The Hot Mess Collective, Ch 13: Surrendering Nothing

A grinding of gears echoed behind Maeve's ribs, the screech of metal on metal, and the only sensible response seemed to be to douse the wreckage in whiskey and walk away.

Finn's clinical stare, her Fae background a curiosity pinned under glass. Sayo's touch, a circuit completing, so raw it burned a hole through her chest. Then Alex's easy smile, a memory from a different, better world she'd just torched.

Her Fae nature felt like a neon sign flashing 'FREAK' thanks to Finn. Her surprising magic connection with Sayo was a space puzzle she was too scared to even touch, let alone think about. And Alex… Alex felt like a character from a different, better story, one she was no longer good enough to be in.

The shadows in the corners of her small apartment deepened, and the ceiling felt low enough to scrape her skull. Every messy surface was a reminder of her chaotic inner life. She couldn't study. She couldn't think. She needed to get out. She needed noise. Driven by a desperate need to escape the loud mess in her own head, she pulled on her most worn-out leather jacket and a pair of ripped jeans. She was heading to a loud, anonymous, human-world indie rock club called 'The Static,' a place where the floor was always sticky and no one cared about your magic signature. She wanted to be numb, to be just another face in a sweaty, moving crowd, to find a simple, uncomplicated physical release that had nothing to do with magic, or identity, or the tangled, impossible mess of her own heart.

***

The Static was everything Maeve needed it to be: painfully loud, very dark, and smelling of cheap beer and desperation. She pushed her way to the bar, ordered a whiskey, and drank it in two hard swallows that burned a clean path through her foggy thoughts. She ordered another. The first band was a mess of distorted guitars and angry, hard-to-understand lyrics. She let the wall of sound wash over her, a welcome painkiller. She was looking to forget.

Her eyes scanned the room, dismissive and like a hunter. She saw him almost right away. He was leaning against the far wall, sipping a beer. His long fingers were wrapped around the neck of an old bass guitar. He was from one of the opening bands, good-looking in a simple, completely human way. Floppy brown hair, a slightly crooked nose, a faded t-shirt for a band Maeve had never heard of. He had no shimmer of Fold awareness, no analyzing look. Just the flat, uncomplicated gaze of a human. Perfect.

Fueled by a strong mix of rage (at Finn, at the world, at herself), a deep, gnawing insecurity (about her magic, her worth, her feelings for Sayo and Alex), and two quick whiskeys, Maeve began to move. The unsure, hopeful girl from the coffee shop was buried deep under layers of pain. In her place was someone sharp, focused, and weaponized.

She crossed the room with a deliberate, confident walk, her hips swaying with a purpose that was anything but casual. She stopped right in front of him, close enough to be in his personal space.

"You play bass," she stated. Her voice was a low, husky thing that was a world away from her usual grumpy mumble.

He looked up, surprised, a little shocked by how direct she was. "Uh, yeah. I do."

"You're good," she lied.

"Oh. Uh, thanks."

She let her eyes, her Fae eyes, catch the dim club lights. She didn't try to hide the coppery glitter this time; she willed it brighter, let it flare and pulse like embers catching air. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, and placed a hand on his arm. Her touch was deliberately a little too strong, a hint of more than human strength in her grip. "I like a guy who knows how to handle a low end."

The musician swallowed. His eyes were wide, completely caught. He was easily impressed, drawn to her mysterious, almost wild vibe. The interaction was quick, with only a physical goal. There was no pretense of getting to know each other, no dance of witty talk. This was a hunt, and she was making it clear she had chosen her target.

"I, uh… I'm just about done here," he stammered, clearly flustered and interested. "My set's over. We could… go somewhere else?"

Maeve's smile was a slow, dangerous curve. "Yeah," she said, her voice dropping even lower. "We could."

***

His apartment was exactly what she'd expected: a messy, temporary place that smelled of old pizza, cheap incense, and dirty laundry. A single mattress was on the floor, posters were taped crookedly to the walls, and an overflowing ashtray sat on the windowsill. A place for short stays and quick escapes. Perfect for what Maeve wanted.

The hookup was as fast and impersonal as the seduction had been. It was angry, aggressive, a crash of bodies driven by Maeve's desperate need to use the physical act to get rid of the storm of frustration and pain inside her.

Maeve tugged at his shirt, a rough pull that sent buttons flying. The bass player responded by tugging her close and biting her lip. He didn't ask questions or offer her a drink. She liked that. A no-questions encounter, and the way he held her told her that he wanted to get lost, too.

She felt a hot pulse of energy. Pure lust. Her body responded to his touch, her muscles clenching in desire. She kissed him hard, a demanding press that was more fight than flirtation. The bassist matched her aggression, his fingers digging into her hips, pulling her closer, and then suddenly she was pinned to the bed, his lips and hands and tongue exploring her, leaving no space for her to think or question or hesitate.

