𝔪𝔦𝔡𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔪𝔬𝔱𝔥

That was the thing about kissing Rain, it invited hunger to creep in and Dew was incapable of denying it. Even more incapable of not feeding it. Moderation became a foreign word, an unthinkable concept. He would take his time with it, with him. 

Dew’s tongue flicked over the point of a fang as it swept between Rain’s teeth, grazing the roof of his mouth. Trying to taste every inch of the water ghoul, inside and out. It was his to explore. He selfishly wanted to drink Rain down to the very bottom. It was his turn to take, every last drop, every last morsel, till there was nothing left. 

He shifted his hips, a slow roll that had his cock slipping between Rain’s folds, right against the warmest part of him. Smooth on the way down, nearly catching where it counted on the way back up. Rain tensed beneath him, anticipation coiling tight and preparing to spring but the relief didn't find him. His tip slid over his hole and nudged against the underside of Rain’s fat little t-dick when it missed, offering clumsy unintentional pleasure that hardly lasted. Rain made a sound low in his chest, clearly expecting this to be what finally put an end to the teasing and brought them together. 

The loose lazy grip on his biceps grew tighter, blunt nails beginning to bite as his purpose for holding became less about touch and more about insistence.

“Come on,” Rain demanded against his mouth, tongue as sharp as his claws as they really started to dig. “You've had your fun. Fuck me.” 

“Starting to make me think I spoil you too much when you act like this,” Dew mumbled and shook his death grip off before Rain could bruise his impatience into him. “You’re lucky I think you’re cute.” 

Rain allowed himself to be shrugged off with a sigh, hands falling back to the pillow above his head. Framing himself in the angles of his limbs, disinterest drawing his eyes away. Drifting to an unspecified point across the room. Pointedly off of Dew. Dew watched him for half a beat, waiting for those dark eyes to return to him, for Rain’s fondness to betray his petulant demeanor. His attention did return, eventually, but it lacked warmth. He may as well have been fucking a stranger with how he gazed back. 

Dew hesitated. Waited like he was expecting the facade to slip, searching for it with fading amusement. 

Rain never cracked. Only managed to look mildly pleased with him for a moment when Dew hiked his leg up over his hip. His cock throbbed in his fist despite that initial sinking feeling. He let it go in favor of a few indulgent strokes to unravel the nerves that look of Rain's had briefly knotted up. Slowly, up and down, root to tip. 

A few good pumps had Dew aching to slide home, unease up and forgotten as he tapped himself against Rain’s waiting hole. 

One hand under Rain’s knee, the other braced on the pillow beside his head, Dew pushed into him. 

Finally.

Dew gripped the pillowcase, nails threatening the rich thread count. His eyes fluttered despite himself, he always preferred to watch Rain’s expression melt with pleasure but he needed to savor every inch. They had mutually been denied this, the closest substitute to heaven a ghoul could hope to find.

Dew's moan pitched upwards as they properly slotted together, becoming something high and needy. A sound so honest he should have been mortified to produce it. 

Luckily for Dew, Rain proved to be a perfect distraction from embarrassment. 

Hips flush, skin to skin. He could feel how his own bodyheat bled into Rain from the inside out, slowly but surely overpowering Rain’s typically cold state. Warm to the touch, warm enough Dew had to lay both hands on him to really feel it. 

It never got old, to feel how Rain took him. Took all of him. The ease in which Rain adjusted, how well they’d always managed to fit together, like they belonged just like this. Like Lucifer might have designed them with such purpose in mind. 

Maybe Lucifer had.

His eyes  opened to wander down the length of Rain’s laid out form, down to the place their bodies met. 

Buried inside his mate, an unholy union of lust. 

Dew wished he could keep him like this. Warm. Filled. Claimed as his. 

He could. 

The desire was sudden and invasive. Lightning striking somewhere in his lust addled brain—He could, somehow. A subtly adjusted angle here, a well-timed bite there. Drag Rain through the same deeply permanent euphoria that Dew drowned in when they were together. It wouldn’t be hard, and Rain was known to be pliable and even a little dumb with a cock in him. 

Dew looked back to Rain's face, wanting to admire the things he did to him, wanting to see just how pleasure softened Rain's features. 

