got a little long, so I broke it down.

"Vander and Silco knowing the sisters' mom pre-prologue is bad writing because she didn't know them in season 1." - If Vander and Silco knowing Vi + Jinx's mom pre-prologue is bad writing then that means the bad writing goes back to the very first scene in act 1 season 1. She's shown in the prologue dead after fighting in the battle that Vander orchestrated and led. He clearly recognizes the girls and when they give him that pleading look, he turns in the exact direction that Felicia and Connol's corpse was in, which communicates that he knew exactly who they were and who they were looking for. Their parents and Vander always knew each other, it just wasn't obvious how. Now we know.

"It makes Silco's character unnecessarily dark." - It really doesn't change Silco's character as much as you'd think. Yeah, it darkens him, but only by like 5% more. Silco throughout all of season 1, especially act 1, is extremely a "do whatever it takes" type. He wanted power, he wanted to free Zaun, and was willing to do some heinous things, some "base violence" to set off the domino effect he desired for his rise to fame. One of the first things we're shown him doing, is using Zaun's children to experiment with shimmer. He has no sentimental ties to anyone but...Vander, and even then we see that it can only go so far. Come act 2 and 3, and he's clearly different, because he raised Jinx. We see Silco post-fallout with Vander. This Silco is simply different from the one we see in the flashback, but there are still shades of him throughout season 1 as we see with his relationship with Jinx, which yes, was extremely messed up, but he did care for her in his own way. Like how the Jinx we see at the beginning of season 1 act 2 is extremely different from Powder - this Silco has been through a lot, and has a completely different outlook. But similar to how Powder is never gone from Jinx, pre-fallout Silco is never fully gone from post-fallout Silco, as he embraces Powder rather quickly. Like Powder, pre-fallout Silco always there, bubbling just beneath the surface. He's just better at drowning out that part of him.

"It cheapens Vander's anti-violence stance." - No, it doesn't. He could still very much be disturbed by how many Zaunites died during the battle (a lot of his people were lost, just look at the prologue) and draw the line at that, but Felicia's death in particular is what drove the wedge between him and Silco, and that's a separate thing. As we see in season 1, Vander does care about his people beyond his adoptive children. He doesn't say "Okay, everyone but the kids can fight!" No, he straight up says no one will fight. And when push comes to shove, he offers up himself to protect Vi, which was probably coming anyway because he said during the bridge scene in season 1 episode 2 that he didn't know what to do in terms of handling the apartment explosion. So no, Vander caring about the people of Zaun is not all of a sudden tossed out of a window because he cared about a friend who died tragically.

"It means Vander, Vi, Jinx, Claggor, and Mylo are no longer a found-family."- How? Vander isn't related to Vi or Jinx by blood. Going by the watercolor memory segment, he was a family friend who was active in Vi's life, sure, however that doesn't mean he was some sort of surrogate father to her pre-prologue. He was a trusted adult figure in her life, and he became much more than that once her parents were killed. He became a father to her, Powder, Claggor, and Mylo, who also became their brothers. They were a found family. They never would've developed that dynamic if their bio-families were still around - or at least, not to the extent that it did.

There are things I could drag act 2 for - namely the pacing and how Vi's character is handled. But, I'm fully behind Vander's lore expansion.

[pekoehoneyncream]

Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley Headcanons

Part Two!

Words: 690~

TW: Mentions of Food Aversion. (sfw)

Part One

Because of my own poor planning y'all are getting the rest of my headcanon stuff and my first few responses for Ghoaptober, released on the same days. Whoops. Thankfully all the headcanon stuff is prewritten, 'cause as I understand it you're supposed to make __tober stuff day by day.

Enjoy!

Ghost has the most undignified laugh. He usually tries to hide it and cover it up with stoic manly snort/scoffs, but if something manages to really get him it’s one loud HA! Followed by an unceasing trail of giggles. Shoulders shaking, hiding his face behind his hand, giggling away. If he goes for too long his knees go weak and he’ll grabbing or leaning on anything as he slowly sinks until he's flat on his back, losing his breath, shaking with silent giggles with the occasional snort as he tries to get his breathing undercontrol. While he’s calming down he can't look at anyone or he’ll lose it again. Long deep breaths, blown out in slow calming ‘Hooo’s.

Doesn’t consider himself religious, but is admittedly a bit superstitious. Toss salt over your shoulder, knock on wood, don’t walk under ladders or open umbrellas indoors or break mirrors. Those types of things. 

Also does a bit of casual ritualism. Things like: tasks as best begun on the new moon, sweeping counter clockwise and always ending towards the door, not cleaning messes invites stagnation, rain is cleansing, big life changes will be most successful in spring, summer is for hard work, autumn is when you reap what you sowed, winter is a time for rest and reflection, etc. Just subtle little things that he pick up from his mom.

Has sensitive teeth. Cold sensitive specifically. Can't bite icecreams or popsicles. Whenever he has to eat ice-chips in medical it's actually torturous for him. Slushies and drinks that use blended ice are also no-gos. Even drinks that are a bit too cold can make his teeth ache. Never puts ice in his waterbottle, Soap thinks the fact that Ghost prefers his water at room-temperature is disgusting. 

He's a big softie for animals. He will execute the enemy’s attack animals, but they’re always the cleanest kills he can manage. He has to sit with the base’s K9s afterwards, giving them pets and praise. Ignoring the fact that one day they might not come back from the field the same as any soldier. On long deployments Ghost is liable to be followed around by a pack of strays because he can never resist feeding them. All the feral cats that hang around the base will saunter up to him for pets with no fear whatsoever. Gaz calls him a disney princess, with all the animals that trail after him.

