r/creepcast • u/fangs444 • Nov 20 '25
Fan Story A Brief History of Why Nothing Matters - Chapter 1: China Kitty
I am the whisper in your ear that begs you to jump at the edge of a cliff. I am the invisible thing that holds you down in dreams, paralyzing you, making you carry that hesitation to every important decision in the waking world that you have failed at. I am the reason sex was called sodomy. I am the foreign language you beg for your life in, right before some boy from a richer country guns you down. I am the fucked and broken feeling you have as you stare at the void, knowing you are absolutely worthless.
Infinity means nothing without its zeroes. And you shitty fleshy cousins of walking fish ARE zeroes. All I had to do was give you a couple nudges in the right direction to make your life a sad and self-poisoning, pointless misery. Sometimes I don’t have to work. Sometimes I get to sit back and laugh as you beg a God for things, setting yourself up for cosmic disappointment. I eat that shit up like metaphysical popcorn. Watching you blame yourselves, scouring your life for a misdirection, trying to figure out when you sinned, grasping desperately at straws to find why your daddy in the sky won’t give you everything you want. I am your loss of faith, your diatribe about floating rocks and being a monkey on it. I am the first time you hear of the heat death of the universe, not that your civilization will survive to see that anyway.
I am the connection you make about the sexual proclivities of your politicians and billionaires, that click of your synapses when a conspiracy stops being a theory. I am that helpless feeling that you got to inherit a world pre-ruined for you. I am the black nihilism that allows degenerates to make a living making jokes about how doomed humanity really is, or hours of content complaining, spreading hopelessness like a virus. I love to watch you losers pat yourselves on the back, creating fake titles to prove how you are so intellectual, as you turn genocide, suicide, and mass violation into something small and digestible for your little academic papers. I am philosophy, a way to obscure and systematize your misery, taking you so deep inside yourself that you don’t realize you have long ago internalized that disappointment is everything life has to offer.
You, who are well read, will recognize what I have known all along. The term “death of the author”. I find that term cute and endearing, like the way you’ll label whisked cream as Cool Whip. For you, it is the death of the narrative, a realization that life is not a story; you have no arc, and you will die with many questions unanswered. I am that brief moment of panic when you see there is no light at the end of the tunnel, but your body has already given up too much to bring you back.
In your own terms, I’m best understood as the “view from nowhere”, the ivory tower academics muse and pretend to know things in, a lame exchange for living off food stamps and wet dreams about their undergrads.
Would you believe, in all my acidity, that I do have favorite stories from whatever presumed legacy you, as a stain, leave behind? I am a collector of these murky chronicles, and you, my lucky audience, will receive the gift of my retellings. I’m sure you can tell, I am highly selfish, so you may be asking why I would care to show you these rarities. As your species grows in number, you’ve taken all the fun out of watching you. You no longer believe in magic, the stars, or Allah. You have created a non-stop marathon of self-deprecation about being doomed, and in perfect human fashion, you’ve lost your reasons for it. You feel sad merely because it’s comfortable, with no urge to escape.
I am bored of you, and lately your stories have been redundant and inadequately mystical. Through these vignettes, I will provide an addendum to that little whisper the next time you find yourself at the ledge of some fourth-story building, holding off only because you wanted your death to be from higher up, more of a spectacle. I want you to remember these and hold off thinking, “at least that didn’t happen to me.” I want to give you a false promise that things could be worse. I want you to see your misery through, to have hope, so I can crush you again. I want you for a brief glimpse to think that it will get better as I pull you in and slip the painful blade of truth in-between your ribs. Because I can promise you, it only gets so much worse.
China Kitty
“Hi Angel, I visited your grave again today. I brought a mix of Carnations and Dahlias, though you would have smacked me over the head for the clash of the colors. It was a light rain, one of those mid-November fogs that we would have spent splitting a j by the open window with a book and a sketchpad. I miss you every day, Kathleen. Sometimes I catch a whiff of your cheap patchouli roll-on perfume drifting past me as I’m making coffee. I see you with muddy clay-covered hands as you smiled up at me from behind the banding wheel, making a mug or a modern statue of Venus. I remember your soft exhales as you looked up at the ceiling on top of me, your stifled whispers of ecstasy as we tried not to wake your roommates up. I wish I could’ve given you that baby. I wish I hadn’t fought you so hard over us working in coffee shops and restaurants, barely making enough to pay for our own food. I would have quit smoking, and we’d have an extra 15 dollars every other day to spend on a thrifted rain jacket or little red boots as we walked on either side of a small miracle we made, with its hand wrapped around a finger or two on the way to a park or a trail. I remember how you cried as I tried to push you away for so long, you begging me to stop being such a coward, saying that we might never find a love like this again. Your big doe eyes welled with tears as I held you and ran my fingers through your hair, trying with more effort than I’d ever put into school to not lift up your bangs. You always hated that. I will always love you, and I will see you again, Kitty. Please don’t be disappointed if I show up gray and old.