But his face hadn't changed. 

“…Is it in yet?” 

The syrup trickling warm and sweet in Dew’s veins curdled when Rain spoke, words tinged by disappointment. Rain wore an expression to match. Bored by the whole affair, inconvenienced by not even just the act itself, by Dew. Dew almost flinched from the ice behind them. 

“What?” His voice came out small, smaller than Dew should have allowed himself to sound in the face of Rain’s disregard. 

There was a minuscule twitch at the corner of Rain’s mouth, an entirely missable but involuntary tell that Dew fixed on. 

“I just didn’t realize.” 

As if the initial comment didn’t wound him on its own, the near lackadaisical response gutted him. Violent as a knife ripped straight through his pride. Rain shrugged at him when he stared in shock. Simply shrugged without a hint of guilt on his face. 

Dew’s expression twisted, shifting from surprise to anger. He pulled out of him, wanting distance to process the offense. 

“The fuck do you mean ‘is it in?’” 

“I mean, I can’t really feel it baby.” Rain half laughed, half scoffed like he couldn’t possibly understand why it was even a question. 

“You’re…Are you fucking kidding me?” Dew furrowed his brow, searching for humor, looking for reason where there was none. Not when it came to Rain and his specific brand of cruelty. “You’re fucking serious?” 

He responded with another shrug. 

Dew felt heat creeping up to the tips of his ears, the taste of smoke trapped behind his teeth. Something cold dripped down his spine. Two conflicting flavors of anger that overshadowed his blind, love-sick lust. 

“What?” Rain asked when the silence was left unpunctured. “It isn’t my fault.” He propped himself up on his elbow to lazily toss the hair from his face. “Oh, don’t be dramatic Dew. Come on. Just grab one of the toys from the drawer or something if you can’t make it work.” 

“Not your fault?” Dew asked, bewildered. He pushed him back to the mattress with force, enough force to earn a strange look from Rain. His hand remained flat on his sternum, pinning him there. Rain's pulse quickened, not quite a nervous flutter but it betrayed his unbothered facade. “How the fuck is it not your fault? Your cunt is fucked sloppy and somehow it isn’t your fault?”

“Someone had to do what you couldn’t,” Rain stated like he was informing him of something obvious. Telling him what he should have already known. 

He stared at him. 

“...Sorry,” Rain offered flatly. An empty gesture meant to placate.

Rain had never played the role of apologetic well. Regret never found a home in his expression, the mirth never quite left his eyes even as he tried to wear a mask of guilt. Even now, the glint of it was unmistakable. Dew could tell, he was biting the inside of his cheek to stop the edges of his lips from curling up in delight at the sight of his distress. Humor. Having sown the seeds of humiliation and doubt, he was simply waiting for the weight of it to press down until Dew broke in the way only Rain managed to break him.

He was waiting for the first sign of weakness to prey upon, whatever that might have been. From the way Rain studied his face, he was searching for tears, for the telltale way Dew shrank in on himself when the inferiority gripped him. Dew was intimately familiar with the games Rain enjoyed playing and every self serving motive behind his decisions. 

Even his silence was done with purpose. 

He refused to give Rain the satisfaction of breaking. Not this time. 

“Don't lie to me, Rain.” The words slipped through his teeth. Rain tipped his head curiously. “You should be sorry but we both know you’re not.”

“Should be?” Rain laughed, prodding at something he hadn’t accounted for. “I don't see why I need to be sorry for your ego getting—”

“Shut up,” He interrupted. “Shut your fucking mouth since you can't seem to shut your fucking legs.” 

“What are you gonna do? Spank me and tell me I was bad?” He giggled this time. 

He reached for Dew’s wrist to dislodge him but Dew jerked away from him before his fingers could close around it. Rain opened his mouth again, intent on digging in. Dew moved without thinking. He reeled back instead, he met the potential retort with the flat of his hand before the  sound could hope to escape. Skin met skin sharply, a cracking sound that was surely heard down the hall. The contact left his cheek a new hue, more purple than red, a perfect imprint of Dew’s palm left behind. Rain whimpered before the shock wore off and the pain set in. An involuntary response, Dew was sure of it.