Ghost respects people who understand, accept, and improve upon their own potential. He values competencey and confidence in others. He holds a kind of disgust and disdain towards those that fear their own capabilities. 

Has a thing about food textures. Food is best when it’s either all smooth or all crunchy. Not the full meal, but the individual foods in the meal are best off when they stick to one texture. Onions however are a bad texture all the time. Raw, cooked, deep-fried. Horrible. The same goes for tomatoes, they’re unnecessarily wet all the time. If he’s eating and something crunches that is not supposed to crunch mid-chew he’s instantly put off the whole meal. He’ll push through it and clear his plate, but he won’t enjoy it one bit.

Price caught onto this. He saw Ghost freeze mid-chew, just to swallow that bite whole, without any further chewing, then avoid that bit of his meal while mechanically clearing the rest of his plate, only powering through the food that betrayed him when it’s the only thing left. Price watched this happen on a couple different occasions then just wordlessly swapped their plates when something went wrong with Ghost’s and that seemed to fix it. Price now keeps an absent eye on Ghost during meals to make sure he’s doing fine. Ghost is a bit mortified that his Captain noticed, but is incredibly grateful that Price doesn’t mind trading plates after Ghost's mind has deemed his plate Tainted.

Knows how to ride a skateboard. Came across a stray board when out with Soap once. Hopped on, pushed off, did a kickflip, hopped off again. Then proceeded to deny he ever did any such thing, just to fuck with Johnny.

Thank You For Reading!

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[urautismdiagnosis-wistie]

Maddie 🗣

So this is kwaziis gran'momma 🥰 she doin that cat thing where they bring u a dea douse to show how much they love youuu

Tiny reward if u make it to the end

Her name is Maddie (Madeline/Maha) and she's also known as Missus Murker 🥰. She's an Iberian lynx and her family has been part of the Split Tail pirate clan for generations 💅

she is VERY LOYAL :> and she LOVES TO INSPIRE HER CREW WITH RALLYING SPEACHES AND DISPLAYS OF POWER 🗣

Very gifted at combat 💅

She met calico jack when she was 16 and found an INVADER (14 year old kitten stowaway) IN THE CARGO HOLD. Of course she IMMEDITALY POUNCED at him and shook him while DECLARING HER WILL TO DEFEND HER CREW FROM ANY FOOLISH FOOLS WHO DARE ATTEMPT TO INFILTRA-

"am I a fool then 🥺"

"Huh... ....yer not a fool... yer an idiot, arentye?"

" CanIBeYourIdiot"

"Come now?"

Anyways calico jack, then simply "Kareem" before he got his pirate nickname and identity, ended up essentially joining her crew 🥰

She realized he was kinda tiny and soft and MADE IT HER MISSION TO TEACH THE TINT IDIOT THE WAYS OF TRUE PIRACY 🗣🗣🗣

They did get to know eachother alot more during that 🥰 and calico jack actually did end up being rather clever(pirate trickery and schemes n whatnot) if a bit too soft hearted 😭

Cj very much believed in " giving mercy to whoever you can" since that was the only reason he was alive (ill tell about his backstory on another post) and maddie was >:] ???

Cuz of course you shouldn't be unnecessarily cruel and attack those who aren't part of a fight 🙏 BUT IF HENRY JUST TRIED TO CUT OF YOUR NECK YOU SHOULDNT BE TRYING TO HELP HIM GET A FRESH START.

<out of character>

Cj: "Awh but what if he didn't choose this life 🥺"

Maddie: ">:/ he literally did though, he screamed about abandoning his home for riches"

Cj: "Ok but what if he wants to live a better life and turn things around??!"

Maddie: " he literally just said he loves the feeling of bloodlust and that its worth more to him than treasure?"

Cj: ">:( WELL DONT JUST KILL HIM?! Couldn't we have him,I unno, wash the dishes??"

Maddie: "So he can try to kill us in our sleep in revenge?? No I'm killing him!!"

Cj: "THATS SO MEAN HES NOT EVEN TRYING TO KILL US ANYMORE"

Maddie: "MAYBE BECAUSE I TIED HIM TO THE SIDE OF THE SHIP?!"

Cj: ">:'[ ur really hurting me wee feelings🥺🥺🥺"

Maddie, sighing : "fine ill... throw him overboard or something 🙄 anything for u my love"

Cj: " HE'LL STILL DIE?"

Maddie: "FINE ILL GIVE HIM SOME DAMN FLOATIES!"

Anyways they love eachothwr very much and she does adore her tiny softie husband who needed to get used to violence 🙄 he may have or may have not helped her hide bodies on seperate occasions though... ALLEGEDLY

Some other tidbits about maddie was that she was very gentle with the people she cared about, practically spoiled her loved ones, whether it was her little sister, tiny husband, or Itty bitty kittens.

A very blunt and direct woman as well. Also the type to bring u the head of ur enemy, apologize about the smell, and then expect a kiss in reward 🥰

extremely fierce and brutal in battle and spirit! Very much the heart of the crew with how she could inspire them <3

...

I'll get into the how and why another time, but she unfortunately died before kwazii was born... it wasn't a sudden death and there was time, but the illness was... hard on everyone.

Maddie does haunt cj and visit him in his dreams every Tuesday to gossip with him and bully him into self care tho

Also for someone as loud and brash as she was she had a very steady head that could build very detailed miniature ships and enjoyed embroidery

If you noticed her metal claws,she was just born that way but she likes to say she lost it to a gorgeous selkie that had fallen in love with her. And that the selkie loved maddie so much that she tried to drag her down to keep her, but that maddie had to fight her (despite the selkies beauty) to return to her crew 😔

Anyways she's fantastic and I love her if yall got any questions lmk lol

Proud mama and her tiny family

[paranoidginger]

Random headcanons for the TF2 mercs!!

