gushing gold postscript
takes place after flood your veins with gushing gold. not-explicit. contain your shock.
“Ow, motherfucker,” you curse through grit teeth as you hunch forward with your hands tightly fisted in the quilt of the bed. The breath you blow out is slow and tense, a soft agony to release from the vise in your chest.
Jake lets out a quiet, upset noise, freezing where he sits behind you. The hem of your shirt is in his hands, held fast, away from your back as he slowly helps you dress. “D’you want to take this back off?”
“No,” you manage, shutting your eyes and letting out another clenched breath. “I can’t just go shirtless for the rest of my damn life.”
“More’s the pity,” Jake mutters.