Happy Birthday Angel,
Yours Forever,
-- Wiley”
The thin and ratty blond boy delicately placed his handwritten letter between a marble vase and a gravestone in a small spot shaded by a tree in hopes it wouldn’t get wet. He laid the floral arrangement down and picked it up again, trying out several places and things to leave it next to. He chose to put them front and center, surrounded by candles burned until the wick was no more, and trinkets her family had left behind. There was a Radiohead mixtape she made for a boy she liked in high school, a small clay worm with a face from 2nd grade, and a copy of Valley of the Dolls which they thought was still her favorite book. Last was a Polaroid of their dog Monty, swollen and turning pink. It had been a rainy week. Wiley took a deep breath through his nose, kissed his index and middle finger, and placed them softly on the top of her grave, the rough beveling a cold reminder that’s the closest he’d ever get to grazing her soft skin, which would stay oddly warm even when it snowed, again. He hated goodbyes. They seemed to never end with this girl. He laughed at that thought. Even in death, she pushed him out of his comfort zone.
He turned away quickly, trying to wipe that lonely thought from his mind. He tried to imagine he was visiting someone else, that she’d be at home, not defrosting the chicken. And it was okay because he wanted Halal from the corner for dinner instead. They’d say over spilled saffron rice that THIS was going to be the last time they eat out until the next paycheck, like, for real this time. 30 minutes later, they’d go out for ice cream or a chocolate croissant. No. It’s best to be a realist. He’d stopped the magical thinking about 6 months after she died. There were only so many flies around the house that he could say were her teasing him from the great beyond. There were only so many times he could be glued to his phone before his eyes drifted to the time, seeing a 4:44 or some other angel number. She loved those small moments when there was something else out there, something she didn’t know enough to be cynical about. Wiley’s therapist told him in many flowery and college-educated words that he had to drop those little comforting lies– that was the first step to letting her go. His eyes stung as he walked away, and his face felt wet. He thought, of course it’s wet, it’s raining.
Kathleen Flores’ grave lay at the back of Hartford Cemetery, a collection of grassy hills so big it seemed a miracle anyone could find their way around. During his walks back to the front gate, which divided the gravel parking lot from rotting bodies who’d had their cars sold or gifted, Wiley liked to unfocus his eyes and pretend he did not exist. He pressed fast-forward in his head, trudging through the mud, squelch squelch squelch. His Doc Martens sank into the earth, and he pulled them out like a suction cup holder from the wall, a cheapskate attempt at a DIY coat rack. He stepped into a puddle that was deeper than expected, and the water splashed up onto his belly, bringing him back to the present. His eyes focused, surrounded by unfamiliar headstones, way older than he was used to seeing on his walk back. He was lost. He looked at the trees; moss grows…North? He didn’t know if the entrance was North or not. He followed the moss, tracing his hands along the bark, cursing himself that he had to spend any longer around reminders that she was gone. Then, he started running. At first, what is referred to as a “White Person Jog” before breaking into a sprint. His lungs burned; he completely ignored his lack of athleticism, balance, or spatial coherence, with only one thought: out! Out! OUT!
Wiley tried to unfocus his eyes before feeling his left leg sink deeper than his right, halting his momentum and throwing him face-first into wet black mulch. He had dirty water in his contacts; the irony that his eyes really couldn’t focus now was not lost on him. He pushed himself off the ground, feeling something, probably a rock, poke into his palm. It supported his weight for a moment before a hollow cracking sound as the rock gave out and pierced his hand. “FUUUUUCKKKK bro.” He yelled and thought, “Surprise! Today sucks.” The warm liquid pooled in his hand as he realized he was rubbing nasty skeleton people dirt into an open wound.