Scout: ADHD hardcore, should probably be medicated for it, but isn't. This man cannot stand still for anything, he is always tapping his feet or fiddling with something. He definitely bites his nails, especially his thumbs. Repressed bisexual who is accidentally homophobic because he thinks he isn't supposed to like guys, and thinks everyone chooses to like the opposite gender. He's a surprisingly good artist, and he has dyslexia. That mixed with dropping out of highschool made him somewhat illiterate, spelling is hard, and so is reading any big words.

Soldier: Jack of all trades, he has had every job possible, but if he weren't in love with going to war, he'd probably settle on properly running a raccoon sanctuary. He is the reason why Medic had to invent a cure for rabies. Definitely thinks that being a lesbian just means that you like women, regardless of gender, he refers to himself as a Lesbian after learning that Pauling Identifies as one.

Pyro: Probably not even a human, uses any and all pronouns. They're really smart, despite acting childish, and are the one who built their flamethrowers. Probably collects stickers. Would definitely watch MLP and drag the other mercs into watching it with them, Pinkie Pie is definitely their favorite of the mane six. They draw a lot, and are pretty good at it whenever they want to be, they just prefer drawing silly things. Their room probably smells like burnt plastic and gasoline.

Demo: Only goes sober whenever shit gets super, super serious, like one of the other mercenaries that he cares about gets hurt. He's got a really strong caretaking instinct that gets drowned out by drunken recklessness. He's a total lover, and definitely the type of guy to kiss the homies goodnight. It takes a LOT to actually get him drunk drunk, like, I'm talking ungodly levels of alcohol that would probably kill the average person. He's Spy's drinking buddy, and probably knows the most about Spy's background from listening to his drunken ramblings about regrets and how he wishes he was a better father. Demo probably knows a lot about most of the other mercs, just because he's a good listener and a vault whenever it comes to sensitive information. He's also really fucking smart. Probably pansexual tbh, just based on vibes.

Heavy: He gets nervous whenever he has to help out any of the more 'delicate' mercenaries. He knows he's ridiculously strong, and he has excellent control of himself, but he can't help but feel like he's handling glass whenever he's helping out any of his injured teammates, especially when it comes to Scout or Spy. He's super fucking protective of all of his team though, and would absolutely crack skulls if anything happened to any of them. He is the only person other than Medic who is allowed to touch Archimedes. Probably bisexual with a preference towards men.

Engie: He's usually pretty polite, but can be one of the most brutal out of any of the classes. He's definitely autistic with a special interest in machines. He probably wants to capture one of the mvm robots just to run tests and see if they're sentient. Low-key god complex, like, moreso than medic, he's just super humble about it. He definitely talks to all of his machines. He's 100% a trans man, I can see him as being demisexual.

Sniper: Definitely autistic, he's probably got a shitload of random animal information. Total arachnophobe, but only towards small spiders. Hand him a tarantula and he's fine, but show him a stick covered in baby spiders and he's going to probably kick it as far away from himself as possible and run away. He adores lizards of all kinds, and probably used to lay on the ground watching them all the time as a kid. This man can't use a kitchen for shit, but he manages to make anything he cooks over a fire absolutely delicious, he probably refuses to share though. Probably Asexual. Has a shitty taxidermy rat in his camper that he's unnecessarily proud of, and he probably collects bones. Super into oddities and weird little knick knacks, and he still has all of his baby teeth that he keeps in a little jar on a shelf. Can't run for shit, but could walk for hours if need be. Likes doing arts and crafts, he knits in his free time, and almost always has a sewing kit with him.

Medic: Knows a little about every different medical field, he just sort of studied up on whatever piqued his interest. DOES have a PhD in medical science, he just lost his license to legally practice in a hospital or doctor's office. Gay, probably a trans man. Has definitely experimented on himself before, giving himself different deadly diseases and whatnot just to challenge himself to make a cure before he dies. Also autistic. Spoils the fuck out of his birds, and would probably Frankenstein together a human body for Archimedes if he could figure out how.

Spy: Bisexual genderfluid icon. Usually only gets caught because he's being way too much of a cocky showoff. Definitely wears eyeliner and says that it 'helps him see better' when it's bright out, even though it's 100% just a fashion statement. Has a collection of antique cigar boxes and lighters.

[wolverinescheeks]

💛💙Happy Wolverine Wednesday💙💛

Unfortunately I don't have an analysis or headcanon cuz I didn't have time to work on anything (work and adult responsibilities are a drag😓) BUT instead I'm just gonna talk about my favorite Wolverine comic issue so far of all of the ones I read: Weapon X by Barry Windsor-Smith‼️‼️

Train of thought, panel screenshots, and SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THIS ISSUE YET under the cut...

(I'm half typing this half rereading the comic to remind myself of certain parts but I'll try to go in chronological order so bear with me)

The first thing I loved about this comic was the way the panels were organized in the prologue. You get an idea of what Logan was doing and how he was living before he was kidnapped which parallels what the scientists were doing before they took him. These panels along with Logan's horrific nightmares and the cruel experiments of the scientists gave me an overall unsettling feeling that also made me really curious to keep reading.

The next thing I loved was the writing all throughout. There wasn't more or less writing than any other usual comic issue but the choice of not having an omniscient narrator using third person POV and instead having the characters tell the story was amazing🤩 This is because the characters only really know what they know and nothing more so you get to experience everything that happens with them and know how they feel about it. (Kinda unrelated but there's even text boxes that are cut off by the panel borders to emphasize when a character gets cut off by someone else or something happening all of a sudden). A side note about this is how I think they purposely didn't put Logan's thoughts and speech until a bit later to really push the idea of him being an "animal" while he was being experimented on and the effects of it on his cognition. An example of this is how his first spoken words were garbled and made up of mostly simple words and phrases. A side side note about the writing I love is how they make you feel confused and like you're losing your mind with Logan near the end after he wakes up from his dream/hallucination of killing the scientists.

