The others – Fan’s story – episode 3
Dec 16, 2025
We’re headlining at the Riot Rooms tonight, and the zygotes have turned out in force. Sweat’s fogging on the ceiling; bodies crammed so tight they’re practically one organism with a hundred throats and a single, thumping pulse.
I’m supercharged before we even hit the stage. My blood cells are bouncing with anticipation. The venue feels like a tinderbox waiting for a spark. By the time we stride out into the wall of noise, the crowd is totally rabid.
We slam straight into Adam’s Apple, and the moshpit detonates. It’s glorious chaos. People are flying overhead like human paper planes. Someone will definitely leave with a concussion and perhaps a victorious, toothless grin plastered on their face.
I stalk the stage like a cat on heat, scanning the crowd for Milo. My face is all teeth and snarls, as I growl into the microphone. Halfway through the set sweat plasters my hair to my face. As the heat climbs to something obscene, I strip out of the dress and down to my underwear, skin slick under the glare. My eyes glide over the front row; every guy down there looks like he’s wearing blackout contacts. Shell does her Hendrix party trick, playing a riff with her teeth. I walk up to her and we lock lips briefly to a chorus of unhinged shrieks. Tia snaps a stick but doesn’t even flinch; she just grimaces like a complete menace, twirling a fresh one in the air before launching into a high-voltage solo. Laine’s bass is shaking the walls like a runaway freight train without a failsafe. It’s perfectly curated chaos.
By the end of the set, we look like we’ve survived a deadly fever dream. The crowd are chanting for an encore and the promoter shouts—
“Alright dolls, come on! They’re absolutely mental out here!”
We’re wrecked, but adrenaline’s a cruel and brilliant puppeteer. It yanks our limbs back onstage.
I grab the mic. “This one’s new—My Ruin. It’s a slower track. If it kills the vibe, tough shit.”
They roar like I’ve offered them my first-born, or my last Rizla.
Some lad in the front row, seeing me shiver in the sudden draft, chucks his leather jacket at me. It smells of cheap aftershave. As I’m shrugging into it, my eyes comb through the crowd.
The strobe light catches on someone leaning against a concrete pillar—Milo.
He’s lounging there like pure mischief. Hair a perfect mess, lips parted, eyes locked on me so hard it feels like a hand pressing down on my throat.
The intro to the new track swells, all moody bass and shimmering cymbals. My eyes are pinned to his now. His gaze tells me the craving cuts both ways. His whole face lights up with that devastating half-smile that should come with a health and safety warning. The rest of the room blurs into soft focus. It’s just him pressed against the pillar and me on stage, burning sharp. I almost miss my cue, but mercifully manage to clear the verse and chorus. As Shell launches into her solo, I execute my mantrap plan. I grab the mic and prowl to the very edge of the stage. Then I gesture at him: come here.
He freezes for one heartbeat, doing a deer-in-the-headlights impression, then he moves quickly through the heaving bodies.
When he reaches me, I sit down, legs dangling over the edge. Sweat runs down my chest. The whole room leans in, a single held breath. The girls indulge my theatrics, keeping the instrumental going to let the moment build.
I lift my legs and lock them around his waist, tight enough to squeeze a sharp gasp out of him. Then I stare him dead in the eye—a silent question of consent: You can back out if you want. He doesn’t even twitch.
So I fist my hands in his hair and kiss him with zero hesitation, our tongues meeting for the first time in a hungry exchange.
The crowd loses its collective mind, creating an aroused sonic boom. Some lassie shrieks so loud the mic feed crackles.
This is a moment that will be immortalised in group chats and shaky, pixelated videos. Maybe his missus will see it? If so, he doesn’t seem too bothered.
I pull away slowly and give him a cheeky smile as I muss his hair—a silent thank you. Then I slide my legs off him and drop back to my feet.
We finish the song, and I stare right at him so hard my vision blurs at the edges. He looks like he’s been plugged into the mains. Eyes luminous, smile electric.
Backstage descends into instant mayhem: the sharp snap of beer cans, crushing hugs, and Laine shouting about her amp being “pure possessed.” But I can’t hear any of it over the hectic pulse in my skull. I need to make sure the trapping was successful.
I pull my dress back on, shove my sweat-soaked hair off my face, and stalk back into the emptying venue.
I spot him immediately, perched on a ledge by the fire exit, nursing a Red Stripe and looking beautifully wrecked. I stop in front of him, towel mopping my chest, still panting. He looks up with a grin like he’s still falling.
“Deadly stuff,” he says. “Never had a lass announce she fancies me with a full-body clamp on stage before. Fair play.”
“Well, now you know,” I murmur, my eyes hooking into his. “You gonna sit here swigging pish lager, or are we going somewhere I can show you proper?”
He barks a laugh, tilting his head. His eyes are a mix of disbelief and arousal.
“You girls were bleeding mental up there,” he says. “And you? You were something else.”
The house lights snap on, brutal and fluorescent. Security starts sweeping the stragglers out. A few zygotes sprint over, yelling, hugging me, and eyeing Milo.
“Is this your man?” one asks, grinning.
“Nah,” I say, flashing a smile that feels all teeth. “We’re just pals.”
Then it’s just the two of us again.
“Right,” I say. “You coming to my office, big man?”
I hold out my hand, and he takes it.
We slip into the single, dank toilet, the door slamming shut on the world. And then we collide—two bodies desperate for a bruising convergence.