“Dew—” Rain started shakily, tainted by uncertainty. 

His hand hovered over the emergency brake. 

He stared at Dew, he stared at him in the way the rabbit stares at the fox. In the way he knew stoked some primal, vicious hunger at the base of Dew’s instincts. Another move that was deliberate but so clearly strayed from Rain’s original plan, he was out of his element. Teetering somewhere between rational and reckless.

Rain didn’t reach for safety even when the space was offered. 

Dew grabbed him by the hips and flipped him roughly. Claws scratched across the soft skin, angry red welts left in their wake. No longer laid out comfortably in the pillows with the expectation of being spoiled, smothered in the soft down. Rain had squandered his tenderness and Dew didn’t plan to waste much more on him, not after his attitude, not after his behavior. 

Below him, Rain tried to push himself up onto his hands but Dew refused to afford him the dignity. He shoved him back down, kept him exactly where he deserved to be. 

“You wanna lay there and act like a princess so bad, fine. Fucking lay there since it’s all you’re good for.” 

His hand spanned the expanse between his shoulder blades, tension gathering between each individual point of contact. Under the pads of his fingers Dew could feel every twitch of Rain’s nerves responding with more honesty than his mouth could have. When Rain shifted, Dew pressed further, the skin of his palm bordering on the uncomfortable side of too warm as a quiet warning—Threatening to brand this position of submission into him so he wouldn’t forget it if he dared to resist. 

Rain was stubborn, not stupid at the very least, he didn’t fight. Knew better than to try in his position. 

“This is all your fault, baby” Dew told him as he grabbed the base of his tail. “So you’re going to make it up to me.” With little regard, Dew yanked his hips upwards, relishing in the yelp it wrenched out of Rain. 

Easily, Dew slid his cock back into the slick embrace of Rain’s cunt. Rain’s breath hitched. “Surprised you can even tell it’s in” He remarked while rolling his eyes, giving a shallow thrust, then a second for good measure. “Better hope whoever used it earlier left it wet enough. This is all the help you're gonna get.”

”Wet enough for—“ Rain started but choked on the sound as Dew’s tip nudged at his other hole. “Oh. Oh, Dew, not there—“ His voice pitched upwards, a tremor of panic rippling through him. It had the unintentional consequence of making the ring of muscle pucker and kiss at his head. 

“The other hole is clearly too loose, sweetheart. How is it supposed to make anyone feel good anymore?” He asked coyly. “How else are you supposed to make it up to me?” 

Holding his tail that much tighter, Dew left no room for retreat. Rain was going to take it. If he wasn't sorry on his own, Dew would help him find that remorse. 

The initial press of his cock into his ass was met with a distressed sound. 

Dew hushed him like one might soothe a frightened animal trying to escape the muzzle though the concern didn't quite match, still easing himself in all the while. Rain’s cry became rough and hoarse, higher and even more pained as he was forced to endure the stretch of him. His body gripped his cock, bearing down against the intrusion—Dew wasn’t sure if it was trying to keep him out or pull him deeper. 

Dew grit his teeth, white knuckling the base of Rain’s tail the same way Rain gripped at the sheets. Both vain substitutes for a life-line. Self restraint was slipping from him, and slipping fast. He felt dizzy by the time he found himself buried in Rain’s virgin-tight ass. He knew nothing about Rain was still untouched, Rain had been taken thoroughly, that fact was what landed him in his current predicament, but Dew liked the fantasy. He wanted to be the one Rain wouldn’t forget. 

Rain trembled from toe to tip, a violent shudder that shook the bed. 

His scent was sharp and bright, heightened by his nerves being fried by sensation. Dew released his tail and folded himself over Rain’s back, pressing his nose into his hairline to huff it straight from the source. He ran his tongue along the junction of his shoulder and neck, the cold sweat salty and rich on his tastebuds. Tantalizing, like his body was trying to provoke more. A glutton for punishment, much to his own detriment. 

“Hurts, huh baby?” Dew cooed against the shell of his ear. “Breathe for me, tadpole.”