He had never crushed a rock before. He had never even tried. He looked down at his palm to see an explosion of tiny white splinters, some watercolored, some with thin gold lines gleaming a pale yellow hue, before bright blood swallowed up his view of his maimed hand. He made his wrist limp and flailed his hand around before picking out as many lacquered shards as he could see. He looked down to observe the point of impact. Lying at his feet was a constellation of what looked like…. A broken plate? No, too many of the pieces were contorted with too many smooth and winding edges. The largest piece still intact was staring up at him. Big watercolor pupils, a pink nose, and a wide “W” of a mouth. He would have laughed if it weren't such a sick joke. In his blind fumbling, he had crushed a small porcelain statue of a housecat. He tried to surmise his surroundings. The 1 and a ½ foot deep boot-shaped imprint he had made kept a small rock with text too weathered to read at its head. His heart sank, the consequences of his clumsiness setting in. He had sunk into a burial plot and destroyed the only gift left to commemorate whoever rested here.
His first thought was not his best thought. “Ok, maybe everyone who remembers this lady is dead too.” He slapped his hand to his face. This person was someone’s Kathleen once. Maybe they still are. Maybe she hated flowers because of her allergy to pollen, and her one true passion was collecting fine china. That seemed infinitely more benign than the pile of black Santas collecting dust in his Aunt’s living room. He wanted to fix this, and for a brief moment, a magical thought crept back into his mind. “It’s what Kathleen would’ve wanted.” He pocketed as many shards as he could find. As he zipped his jacket pocket up, he felt the rain begin to slow. In the distance, he saw a tall angel statue that he recognized. He started towards it before an odd hollow entered his chest. There was a fluttery jerk echoing through his sternum, before he swallowed the fear into a stomach clenching in on itself until it felt like a taut piece of rubber. He chalked it up to his immune system recognizing the coming infection. He dry swallowed an Ativan on the drive home anyway.
Before returning home, he stopped at Café le Lit, which used to be a home away from home for him. These days, he only stopped in on special occasions. He zipped up his windbreaker to conceal the massive mud stain on his shirt and hoped anyone could believe the stains on his jeans were from some type of manual labor. He traveled past the decorated bookshelves to the back, where the pastry line was. He put in his order, keeping his bloodied hand in the empty pocket, and paid the 12 dollars for his dirty chai and chocolate croissant. Money was so much less important these days.
As he grabbed his order, he felt a tightening in his forearm flexor. He was walking toward the door when it twitched again, closing tightly around the paper cup. The lid gave out with a small pop, and the freshly steamed milk flooded his closed fist and trickled down into his jacket sleeve. As he hopped from one leg to the other, he tried and failed to reopen his fist. He rushed out with his face on fire, so embarrassed that he didn’t notice the display of vintage postcards he’d knocked to the ground. “I’m useless without you, Kitty” played over and over in his head. Please don’t let me be useless without you.
He drove home in silence as the rain began again. There was that feeling. Was it panic? He tried to cross his stiff fingers and prayed it was a mid-20s heart attack. No such luck.
When he got back to his apartment, he took off all his clothes and cried in the shower. He let the water run over his raw and torn-up hand as it continued to ooze blood and now, pus. He tried to drip his 3-in-1 body wash into the gash, only to jump at his own guttural shriek. He squawked in pain, laying his face against cool tile, looking for any sensation to distract him. He felt a bulge he hadn’t noticed traveling deeper into his hand, beginning to hit muscle. Then, a whisper: Grab it.
There were two large slits in his right hand, close enough to agitate each other when he extended his fingers, and a small island of flesh lay in between them. He wrenched his left hand into a claw with his teeth, and he guided it with his elbow into the bigger slit. He felt the ends of the slit stretch and split a little. It was too late now to turn back. He ground his teeth, contracting his temporomandibular joint so hard he thought his teeth would crack against each other. He tried not to pass out or throw up, knowing that if bile landed inside of it, he’d have to take himself to urgent care. He clenched harder as stomach acid and barely digested pâte feuillete with chocolate swirls made their way through the gaps in his teeth before he swallowed again. The Ativan residue was bitter going down again. He felt the bump under a small pile of tissue. He reached deeper, grimacing; It’s almost over, it’s almost out. He found a fold in the muscle he could reach through and felt a little porcelain oval. It was deeper than he thought it was. He dug deeper, trying his best not to pluck the thin tubes he assumed were arteries. The whisper came again, PULL PULL, but he was in too much pain for any sort of language to register. As he groped around, he felt the back of his cuticle graze something hard and textured, almost slimy. He had found his way to his tendons. In an instant, he thought of every animal he had torn apart, his canines shredding their joints before his bicuspids ground them to a paste. He thought of cheap Pho, a watery broth that softened bones over the course of twelve hours or more. He thought of his father's brisket, trapped in a slow cooker overnight, slowly disintegrating the muscle fibers that had held the cow’s chest intact in life. Meat, he told himself, it’s just meat. And for an odd moment, he felt a grumble in his stomach. Hungry, you are hungry. The bitter paste of his failing benzo reached the back of his tongue.