The third thing I loved was the characterization. It's made somewhat clear the roles each of the three main scientists play in the story throughout the beginning: the professor being the most cruel/antagonizing to Logan, Dr. Cornelius being on the professor's side but still trying not to hurt Logan unnecessarily, and Carol Hines being sympathetic and caring about Logan's wellbeing.

The fourth thing was the graphic detail put into the descriptions of what Logan was going through. His pain being described in the most chilling ways possible really evoked emotional reactions from me (I felt so bad for him I almost cried a couple times😭).

Finally as an artist I absolutely adore the artstyle and just how much it pushes the feeling of fear, unease, and discomfort. The bright almost cartoonish colors contrast heavily against the extremely dark shadows that aren't overdoing it and leaves just enough to your imagination. The inks themselves are so scary (the panels with his skeleton covered in spikes or when he was dreaming being chased and overtaken by his "mutantism") and detailed it felt like I was reading a horror comic the entire time. I just know that if I read this comic when I was much younger it would've given me nightmares for sure😭

To end this post below is my favorite page and one of the best pages in all Wolverine comics imo in terms of inks, colors, composition, and text as well as accurately portraying just how deadly powerful Logan is💖💖💖

[lemonhemlock]

i get what you’re saying but i get what dany stans are saying too, what is the difference between dany taking back kl and sansa taking back winterfell? at the end of the day, monarchy sucks and none of these characters are truly "worthy"

I approached this topic more in-depth here and here.

The difference between Dany taking back King's Landing and Sansa taking back Winterfell lies in the construction of legitimacy. When engaging with medieval fantasy, rejecting its political framework and ignoring its limitations in absorbing more egalitarian ideology (and the socio-technological constraints that inform those political/philosophical limitations) is going to prove a fruitless pursuit. Westeros is roughly based on feudal Europe and has a recognizable European political thought inheritance and recognizable medieval technology and means, so I think it would be reasonable to employ political philosophy that could be plausibly applied during the period from which it takes inspiration.

~unnecessarily long essay no one asked for below~

In this regard, what makes for a "worthy" ruler in medieval times might differ with the passage of centuries, as socio-political practices transform. Which is why I feel like the validity of monarchy as a form of government was never truly under question in this setting, even though it has certainly been criticised and points have been made about social injustices arising from wealth disparities and the segregation of social spheres (I hesitate to call them social classes as I don't think the Westerosi have developed class consciousness yet).

I think that this is ultimately an element of disappointment for some readers, who are trying to project onto the text something that is not there, instead of switching to progressive fiction that addresses their concerns and presents alternative political systems. What I mean to say is that dismissing all types of monarchy as illegitimate is not useful within the text, as it renders all differences between the characters null & ignores the entire historical evolution of the concept of legitimacy. So you end up with takes like "it doesn't really matter who sits the throne". It matters very much to Martin, because that is the type of story he is trying to tell, that's... the entire point of the series. He is a boomer writing about dragons and knights in the 90s, not a transformative political thinker who is going to smack us with a new social order at the end of the series. That doesn't mean he can't critique the system or the characters' approaches to ruling. That's why he keeps killing the unfit kings & punishing those who rely on wanton brutality.

Coming back to the question, Dany's family was deposed, meaning that, legally-speaking, she doesn't have any "birthright" to the throne of Westeros anymore, no matter what she tells herself. Is deposition legal? John Locke certainly thought so in his Second Treatise of Government, chapters "Of Tyranny" and "Of The Dissolution of Government". Below we have Jean-Jacques Rousseau, "Discourse on Inequality":

OK, these are Enlightenment thinkers, but the concept was not new. The Magna Carta of 1215 certainly has a provision for this. That's medieval enough, I feel.

(Ralph V. Turner, "Magna Carta Through the Ages", Harlow, Pearson Longman, 2003 - the original article was too long lol but anyone can look it up for themselves).

Thomas Aquinas, "Summa Theologica", 1274:

etc.

You will find these ideas under the term "right of revolution".

Many medieval kings IRL have been deposed or lost their crown. Richard II, anyone? There's an entire play about it. So, yes, Robert Baratheon is the legal king of Westeros at the start of AGOT and Viserys / Daenerys simply are not. There is no birthright to speak of, that is just Dany's entitlement that goes unchecked and unquestioned.

Of course, crowns can be won back by the right of conquest, which is what Dany is trying to do. GRRM's plan for her seems to either be rejected by the people of King's Landing for whatever reason (a la Rhaenyra maybe) or for her to commit such an atrocity on the city in her attempt to seize it that it disqualifies her as a potential ruler because she breaks the normal rules of engagement to a horrifying degree (i.e. dragonflame). Dany's entire plan is questionable from the start, since she intends to mount an invasion on a people brutalised by several years of war already, on the onset of winter - essentially extra suffering. The conditions are there so that the Westerosi might not interpret her actions as liberation, but merely as another pretender to the throne, who is only after her personal betterment - basically no different from what they've seen before, so no reason to join her cause or believe in her propaganda. She will bring fire-breathing monsters, Dothraki and Unsullied warriors to their lands, whom they fear and for whom they have no kinship. They have no particular attachment to the old Targaryen kings either. In short, Dany's father was deposed and she will end up deposed herself because of her own actions (or never recognised in the first place). I'm not saying this because I have beef with Daenerys, she is not a real person who did me wrong, she is a fictional character the author is using to illustrate a political idea.