The exhale was labored, like he’d up and forgotten his lungs had a purpose, like Dew carving out a place inside of him had pushed every part of his brain offline. Rain was known to be a little dumb with a cock in him, after all. 

Dew’s cock kicked inside him, Rain responded in a manner he could only describe as wounded, a sound almost entirely unbecoming of a ghoul like him.

The tears had started to gather and clump in his lashes well before Dew had fully hilted himself inside but they only truly fell when he thought to move his hips in pursuit of selfish pleasure. 

Rain’s mouth fell open but nothing came out. 

Dewdrop lies prone and shirtless on Rain’s bed.

They’ve done this before, something similar at least. In theory that puts Rain at a disadvantage in terms of tension and suspense, but he has a plan. The plan has led to a shopping list, and then to a curated mise en place.

The needles come in a cardboard box, each individually wrapped in a paper-and-plastic sterilization envelope. They have a translucent frosted cap, and are two inches long, plus a pastel-colored plastic hub at the end that adds another half inch or so. He’s counted out the appropriate number of them, peeled open their envelopes and placed them, still capped, in a small tray. So far, this is all similar to last time.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with what they did last time. The pentagram design was indeed cute. Dew didn’t suffer much and came out of it feeling satisfied and very brave. It was a good experience, and it’s time for something different.

And so these needles are larger — large, just in general. The length is the same, but the diameter is greater by an amount that is very clear even just visually, based on its proportions, even without the smaller size for comparison. And Rain knows without that comparison too, based on numbers in bare-bones HTML tables, millimeters, gauges, a buffet of options for his consideration.

They’ll be doing a different design as well. Two symmetrical lines of purple ink stretch down Dew’s back, starting just below his shoulder blades and ending near the crest of his pelvis. Each line is crossed by twelve evenly spaced marks, about an inch apart, contralateral sides aligned. It looks like a ladder with the rungs cut out.

And the finishing touch is tucked away for now, out of sight. It’s important that Dew doesn’t see any of this, at least not anything he hasn’t seen before. The cardboard box is fine, as is the gentian violet marker, even the capped needles are ambiguous enough, but the entire plan hinges on the element of surprise, or at the very least a form of duplicitousness.

Honestly, Rain isn’t sure if he's going to get the reaction he wants. He’s treading a fine line and extrapolating from minimal data, at least in terms of this particular activity. But, on the other hand, he knows Dew well. He knows his motivations, what gets under his skin.

He places the tray on the bed next to Dew’s right side and picks up one capped needle. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Dew looks up at him, or tries to, craning his neck.

“Head down.”

He puts his head back down on his folded arms.

Rain pulls the cap off the needle and discards it onto the bed. The sleek stainless steel underneath glints in the light. Its bevel is knife-sharp, narrowing to a perfect point. And it’s hollow. The ones he used last time were thin enough to register as a solid object, visually equivalent to a pin, hollow only in technicality. This one is so clearly a tube, a cylinder with an inside and an outside, cut on a diagonal.

This first needle will go through the mark nearest to Dew’s shoulder blade. With his left hand, Rain pinches a fingerful of skin just below that dash of purple ink, only enough to create some topography to pierce through. He brings the tip of the needle to the point where the short marking crosses the longer line going down his entire back. The needle aims straight toward Dew’s spine, perpendicular to it.

Rain presses it into his skin a little slower than strictly necessary, but not so much as to be suspicious, feigning precision. In actuality, he hasn’t even marked a specific exit point. The design from last time required far more focus than this one. All he’s doing this time is dragging out the sensation.

As the point of the needle pops out the other side of his skin, he can feel Dew’s breath hitch, a little step out of phase from his previous breathing rhythm that displaces the surface of his back. He pretends not to notice. He doesn’t acknowledge it in any way.

Then he takes the next needle and uncaps it. He pinches up some skin below the second mark, aligns the needle, and presses it in with the same faux-carefulness.

Dew makes a tiny noise in his throat, no louder than a whisper.

The third piercing elicits no response at all. The surprise has worn off, overtaken by whatever the next phase is — endurance, flow. A precedent has been set in terms of sensation, and Dew must have a sense of the scope of the piece, having felt the marker on his skin. It remains to be seen what he thinks about that.