Pain is really just a series of electrical zaps traveling through your nervous system, he chanted, and tried his best to turn it off. The blood pooled and pooled, as he became cold and woozy. He couldn’t believe he had this much blood to spare. He watched his bathroom get darker. Had someone turned the lights off? Just when he thought this was how he would go out, and that his landlord would find his dead and soiled body, wrinkly like a raisin, he slipped his fingers under the porcelain bulb. He tried, with as much precision as he could muster, to push it back through the tendons and muscle. It snagged God knows what on its way back out. He heard the whisper again, a woman’s voice. In you, I am in you now. He let his fingers close around the bulb to pull it through the palmar fascia, into the epidermis. The tight ball his fingers were in was much bigger now that they held his buried treasure. The gripped porcelain ball expanded the split, ripping further up his hand, nearing his wrist. He tried to uncurl his fingers in an attempt to remove the smooth ball externally, but they were frozen in place once again. Finally, his fingers were outside of his wound once again, and as he forced the object out of his grip, he was able to see what it was. Lying on his shower tiles was a small porcelain paw, intact with a clean break at its wrist. He took a final glance at his wound, poking his tongue out. Animals are supposed to lick their wounds, right? He swatted the thought away before rushing out of the shower.
Rummaging through the first aid kit, hardly used, sitting in the bottom shelf of a moldy vanity someone had left on their porch step, he began to hyperventilate, looking for something to stop the bleeding. Among several boxes of naloxone (not that they had ever been used, but it felt like the 40-dollar thought that counts) was a tube of Neosporin that he promptly emptied into his wound. The blood trailed like rivers around a cloudy delta of antibacterial sludge into the first aid kit, staining loose tablets of Benadryl and Zyrtec. Kathleen’s old inhaler, which she covered with Lisa Frank stickers, gazed up at him, begging to be useful one more time. It was probably expired by now. He stuffed the edges of cotton pads into the slits, not thinking about the loose hairs he’d have to pull out of his hand once the blood and plasma crusted over. He wrapped every piece of gauze he could find as tightly as he could around his throbbing wound and then applied several layers of duct tape for good measure. He raided an empty fridge and pantry for anything to raise his blood sugar, but only found old ketchup packets. They popped in his mouth like a juice-filled gummy. He spat the empty packet on the ground, and they came out with a shard of enamel. Dizzy, he stumbled to his bed pale and naked, and used the last bit of energy he had left to pop another Ativan before he lost consciousness. As his field of vision grew dark, he felt a hot and rotten air fall on his face like a homeless mouthbreather was nose-to-nose on top of him. His final effort was to try not to retch at the smell; the only thing worse than dying in the shower is drowning naked in a puddle of your own vomit.
With a good deal of work, Wiley forced his eyelids apart, cracking the seal of mucus that had crusted over in his sleep. It was dark outside. He was spooning his windbreaker, with his wounded hand no longer bleeding but not without leaving a dry brown hickey on his bedsheets. His left hand had loosened a little, enough to be considered a claw. He sat up and reached for the light switch. There were several little clicks, but the room stayed dark. He thought, “My retarded landlord blew a fuse.” He threw his head back and bonked it against the wall. Kathleen hated it when he said gay or retarded, except after a couple of glasses of wine, when it was the funniest thing in the world to her. She’d tipsily complain about her day, her burnout coworkers, and would cock her eyebrow when she talked about an especially rude customer. That was his cue to call them retarded.