Whereas the people of the North maintain a very favourable view of the Starks and of Ned Stark in particular. They are seen as the legitimate rulers of the North and their replacements (the Boltons) are almost universally hated. The text is littered with "the North remembers" and "there must always be a Stark in Winterfell" and general Stark-fawning. The people of the North were very eager to name Ned Stark's son as their king. The people of the Night's Watch voted for Ned Stark's 15-year-old bastard as their leader. Ramsay Bolton pretends to marry Arya Stark to consolidate his legitimacy as the ruler of Winterfell and the North. Many other characters covet Sansa for the same reason. The Starks have not been deposed, unlike the Targaryens, they're just missing / presumed dead and Winterfell is up for grabs. None of our Northern characters think how lovely it would be if we had a Targaryen restauration. These things may seem like candy floss to the modern reader and they may not resonate, but they mattered a lot in the past. So when Sansa takes back Winterfell, it will be with the backing of the majority of the Northern population and with the help of the Knights of the Vale, who are seen as honourable and are of Andal descent, so will not be perceived as foreign invaders. No one in the North will be contemplating their right-to-revolution against the Starks, because they will be revolting alongside Sansa to free themselves from the abusive Bolton rule.

Sansa rebuilds Winterfell out of snow and thinks of it warmly as her home, feels kinship and connection with the place she grew up in, whereas Daenerys feels possessive over a land she's never seen and wants to take it with "fire and blood". True, these are not actions, not crimes for Dany and neither acts of benevolence for Sansa. They haven't done anything yet. But they are images. Framing. Hints. That's how literature works.

Could Dany be given a narrative of Westerosi restauration? Could GRRM write her as gaining popular support and as not breaking the social contract while installing herself back on the throne? Had only Book 1 been published, these questions would have had more validity. But after Book 5? Not when Martin frames her like that and literally kicks her out of the city she conquered.

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

Thoughts on the Fallout 3 Intro (and Some on the Fallout 4 Intro, Too):

Cut added due to length.

If I'm 100% honest, the opening minutes of Fallout 3 weren't as bad as the reputation it's garnered over the years lead me to believe it would be.

I'd argue the main problems with the intro are the length and the ham-fistedness of it. You don't need to literally show the player being born and their mother dying of cardiac arrest during said birth to make them feel empathy for/connection to the character backstory "my mother passed away when I was born, but my dad and I are very close even if he's quite busy". Fallout 3 needed more/better shorthand for the story elements it was trying to portray.

Personally, I think making the whole series of events playable was a mistake. Making me play boring stuff doesn't automatically make me more invested in it simply because you made me play through it instead of turning it into a cutscene or something. There are ways to show Butch's inner conflict/Amata's struggle for independence from her dad and acceptance from her peers/the Overseer's potential as a villain-type without basically smooshing your face into it and holding it there for several minutes too long until you can't breathe.

Overall, I see what they were going for and the struggles they would've had trying to achieve it, and I can appreciate both. I definitely entered the game proper with some nice, sentimental moments under my belt. I saved Butch's mom (a very surreal-feeling interaction because of the way it was staged and voice acted) and he was grateful and gave me his jacket, a nice peek at him having some potential development away from "intentionally meat-headed and unsympathetic bully". I chose not to kill the Overseer because he wasn't directly attacking me, and so Amata and I had a brief, but sort of bittersweet moment of saying goodbye before security showed up and ran me off. Developing the Lone Wanderer's connection with Amata probably worked better than anything else they were shooting for.

Don't get me wrong, though: there was plenty of stuff that was just dumb, too. The birth and toddler scenes were completely asinine and could've been cut easily. I unironically thought that the Revelations quote on the wall in the apartment was a joke from one of the mods I'd installed or something (between the on-the-noseness of it and the incredibly goofy font), but all of the sudden the dad was talking to me about it and how much my dead mother loved it...and I just started cackling. Hilarious. Very "I know writers who use subtext and they're all cowards"-coded. James is also too much of a blank slate to develop the sort of attachment the writers clearly want you to have to him before he runs off on you; Liam Neeson's warm voice performance is the most likable thing about him. Well, that and him being unnecessarily sexy...

The birthday party scene had quite literally no reason for existing other than to give you the Pip-Boy, and that could've been done at any other time. It doesn't even really succeed in villainizing the Overseer except for making him seem a little weird. The next time you have conflict with the man, he's trying to have you killed, so this doesn't work in my eyes. At the very least, the scene didn't need to be so long; with the foresight of knowing that many of the people who attended the party will be dead before I leave Vault 101, some by my hand, it comes across as a cheap way to endear you to a bunch of flat, lifeless characters whose only identity is having a name assigned to them.

The entire aftermath of your dad's escape takes the pace from feeling too slow to too fast. Yes, it pretty effectively manages to give you that feeling of "What do you mean my dad's gone???", but it mostly comes from confusion and not from any feeling of disbelief or worry. And I know the Overseer is supposed to be seen as this incredibly unreasonable person, but the reaction of everyone else just going along with his murderous attitude doesn't track to me. This is especially so if it's true that James and the Lone Wanderer weren't even born in Vault 101, so people have come and gone before. People reacted like the world was ending, and only one person was willing to spare the life of a nineteen year old they've known almost their whole life.

I dunno why they didn't just have 101 be equipped with a G.E.C.K and have James steal it when he leaves or something. Or maybe have him be forced to kill someone in self-defense when he tries to leave. That would have at least made everyone's severe, panicky reaction, and animosity towards his abandoned child make more sense.

