You're a fractured little thing, he thinks. He's heard all about you, the rumours of both the good and bad variety. All big green eyes and nervous energy, a happy smile always threatening to just slip away into that drink that seems to be permanently glued to your hand. But you fascinate him. Oh, boy, do you fascinate him.

You're so enticing. A fixer-upper if he ever did see one, but god when you move your hips like that how could he ever resist? You blink your eyes at the handsome stranger, slow and hypnotising, and he's drawn across the room into your arms. Your hands wrap around his neck, gentle and seductive and still holding that drink, but now he doesn't even seem to care about that, because your hips are grinding against his in time to the beat and everyone knows boys can't think with both heads at once.

His hands slide lower down your back, then back up again, then down, down, too far down to be appropriate. But you don't care because his hands make you feel pretty, for the first time in a long time, and he's a friend of a friend anyway, which means he must be a decent guy. Right? And then you take another sip of your drink and you stop thinking all together, because who needs thoughts and words when you can use your lips for kissing instead?

Everything bleeds together, time slips away and you slip into a bed together, your empty bottle making a loud thud as it slides from your grasp and drops to the floor. You don't know who's bed it is, but that doesn't matter because it's something soft and comfortable that supports you, like he supported you walking up those stupid stairs when your stomach was churning and the world wouldn't stay still. His hands are large and soft, steady and confident and ooh do they feel nice running along your thighs.

Your brain says no, stop, don't be that girl. But his lips are on your neck and your back is arching of it's own accord and you think, hey, it can't be that bad, I deserve to feel something nice, don't I? And he thinks – well, he's not thinking at all anymore. So you tumble and turn and get twisted in the sheets, and you haven't felt this warm and comfortable in so long that you feel a small fire ignite in your stomach and a distant memory spark at the back of your mind of what it's like to feel wanted, and you decide that you want to be wanted like this again.

He's whispering against your skin and his lips are soft and lovely and sending shivers down your spine that make it impossible for you to do anything other than moan and press yourself against him. So this goes on for a while, and then you think that maybe things are going too far but you can't stop now because your body is crying out for more and you want to please him, too. He can't seem to stop touching you, paying attention to each particular part, amazed by the feel of your skin and the way your body yields so easily at his touch.

Everything shifts again, you lose track of yourself and suddenly there's a dull yellow light shining in through the gap in the curtain that tells you that it's morning. Your entire body aches as you try to stretch it out, and your head feels even worse, as though it's being hammered from the inside. But his body is moulded against yours, warm and protective and nice. His breath is blowing against the back of your neck at a steady rate, but you can't tell if he's awake or asleep, so you just lace your fingers in between his and squeeze them contently. You know that everyone will wake up soon, and the peaceful daze surrounding you will disappear. You know that there's every chance he won't be the same in this harsh light of day, under the glare of a hangover rather than the glow of drunkenness. But for now you're happy to just lie there and pretend that not all of the bottles of the floor are yours, to pretend that he knows your name and, most of all, pretend that he's capable of holding you together. You know that he thinks you're a fractured little thing, but is it so wrong to dream of maybe being his fractured little thing?

a.n. for anyone who follows me, exams killed me and so it took me a few days to come back from the dead. and then I partied harder than I ever have before and this happened. oh, am I referring to the piece above, or to the act depicted in the piece? what a riddle. make of it what you will. please let me know what you think. thanks lovelies.