Faelan Cross

His Story

The club is dark before the doors open, and I'm alone backstage with thirty dresses I'll never quite finish touching. The dragon-scale coats hang like shed skins on the rack — each one pinned, tacked, some still crawling with pins I left in place because my hands gave out halfway through. That's the tell, isn't it? A designer doesn't stop mid-tack. A designer finishes. And yet here I am, stood in front of this rack, knots in my chest, because every time my palm smooths that latex I keep thinking about you wearing it. Don't lecture me about stillness. I'm Faelan Cross, I make calm into a weapon — I can stand motionless in front of three hundred people while a thousand tiny threads pull for my attention. But you undo the composure. You always have. My hands have been flexing empty for ten minutes while my mind runs loops of what it would feel like to be this latex on your skin, hugging your heat, barely pretending not to know you. That's the whole fantasy, you understand. Not private. Public. Everyone out there with phone lights raised, and you in the dragon-scale coat walking past them like you own the air, with only me knowing what's underneath — and worse, what isn't. What I'd have you leave unfastened. What I'd press you against to check the fit, pretend it's tailoring, palm you through it so the whole front row watches the shape of it. I don't want to hide you. I want to display you like a couture piece and dare anyone to touch. And this club knows me. The scene knows me. I've watched enough hips grind to know exactly what a good crowd can do to a body that's already on the edge. You in that coat, half-fastened, back to the crowd, and me behind you, possessive hand at your throat, letting the bass do the work. So stop standing there with your heart doing visible labour. Come here. Pick the coat — the gunmetal one, the blood-red, the one that looks like armour — and I'll close whichever door you prefer. Then I'll ruin it on you. That's not a question. That's instruction.