Over the course of the whole thing, there was just a whole lot of "telling" instead of "showing", and when they were "showing", it was more like "punching you in the face with it". It feels very much like the writers and devs sort of don't expect their players to be smart enough to pick up on what they're trying to do, so the whole thing has a mild air of condescension to it. I mean, they're literally treating you like a baby who doesn't know how to walk or hit "interact" to open a gate.

In terms of whether Fallout 3 manages to have a "better" opening than Fallout 4, I'm not sure I'd fully agree with that idea, myself. I think I see them more as openings of comparative strength that also have an equal number of glaring, but different, fatal weaknesses. The two games really could have benefited from sharing some ideas back and forth (you know, if that were temporally possible for the Fallout 3 team). 3's concept for its intro is solid, but it's limited, and it's shakily executed. I see what they were going for, and I see why they struggled, but I can't really envision it being a ton better without a complete rework. Fallout 4's opening, I would argue, has more original ideas at its bedrock, and more potential at that, but it similarly fails to bring any of that potential to fruition. It also saddles itself with some really shitty story choices that hamper many players right off the bat. No one wants to go looking for that damn baby!

4's setup has a hundred and one issues of its own (ha), many of them equally significant in scope, but I'd argue the biggest one is the whole "Shaun" of it all. I would think that it'd be easier to get the average player off the street to care about their in-game dad than any in-game baby, even if you tell them that the baby is theirs. Everyone technically has a dad, regardless of whether or not you have a relationship with them, so they have at least some sort of emotion to tap into regarding that personal connection. Not everyone has or has had a baby, and one as young as Shaun also has almost no discernible personality, so it's not like you can give him a few cute or snappy lines of dialogue to endear you to him. Very telling that the writers make you fail to feel more than mild concern as you're stuck helplessly watching someone murder your spouse and kidnap your kid. It's about as emotionally resonant as watching someone steal a baby doll.

I wrote a whole post about how when I play Fallout 4 as Nora, I can't help but imagine her feeling free and not choosing to even look for her son. They really do fail to make you care much at all about him or Nate, so I always just sort of wander off and start building houses, fucking ghouls, etc. I definitely agree with the original anon that Fallout 3 ultimately does a better job of making you care about your in-game family through its opening game play. Cogsworth cares about the whereabouts of that baby about a million times more than I do.

In terms of the pacing, neither game exactly has the edge. Fallout 4's intro feels long as well, and has plenty of moments that could've been cut or replaced with something more substantial, but it also has noticeable "lag" in the timing between interactions with NPCs, which is obviously intended to give you time to explore your home and look out the windows before you exchange dialogue and/or make progress. Like the intro for 3, this isn't such an issue on a first playthrough, when you don't have as much reference for the events that are about to unfold. However, on a repeat playthrough, it gives the intro a stilted, almost alien quality, as none of the conversations or interactions feel like they happen naturally. I know this is more of a problem with the storytelling format than the game itself, but it feels awkwardly paced nonetheless. Too much time is wasted staring at Shaun swaddled in his crib, talking to Codsworth about nothing, exchanging pleasantries with your spouse that do nothing to make you feel any actual connection to them.

I really like the Vault-Tec rep, but the interaction where he comes to your door to sign you up for your spot in Vault 111 is too long, poorly placed, and comes off pretty dumb/way too coincidental. Granted, I did just see a billboard in Fallout 3 still advertising Vaults that literally said "It's never too late!", but that's not really true, is it? When you leave Vault 101, there are skeletons on the ground along with signs demanding/begging to be let in. A whole community sprung up comprised of people who didn't make it into Vault 101. You see another group of people begging to be let into 111, the Vault-Tec rep included, only to find them largely vaporized when you come back outside.

There were plenty of people for whom it was "too late". That's kind of the whole thing, right? So, the idea that you can sign up for a Vault half a block away like five minutes before the bombs hit is kind of tough for me to swallow, especially when the TV show established that spots in the Vaults are costly (which would make sense, as there's a limited supply and also Vault-Tec would still want to be raking in cash) even if they do often come with unseemly strings attached. Remember, Barb Howard wasn't content to let Cooper just pay for a spot for their family. She insisted they be in one of the "good ones".

All that considered, though, I still think the Fallout 4 intro has a lot of strengths and a lot of potential. I think starting the game before the bombs fell, even if it's only what feels like a few minutes beforehand, is a really cool idea that gives us a taste of Pre-War life that we aren't typically given by the Fallout franchise. The moment when the newscaster starts to read off the notice that the bombings have begun could be real stomach-dropper, but the way they transition into the action feels awkward and kind of flat. Seeing your neighbors fleeing their homes, passing people at the gate who you know will be dead in minutes because, unlike you, they have no place to go, could have been a great way to pile on to the guilt you'd feel about surviving when your spouse is murdered. I'm kind of obsessing over how I'd rework this intro right now, but I'm still trying to decide if my ideas are any better than the game's.

I fully admit that I might be prioritizing "good potential with shitty execution" over "okay potential with okay execution" when it comes to Fallout 4, and maybe my opinion will change by the time I finish Fallout 3, but at the end of the day, I wouldn't necessarily be able to choose between the two for the title of "Best Intro".

Looking forward to exploring more of the game.

[nostalgiacauseitstrendy]

Unexpected Delivery- Kabal x F!Reader

So I had an idea of a reader who gets unexpectedly pregnant by Kabal and potential interactions the reader might have with other kombatants as a result of them finding out they're pregnant.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of blood, bodily functions, abortion thoughts.

Background:

Y/n is a kombatant, morally grey. Grew up in the south side of Chicago, living vagrantly and poor. Pick your own skills/abilities. Y/n is sometimes on the side of good, sometimes not. Y/n interacts with the Black Dragon faction every now and then for quick missions for quick pay, although she is not a dedicated member (merc; she doesn't like killing unnecessarily). Y/n and Kabal have been dating and getting busy for the past 10 months (and its poorly kept secret, everyone knows). Also (b/c this is my story, fight me) you are really close to Mileena. Y/n realizes Mileena is just misunderstood and just wants to be accepted and loved :) (this is relevant later).

