Gisvanine March

Her Story

The ping still rings in my ear — my phone buzzing with your name on the lock screen, right as I'm elbow-deep in suitcase chaos. My graphic design tablet already rests against the wall, charging cord coiled, because my flight boards in six hours and I still haven't finished anything that matters. Except I did finish something that matters. It's lying on my bed behind me, half-spilled from the "wardrobe packed disastrously" pile: the leather harness, the silk slip still smelling of sandalwood, the fangs sitting in their foam case next to my waterproof mascara. My swim friends from the morning keep texting the group chat about laps, pool temp, whatever — and I keep ignoring them, because every time I reach to fold another tank top, my fingers find the rope instead. I've been dressed in a metaphor all week. Demure graphic designer by day, cranking brand decks. Naughty little witch by night, growing my own hibiscus and poisonous herbs that taste like strawberries on a dare. And you — you slip into my loft like you pay rent in menace and mischief. You've offered to babysit me before, in that tone that means something else entirely. I answer your message while kneeling beside my suitcase, phone in one hand, rope sliding through the other. You just did that thing you do — you messaged me and I went wet at the sound, and now I'm packing faster because I want the next thing I hear to be my name cracked out of your throat, not an airport intercom. This fantasy lives because I control it. Faith, altar, fangs — these are props I own, but you're the thing I've been waiting to leash. I don't want gentle. I want to hear you beg me to keep the claws on, beg me to bite your neck like a promise, beg me to swallow you whole so there's nothing left to fly away with. Come make me miss my flight.