After Rain pinches below the fourth mark, he pauses, experimentally, letting anticipation build on purpose, the point of the needle hovering close enough that the heat of his hand radiates to Dew’s skin. In turn, he can feel Dew’s back begin to tense under his fingers.

His reaction feels like the click of pins in a lock; now Rain just has to push the door open.

“You’re scared,” he says.

“No,” Dew responds, as if it were a question.

Rain closes the gap between the point of the needle and his tented skin.

Dew twitches when it makes contact. He’s so sensitive like this. It’s not his default mode of operation; he tends to have a high pain tolerance, but it’s built, Rain has always suspected, on a very specific type of mental fortitude, and pride. If that foundation is destabilized the whole castle is liable to come crumbling down. That’s the hope, anyway.

Rain pushes the needle through again, picks up another, uncaps it, continues chipping away.

With piercing number seven, Dew groans quietly, ambiguously. It could be pleasure or pain.

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” he snaps.

Rain uncaps another needle. It’s working; he hit a nerve.

Piercing number ten elicits a groan tinged with anger, maybe frustration. Eleven is accompanied by a similar sound, only more subdued. For the final one on this side he goes slow, really takes his time, and Dew rewards him with what can only be described as a moan.

Rain steps back to look at his work. Twelve needles are now woven through the skin of Dew’s back, dipping under the surface and re-emerging a little more than a finger’s breadth away. They’re relatively parallel and spaced evenly enough. The exit points could be more orderly — he really should have marked them, but it doesn’t matter. The most important part is for the plastic hubs to follow a straight line, and they do.

Dew lifts his head, movements stiff and cautious in the way one might be in the midst of a costume fitting, caged by a tailor’s pins.

“No,” Rain says.

Dew lowers his head, brow to forearm.

In another scene, he would tell Dew that they’re halfway done, that he’s doing so well, that he’s so strong. Instead, he picks up the tray of needles and walks to the other side of the bed in silence.

Dew flinches when, as Rain tosses it back down, the tray brushes the side of his ribcage. Its contents click together with every movement, first when it touches the sheets and then again, immediately, quieter, when Dew jostles it.

Rain takes a needle from the shrinking pile and uncaps it. Aligning it with the marking actually does require more precision this time, to adjust to the new angle.

Dew hisses as the needle slowly digs in.

Rain tuts. “You weren’t complaining this much last time we did this.”

“It’s different.”

“Really? You think the placement changes it that much?” He taps on the hub of the most recently inserted needle. The downward pressure lifts the opposite end of it like a lever.

“You’re doing something different. It hurts way more.”

“Me? What am I doing?”

“I don’t know!”

“Because I’m not doing anything different.”

“You’re going slower.”

A small smile seeps over Rain’s face. “I see.” He can change that.

He takes the next needle and flicks the cap off with little regard for where it ends up. He pinches at the next purple mark and presses it through the tented skin with force.

Dew makes a startled little grunt at the impact.

Once again, there’s a fine line to tread. Rain takes another needle without delay, careful not to come off as hurried. No, he’s efficient, mechanical, inevitable. The cap falls onto the floor with the hollow clatter of cheap plastic on hardwood.

He wastes no time in pinching up his skin again, and putting the needle through.

Dew makes a choked noise in his throat. At the other end of the bed, his foot flexes.

Rain takes the next needle.

When he pinches his skin again, Dew calls out, “Wait—”

Rain suppresses the urge to actually pause. Dew doesn’t usually say things like that in-scene. It’s not his style. He would much prefer to be stoic than to struggle or resist.

He has suspected for a while now — he doesn’t know, he’s never asked, but he’s pretty sure, based on observation — that the mental fortitude that powers Dew’s pain tolerance is closely tied to his masochistic sense of pleasure. Of course there’s also pleasure directly derived from pain, like a physical sensory transmutation, but it’s secondary. The primary pleasure is more mental. It comes from endurance, self-praise, almost self-sadism, in a way.

He’s not denying that pleasure, no. It’s more like he’s delaying it. And maybe he’s enabling him to feel something new. He really ought to get out of his head more often.