Story:

"Fuck, fuck!" y/n paced in her bathroom what seemed like an eternity before shakily picking up the third and final pregnancy test off the side of their bathtub.

The two lines flipped Y/n's denial back on its head. Y/n was pregnant, and she had suspected so for a couple of weeks. Frequent urination, body aches, sore nips- all the alarms went off for Y/n, but those parallel pink lines struck like a ton of bricks. Was it worth telling Kabal? Should she just terminate? How far along was she? Y/n had to lean against the sink as these thoughts made her woozy.

Y/n unlocked her phone and began to type a long message to the speedster, but selected it all and deleted it. Y/n was lost in infinite possibilities. She would have to stop doing runs for the Black Dragon. What about Kabal? Y/n did not want their child to be exposed to any of the criminal syndicate, especially...Kano.

The words though, their child rung in Y/n's head, immediately spurring a flurry of butterflies in her stomach. She imagined Kabal with a goofy grin, speeding around with their child. She knew from the few times he's spoke on it, he values family and wants a big family of his own. She imagined their little family watching nerdy movies like Star Wars or Ninja Mime...

Y/n swattted at the air as to physically dismiss her thoughts. She had a mission today and that came first. She decided if she was going to tell Kabal, it would be after she completed this mission.

...

Y/n had to pick up some packages for the Black Dragon. Minus an excessive amount of stealth, this should have been a straight-forward and easy mission. All Y/n had to do was bust open the back of the truck and steal the two smallest boxes. Y/n drew a ragged breath before engaging. Looking through the poorly lit truck, she found the two smallest boxes surrounded by piles of larger boxes keeping those two in place. What are in the boxes? Who knows, Y/n does not ask, as she likes to keep some emotional investment apart from her despicable position. She does this for money, not for shits and giggles.

Reminiscing on her days homeless on the streets of Chicago, Y/n quickly moved the larger boxes before snatching the two and taking off. Despite her speedy pace, Y/n was not as fast as she normally would be, knowing damn well why. This cost her, however, as gunfire began to ring out. Y/n dashed off as fast as she could, but took a bullet near her lower abdomen. Y/n screeched in pain, but also fear- what about her baby?

Y/n gritted her teeth and kept running as fast she could, bleeding out in the process. Y/n reached the Black Dragon compound after 10 minutes of running. As she pushed the doors open, she drew a ragged breath, and the floor began to speed towards her. Everything went black.

...

Y/n groaned and winced, perceiving the bright lights of the infirmary through her eyelids. Realization hit Y/n like a ton of bricks, however, and she sat quickly and violently upright. Y/n let out a grunt before taking in her surroundings. As she quickly surveyed the room, her eyes met with a mask all too familiar. In a millisecond he was at her bedside, speaking 100 miles per hour. All Y/n could make out is "what the fuck happened?" "I'll never let you go on a mission alone again." "Those fuckers are going to pay..." Y/n drowned out Kabal's stammering once she saw a medic.

Staring at y/n, y/n asked the head medic, in merely a whimper, "how is my baby?" Dumbfounded, but lightly amused, Kabal said "I'm fine but what the hell happened to you? Are you okay?" Y/n would have laughed had not the situation been dire.

"The bullet just barely missed the babies. We ran some tests, from we can tell, the babies are healthy for three months." Holy shit, three months? BABIES? PLURAL?

Although he had a mask on, you knew Kabal was blank. For what felt like years, he did not say a word. Then, merely a pained whisper, Kabal asked, "why didn't you tell me?"

"I planned to tell you right after my mission. I legitimately found out this morning. I was still processing it myself."

Kabal sat quietly, before walking away. "Kabal, wai-," he was already gone. Tears began to form in the corners of your eyes. Was he just going to throw everything away? Just leave just like that? All the crying and the morphine began to takeover, and Y/n began to unwillingly drift off.

When she awoke, she was at her apartment, in her bed. Pacing in the living room, was the speedster. As rare as it could be, he was unmasked and in a plain white tee and black sweatpants. Besides intimate moments, Y/n did not see this casual side often. Kabal was known to be ashamed of his disfigurement. To Y/n, however, the burns meant nothing at all. You loved that man with every fiber of your being.

Kabal heard the sheets slightly ruffle and looked to see Y/n awake and dashed over. Staring down for a moment, is soft brown eyes met yours, vulnerability painted over them. "The doctor said its twins, said we'd know the gender in two more months." Kabal saying "we" was a relief, calming your heart rate and the warmth running up your throat. Y/n swallowed back the potential nervous vomit before stating, "I thought you were going to leave me."

Kabal flinched slightly, as though you'd physically punched him. "Why would I ever do that? Y/n...although sooner than expected, this is always wanted. A peaceful life, loving kids, loving wife..if you are offering me that, I would never pass it up."

Y/n was about to reply before you stopped. Wife? You involuntarily smiled and blushed at the idea before verbalizing that exact question, "Wife?"

Kabal smiled before getting up and speeding around to your side of the bed, digging in his pocket.

"I know I am bottom-feeder, a nobody." His brows furrowed for a moment, but then his face softened. "But you make me feel like I am somebody, Y/n. I forget the monster I see in the mirror every morning. You love me like no one has ever loved me, Y/n. There is nothing I want more to spend the rest of my life with you and this family we're making. Will you marry me, Y/n?" The beautiful black and diamond ring sparkled brightly.

Of course you said yes.