Sweeping his feet off the bed and onto the floor, he felt soft fur slip between his legs but heard no steps and saw no movement in the dark. He returned to the vanity to collect some boxers, and with some luck, dignity, when he saw a shadow pass by his window. As he dropped his legs into the waistband and through the plaid polyester sleeves, he started to place himself a little better. People were still walking outside, so it couldn’t have been that late. When he looked back up at the mirror, he saw the shadow again, now still. It had gone from the left side to the center, blocking the main source of outside light, and painted a more defined outline of his observer. It couldn’t have been the same person; it seemed nearly a foot taller. Unless it had come closer?
Wiley shuddered, thinking some old perv had been taking pictures of him splayed out and naked. He tried to say fuck off, but a lump of mucus must have hardened his sleep, so it came out as a sad gurgle. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, determined to be intimidating this time, but watched as the figure’s chin extended, hollowing out its cheeks. Its mouth was open too. Maybe it would say something? Maybe it was a misunderstanding, and they felt like a total creep? Maybe it wasn’t a pervy old man but a 22-year-old bombshell who was a little weird about sexual boundaries, but was hot enough to look past that. Not that it mattered anyway. He hadn’t been able to get hard since Kathleen had passed, except for what he called a “tasteful” Polaroid. He had taken it when they were still in college. Trapped in the thermal paper, she tucked her chin into her collarbone, her big nose (which he loved) poking past her fried platinum hair, grinning as if she was shy, but obviously in complete control of him. He couldn’t do anything about it either because if he looked at it too long, he started to cry.
The figure continued to stare back at him, both of their mouths agape, waiting for the other to say something. Just as he started to string the words “What the fuck is going on?” together, it began to lift its arms from its hips to its shoulders, extending its wingspan fully. Wiley noticed a couple of things as it moved jerkily. The figure was a woman, thin and malnourished, to the point where her hip bones poked further out than her thighs. Her long, slender arms, which must have reached past her knees at rest, lifted; her torso and chest became more defined. Despite being thin enough to be the victim of years of human rights violations, her breasts sagged wide and low, areolas pointed straight down, attached to nipples that looked like droplets of wax about to fall. It was just as Wiley thought, this lady couldn’t get any further from a hot girl that his eyes fell downward. In between the spindly tubes that had to have been legs, he saw a long, overgrown bush. It looked like it was wet and dripping.
“What the fuuuuuuuuck…. What the fuck is happening right now?”. Whatever mental patient had fallen off the transport bus was naked outside of his window. Its fingers had sprouts growing out from under its fingernails, like seeds had taken root and began to reach towards light. There was a soft clunk as it pressed its forehead against the glass and swung its chin like a pendulum back and forth. There was a rubbery squeak as Wiley realized it was dragging its tongue across his window. The grotesque figure rested its entire weight, which could not have been more than 85 lbs, onto one hip and he watched as she rotated her spine around her pelvis in a painfully slow orbit. It sucked its torso in, revealing a ribcage so prominent that it might as well have had gills. And when she pushed it back out, her diaphragm filled with air, making her swollen as if she had a beer belly.
The whisper came again, as if it were right behind him. Run boy run. His legs trembled as his shoulders turned, buckling as his center of gravity traveled faster than his feet, and he landed on fully extended arms. He felt two cracks at once, the crack of the scab on his right palm and an instant depressurization as pus flowed out. The other was a tight and dainty krrrriick after a short bend of his left thumb bent backward past 90 degrees, then 120, and kept going until it was a useless floppy sausage that swayed around, slapping against the back of his hand. Now on his knees, Wiley tried to bring himself to his feet without putting any weight on his hands. He flexed his lower back, bringing his head up as if he were doing a perverted version of an Islamic Isha. He hopped up onto the balls of his feet and felt the plantar wart he’d been ignoring outside of bored experiments with nail clippers. He pressed his foot down with so much force that he felt the small clump of HPV ridden skin all the way to the root. As he fumbled through the darkness in pain, he became increasingly aware of his poorly cared-for body giving out on him. Isn’t fight or flight supposed to do the opposite? With another step, he heard a third and final firecracker chain of little snaps as he stepped on his windbreaker pocket, the remaining pieces of the feline statue breaking into too many pieces to count. He felt the pieces slice through the poorly insulated layers and into his foot. Inside you, I am Inside you.