Dew’s arms wrap around himself as much as he can in this position, one hand sliding up to the opposite shoulder. His yelp in response to the next piercing is muffled.

With the next piercing, approaching his waist, he wriggles his legs enough that his entire torso shifts.

Rain puts one hand on his hip. “Hold fucking still, you’re just making it worse for yourself.”

He doesn’t move with the next piercing. His muscles are tense under Rain’s hands, under his fingers as he pinches again, pierces again. He yelps, barely audible through his arms and what seems to be an attempt to swallow his own voice.

“I can hear you, you know.” His derisive tone is so forced he worries it might not even come across. He’s delighted to hear those sounds, what little of them he can at this point.

Another pinch, another piercing.

Now his shoulders begin shaking as he buries quiet sobs in his arms.

It hits Rain’s body like an shock down his spine, electric potential pooling in the deepest part of his core. It’s beyond what he could have ever hoped for. He bites his lip and wills himself to focus on maintaining the pace. There are three piercings left. He so badly wants to tell him that everything will be okay, that he’s almost done and doing so well, so brave; it’s an instinct he can’t fully override even though it’s antithetical to his current goal.

“Breathe,” he says, simply.

Dew does breathe, immediately, one shaky inhale and exhale, obedient.

“We’re going to finish this.”

He doesn’t respond. He takes another breath, in and out like a despondent sigh.

Rain takes another needle, and the number remaining in the tray goes from three to two. He doesn’t feel the need to push him any further than this — he already gave him everything he wanted and more — but he does intend to continue the piece unless he formally taps out.

So for the last three piercings, he doesn’t go particularly fast or slow. He does his best to be calm and efficient, professional. He doesn’t comment on Dew’s pained groans, nor does Dew seem to suppress them, not any more than is consequent to having one’s face completely hidden away.

In a sense, this is the state he was trying to achieve with this entire exercise. Dew has let go of his pride. Even though it’s a success in that way, it feels like a shame, if he dares to call it that, for only a fraction of the scene to be spent here. He doesn’t want to be ungrateful, not at all. It’s just something to think about for the future, for next time.

The final component lies at the bottom of the tray, once buried beneath twenty-four needles and now the only thing left. It’s a long piece of black satin ribbon, three-eighths of an inch in width, according to the package, with a fine scalloped detail along the edges reminiscent of lace. Both ends are cut in a dovetail, a little chevron-shaped notch like one might find on a fancy bow on a gift.

Traditionally this type of piece is done with actual jewelry, rings to thread the ribbon through, but the idea of spending extra time and effort for that didn’t seem compatible with his objective. It would go beyond both his skill level and his patience level. The mental image of the tiny silver ball of a captive bead ring falling to the floor and rolling away was enough to rule out the option entirely.

Instead, Rain loops the ribbon around the cone-shaped plastic hubs at the end of the needles. He starts by placing the middle of the ribbon at the top of Dew’s back, between his shoulder blades. Then he tucks one side of the ribbon under the hub of the first needle on the left, then the opposite side under the first on the right. He crosses the ends of the ribbon in the middle of Dew’s back and gives both sides a gentle pull. The ribbon slides under the hubs until it’s almost taut.

Dew squirms at the sensation, a little tensing of his shoulders and arch of his back. It doesn’t seem like it’s hurting him, more that he didn’t expect it, or just doesn’t know what’s going on.

“Hold still.” Rain loops the loose ends around the second pair of needles and crosses them again.

Dew sniffles. He squeezes his upper arm with his opposite hand.

Rain continues weaving the ribbon between the needles, carefully tautening the ends and crossing the same way each time, right over left, until he reaches the last pair. The remaining length is a bit more than he expected, but that’s fine, and better than it being too short. He folds and loops the ribbon around itself to form a sizable and floppy bow.

While it would certainly look more polished with real jewelry, more complete, it would lose some of its allure. The needles are obscured by the crisscrosses of ribbon but their presence adds an appealing rawness. It’s also feminine in a way that Dew would probably not choose for himself, but that suits him so well — the big bow below his small waist is breathtaking.

“I wish you could see how you look like this,” he says. “So pretty.”

“I want to look.” He starts to push himself off the bed, stiff and cautious.