His mouth found hers again, his kisses fierce and hungry. She could taste a tang of blood. She felt his hands on her, exploring and possessive, and her body responded, arching to meet him, needing to feel his weight, his skin. She tugged at his shirt, yanking it down his shoulders and tossing it aside. He moved lower, his teeth dragging along her collarbone, his tongue teasing her nipple, his mouth sucking hard. She gasped, ached, her breath coming in short bursts.

Maeve was all teeth and nails and furious energy, pushing for a raw, physical feeling strong enough to silence the noise in her head. She wanted to feel anything but the confusing ache of her own heart.

And in the heat of that frantic, desperate moment, her control slipped.

Something quieter than a flashy show of power, something more sneaky. As her anger and frustration peaked, the bare bulb in the lamp overhead flickered violently, pulsing with her fast heartbeat. A sudden chill dropped the temperature in the room by a good ten degrees-the sharp bite of winter air, a trace of ozone crackling at the edges-giving the musician goosebumps. Her touch, when her hand gripped his shoulder, left a faint, tingling trace of cold Fae energy, a static shock of otherness that made him flinch just a tiny bit.

He was too caught up, too overwhelmed by her aggression to fully understand it. He probably thought it was just the intensity of the moment, the booze, the adrenaline. But Maeve felt it. Every flicker, every drop in temperature, every spark of unwanted magic was a horrible confirmation. Even here, in this grimy human apartment, in what was supposed to be a simple, mindless encounter, she couldn't escape it. Her Fae nature, her magic was part of her very being, leaking out without her control when her emotional defenses were down. Her otherness was inescapable, a constant, humming static under the surface of her life.

A greasy clarity settled over her, cold and final. The forgetfulness she had been so desperately looking for didn't come.

She tried to push through, tried to let her body take the lead. She grabbed his hand and slid it down her hip, guiding his fingers between her legs, trying to lose herself in the physical sensation, but her heart wasn't in it. Her mind, her will, her sense of duty pushing her forward. Her body wouldn't respond.

After a few minutes, she gave up, feeling exhausted and disgusted with herself. Her breathing slowed, and the magic-charged air in the room calmed down, becoming just cold and heavy.

The moment it was over, as she lay on the lumpy mattress, the musician's heavy breathing filling the sudden quiet, a greasy slick of shame coated her skin, cold and heavy, making it hard to draw a full breath.

This was empty. And messy. And it had solved absolutely nothing. She felt used by her own raging, helpless urges-he was just a clueless prop in her self-destructive play.

"Whoa," the musician finally said, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. "You're… intense. That was wild." He sounded less impressed and more just… confused. His clueless, casual comment landed like a judgment.

A cold, miserable clarity settled over Maeve. She had to get out. Now.

She untangled herself from the cheap, worn-out sheets and began pulling on her clothes with a frantic, jerky urgency, her back to him.

"Hey, you're not leaving, are you?" the musician asked, his voice laced with confusion. "You don't have to run off. I was gonna order a pizza."

The sheer, everyday cluelessness of the offer was almost enough to make her laugh, a harsh, broken sound. Pizza. As if that could fix anything. She didn't answer, just jammed her feet into her boots, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the laces.

She was at the door when she finally spoke, her voice flat and hollow. "This was a mistake."

"A mistake? I thought it was pretty good," he said, sounding genuinely confused and a little offended.

Maeve didn't turn around. She just pulled the door open and fled, not looking back, the sound of his confused "Hey!" swallowed by the slamming of the door.

The early morning air was sharp and cold, a welcome shock to her system. She walked fast, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if trying to hold her broken self together. The anger had burned away completely, leaving behind only the cold, miserable ashes of regret.

She felt further than ever from the people who were starting to matter. How could she ever face the pure, grounding magic of Sayo, who had seen her and shared something deep, when she felt this dirty, this chaotic? How could she even exist in the same world as the simple, good kindness of Alex, a kindness she felt she had just permanently disqualified herself from?

By the time she reached her own apartment, the first grey light of dawn was seeping into the sky, making the city look tired and washed out. She let herself in, the click of the lock echoing in the heavy silence. She was at her lowest point. The encounter hadn't silenced her fears; it had made them louder, confirmed them in screaming color. She was broken. Her magic did make her a mess. She was incapable of a healthy connection.

She slid down against the door, pulling her knees to her chest, feeling utterly alone, ashamed, and completely, hopelessly lost.

She had given up a piece of her body and her soul for a moment of forgetfulness, and in the end, had gotten nothing in return.

***