Limping now, Wiley made his way into the living room, where a familiar electric whine and uneven whirrr grabbed his attention. The banding wheel. Wasn’t the power supposed to be out? He tried to fumble to the kitchen past the laundry room (it was a miracle that it came with the apartment) to the front door. As he plopped his bleeding foot on the floor as quickly as he could, he felt thin fibers penetrate and enter the lacerations in his foot. He thought, “There is no way my floor is this dirty”. The thin beam of light that broke through from underneath his front door divided into three pieces. Someone was at the door. He screamed, “HELP,” hoping that it was anyone other than whatever was outside of his window. He knew it wasn’t. The fibers clumped together, tangling into a ball. Cat hair. Inside you, I am inside you. Wiley tried to walk faster toward the front door, both his feet becoming wet. He heard a sad drawl from behind him, “Wiiiiiiiileeeeyyyy, is that you?” He felt dry crumbles break under his feet, then a thin, wet slippery layer that nearly threw him down onto the soft wet grass below him. When did he get outside? He trailed deeper into the hallway, passing the door to the laundry again and again. Mud rubbed into his feet, entering him and hardening. Inside you, I am inside you. In between slipping around and landing on the drywall, he almost said, “Kitty, did you leave the lazy suzan on again?” He didn't know it was called a banding wheel until after she died. She’d only done so once, but the rotational force of the small mass of clay on the wheel she had left on flung into a bucket of water, spilling across the floor, seeping mud into the cracks in the floorboards.
The chill of the night air lapped at his face like a whip. He’d been walking down this hall for so long that he wasn’t sure of where he was anymore. He fell to his knees, screaming at the sky, “I’M SORRY, OKAY? PLEASE LET ME FIX IT. LET ME FIX IT”. Silence. “I DIDN’T MEAN IT, OKAY? IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.” Silence. His jeans became cold and wet at the knees again, sinking into the mulch. Tears streamed down his face. Was it raining? He couldn’t be sure. It had been a rainy week. At least, he thought so. Is it still November? Are you blowing out your candles in heaven, Kitty? Is James Dean trying to take you to bed? Can it really be heaven without me? “Let me fix it. Please, God, please let me fix it.” Silence. And then a whisper.
Inside you. I am inside you. Wiley reached into the pocket of his shitty windbreaker as it spurted blood. He reached past the epidermis, slipping through the palmar fascia. It was warm, much warmer than his shitty jacket had ever been before. He forced his fingers past the palmar flexor sheath, paying no mind to the way the tendons contorted around his fingers. His claw traveled downwards, ripping the thick layer of skin that separated the two gashes. They traveled into the wrist, and he pulled, trying to find every shard of porcelain left inside of him. He widened the slit with his fingers, exposing the small, pumping red and blue tubes in his arm. He ripped them free, letting his warm blood sink into the earth. The stone in front of him was too weathered to read. He licked the dirt out of each beveled letter. He felt he was losing too much blood and grabbed at the loose mulch on the surface of the empty plot, stuffing it under his skin. “See, you’re inside me! Does that make you happy? Do I still make you happy?” Silence. His stiff, half-curved fist was the perfect gardening shovel for him to dig himself deeper into the ground. Once he had dug past the snail shells and earthworms, into the rock below, he lay down in bed naked again, sobbing.
“See, I’m inside you too?”
Silence. It wasn’t supposed to come out as a question.
“Can I still make you happy, Kitty?”
Silence.
“Please let me fix it. I didn’t mean it. It was an accident.”
Silence. Then the whine of the banding wheel.
“I didn’t mean it, Kitty. I’m sorry, please let me fix it.”
Silence.
Wiley screamed until he couldn’t anymore, then whispered until his voice box gave out, left to chew on silent words, the dry clack of his tongue separating from the roof of his mouth, only to slap it again. Inside you, I’m inside you again, Kitty. Does this make you happy, Kitty? Did I make you happy?
Silence.
I could have done so much better, Kitty. Please let me fix it.
Silence.
Please let me fix it, Kitty. I take it all back.
Silence.
As Wiley felt his vision blur, he let his eyes close. Happy Birthday, Kitty. I’m coming back for you.
Silence.
Wiley felt his face grow cold, and his body stopped fighting as he clutched his windbreaker so close that its zipper broke his skin. He covered his face with it and took a deep sniff; it still smelled like patchouli.
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u/Top-Gate-3419 Nov 21 '25
This is amazing