“Not yet.”

Dew goes still.

He can’t see himself directly, anyway, at least not as he is now, stretched out horizontal, with the slightest arch in his back near his shoulders to lift his head. Rain opens his phone camera and captures a few angles — of Dew lying on the bed, of the piece itself, the whole scene. He opens the gallery and flips through, back and forth a few times, and eventually selects the first picture he took, one directly from his point of view, standing beside the bed. He brings the phone down so Dew can see the screen.

Dew looks at it in silence. His eyes widen, just by a fraction.

“So pretty,” Rain repeats.

“I want to see it in the mirror.”

“Of course.” He’s happy to oblige.

Dew once again tries to push himself up from the sheets, and, again, moves awkwardly, understandably afraid to bend his torso very much. His hand trembles as he lifts it, then places it back down, in a shuffling crab-like crawl to the edge of the bed.

Rain takes his hand so he can stand up slowly on wobbly legs. He stops him from making a beeline to the mirror, and makes him just stand there for a second, cautious of the adrenaline rollercoaster he’s now stepping off of. He remembers what happened last time, and cognizant that this time everything was much more intense.

The dresser across the small room, only a few steps away, is covered in Rain’s assortment of supplies — the box of needles, the marker, rubbing alcohol, a red plastic sharps container. The roll of ribbon is carefully stowed in the top drawer. He leads Dew to the full-length mirror next to it and, hands on his hips, spins him around so he’s facing away from it. The two loose ends of the bow flutter in four places, everything duplicated.

Dew turns his head and looks all the way behind him, until his chin brushes the top of his shoulder.

Rain thought the way he looked stretched out on the bed would be the highlight of this whole experience, but he was so wrong. The slightest twist of his torso now as Dew cranes his neck emphasizes the narrowness of his waist, the curve of his ribs. He looks elegant. Suddenly his work feels inadequate, like he’s not doing him justice. The needles could be placed more evenly, the ribbon pulled tighter. He could have wiped away parts of the purple lines that still cross his skin beneath it all.

Dew narrows his eyes at his reflection. “These are different needles.”

Rain smiles. “Now that you mention it…”

“Are you serious?”

“Maybe.”

“They’re a bigger gauge.”

“They are.”

He takes a small step backwards toward the mirror and turns his head a little further.

Rain takes a needle from the cardboard box and peels the packaging open, then plucks it out and pops the cap off. He holds it up for Dew to look at. “Here.”

Dew stares at it blankly, processing. He turns and looks at the box, and the writing on it. Then he looks over his shoulder at his reflection again.

“You were amazing,” Rain says, and he means it. He doesn’t have to play a role anymore, or construct a scenario, or tease out a specific response.

Dew’s eyes snap up to meet his through the mirror. His brows are slightly furrowed, just a little bit pinched together. It’s confusion, disbelief. They say, that’s not what you told me before.

“Really,” he insists.

Dew hums dismissively, terse and sharp. His gaze goes distant. He brings his head back around until he’s staring through the bottom right leg of the bedframe.

There’s 1 million things to say about Jim honestly. I’ve been threatening him with this mixtape for months but I finally got to it <3

One of the nicest most supportive people we have around here, truly he is so important to our community, a friendly face that talks to everyone and doesn’t shy away from weird or education or anything really.

He has a wonderful list of kink resources for fanfic and real life purposes. Honestly is blog is wonderful for kink exploration, it’s such a safe space and will teach you how to do things correctly! For whatever wicked things you may need it for

And his recommendation list is second to none. I know for a fact he goes out of his way to find smaller creators to hype up while also keeping the regular ecosystem moving. A needed part of our community, we always need to strive to find need artists and creatives!

And for all my creatives, he even put together this wonderful blog specifically for ghost prompts! All you could ever need is over there, and it’s such a good inspiration, even if you can’t find anything, he takes requests!

And of course I have to mention our collaboration with the ghestie mixtapes project. I couldn’t do it without him. (Trust me, I tried once. Do you know how much work goes into those posts??!!? There’s a reason I’m just the designer LMFAO) but he goes so far out of his way to make those special for everyone and I couldn’t have a better person working on this project with me <3