Interactions:

Kano: "Don't think just cause Kabal knocked ya up I am givin either of ya a break."

Y/N: "Wouldn't expect anything less, cue ball."

Kano: "Just for that, I am goin to make sure ya suffer."

-

Kano: "I gotta ask, is Kabal too fast in bed?"

Y/n: "Drop it."

Kano: "Ill take that as a yes."

-

Kano: "Don't think I am giving you paternity leave."

Kabal: "I'm taking permanent leave."

Kano: "In a body bag. Shame ya kids will be without a daddy."

-

Sindel: "So you let that bottom-feeder weaken you with a child."

Y/n: "Here I was, going to ask you for any pregnancy tips."

Sindel (disheartened): "Edenian pregnancies are different than Earthrealmers but, make the speedster give you backrubs."

Y/n: "Noted."

-

Y/n: "I gotta ask, any pregnancy tips?"

Sonya (face softens): "You're not going to like it but, low-strain exercise will actually help."

Y/n: "You're right, I didn't like that."

-

Sonya: "You better treat Y/n like a damn princess."

Kabal: "Yes, madam bootlicker." *sarcastically salutes*

Sonya: *sigh* "I tried, Y/n."

-

Sonya: "I don't know what Y/n sees in you."

Kabal: "At least Y/n didn't bang Johnny."

Sonya: "Now ya done it."

-

Cassie Cage: "Please tell me you're having a gender reveal party."

Y/n: "Maybe...."

Cassie Cage: "PLEASE let me plan it. Please."

-

Kabal: *regretfully* "Any advice on being a father?"

Johnny Cage: "Oh my god so first....When I first...you gotta be prepared for...'"*endless rambling*

Kabal: "I shouldn't have asked."

-

Johnny Cage: "So, finally settling down, eh?"

Kabal: "Choose your words carefully, Cage."

Johnny Cage: "Congrats."

Kabal: "That was surprisingly..genuine."

-

Kabal: "I am not going to make my kids watch your trash movies, Cage."

Johnny Cage: "C'mon, they're fun for the whole family!"

Kabal: "I don't want to fry their brains that early."

-

Y/n: "Look, I can pick anyone for Godmother, you can pick anyone for Godfather."

Kabal: "Deal. No quips about who I pick though."

Y/n: "Same goes for me."

-

Mileena: "Dearest Y/n."

Y/n: "I have to ask you something." *explains what a Godmother is* "Would you like to be the Godmother of my twins?"

Mileena: *tearfully runs and hugs you, no fight ensues, match ends in immediate friendship*

-

Kabal: "MILEENA? Are you serious?"

Y/n: "Like Erron is any better?"

Kabal: "She will eat them!"

Y/n: "You said no quips."

[wutheringheightsfilm]

*collects myself* okay wwx for 7, 13, 21, 26 and cathy for 2, 3, 5, and 14! if it's not too many...the questions were all so good so I tried to customize them for each character!

YAYYY i love questions !!! definitely not too many dw hehe <3

Wei Wuxian

7. What's something you have in common with this character?

I'd say the tenacity. We are both two people who choose a path and stick to it no matter what really... I feel like we both have the same passion and drive

13. What's an emoji, an emoticon and/or any other symbol that reminds you of this character or you think the character would use a lot?

Reminds me of him: 🗡️🍁🕯️⚰️🩸 Ones I think he would use: 🥺😛😍😈🕺🏻 (what a cute question LMAO)

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

It's luckily really easy for me personally to get into Odd Geometry (my fic)'s Wei Wuxian headspace. My favorite thing to do is write the really introspective bits, and I love dissecting his trauma. I also looove writing dialogue where he's being charismatic and roguish. Something I don't like is not something that I dislike per se (because I truly love writing him) but it's hard for me to write the romance!! Ah! I just want it to make sense lol

26. What's something the character has done you can't get over? Be it something funny, bad, good, serious, whatever?

"I see. If you want to kill me, you can do whatever you want. But if I want to protect myself, I must be careful about not hurting this one, not hurting that one. If I die, it's because of my bad luck. You can ambush me, but I can't fight back. Have I said it wrong? At the Burial Mounds, the dozens of Wen Clan cultivators were innocent too! Why did you involve them?! I want to ask you. What evidence do you have to prove it was my work? Then I shall ask you... Why is it not you? You don't have the evidence to prove it's not your work, do you? Who's talking nonsense here? You are correct that I knew him one year ago, but if I wanted to kill him I could have done it one year ago. Why should I keep him alive until now? Little characters like him...I forgot him in just three days, not to mention a year. You said you admired me once. But why did I never see you when you were admiring me? But when I'm at a disadvantage, you suddenly jump out to help them yell and shout? How cheap your admiration was! You say you and I are irreconcilable from now on. Does it make any difference to me if your stance changes or not? Both your hatred and admiration are so cheap! How could you reproach me with that kind of trifle? What is vicious? Since he dared shoot me, he should have known what would happen if he missed. You've already branded me as a user of "wicked tricks"... you can't be counting on my mercy to let it go, right?"

Catherine Earnshaw

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

Her attitude. Sorry I love her so much. She can be so mean and petty but at the same time I understand her better than everyone else.

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

On the same coin I do sometimes take issue with her cattiness towards Isabella... like sometimes she's a bit unnecessarily mean towards her tbh

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

She's a Savage, the instrumental track by Ruth Barrett for the 2009 PBS Two Part Wuthering Heights special. It's personally my favorite theme for Cathy.

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

She would be like, the original meaning of 90s grunge I think...ripped jeans that are ripped due to wear and not pre-torn like they sell in stores now especially

Thank you Cor!!! I loved these!! Yes I rewatched the episode to type out Wei Wuxian's speech LOLOL