Drip, drip, drip ...

content notes: drugs, masturbation, faint voyeurism, slime, trans vibes.




There's been something wrong with the showerhead all week, the valve not quite sealing no matter how tight you turn the knob. Not a big issue, not really, the landlord pays for the water, but ...

It just keeps on dripping.

And dripping.


Drops falling down to splatter on the tile floor, little bursts of watery noise echoing out through the closed door, falling and hitting and falling and hitting and—

Suddenly, silence.

Phantom drips linger in your ears, your mind playing tricks on you, but it really has—


And then there's silence again, thick and lingering, your ears straining to catch the next sound—

It doesn't come.

All you hear are the normal sounds, the creak of the building shifting on its haunches and the excited screams of traffic outside, the call of a stray seabird ...

Not the faintest suggestion of water dripping from a flawed faucet.

And that's odd, isn't it? These things don't just fix themselves without any outside intervention.

Maybe ...

Maybe you should go have a look. Why not? It's just your bathroom. Nothing to be afraid of.

The floor shivers beneath your feet as you creep towards the door, and the doorknob seems to twist and writhe beneath your hand—like the house is trying to warn you, to drive you back, to keep you safe.

You don't let yourself listen as you slowly inch the door open.

For god's sake, you tell yourself, it's just anxiety! You've psyched yourself out, gotten freaked out by ... by what? The idea that your showerhead might be haunted? Ridiculous. What self-respecting ghost would haunt a showerhead.

Also, you really need to pee, so ...

There's nothing in the bathroom.

Of course there isn't.

Just a toilet, a sink, a sad little pile of toiletries and supplies, and the mysteriously not-leaky shower. Completely mundane; completely unremarkable.

Really, what were you thinking?



God fucking damn it.

Well, whatever's going on behind the shower curtain can wait until you finish up and wash your hands. If it's a perverted ghost then so be it: your bladder won't let you wait any longer.

Besides, it's probably just the house fucking with you.

Taking your time washing your hands feels like a fuck-you to the showerhead and your anxiety and just the whole world in general. It's a moment stubbornly held back from the world, a private time, an uninterrupted communion between you and the soap and the ...

Wait a moment.

That's not water.

It doesn't even look like water, much less feel like it; it's silvery goop oozing out of the faucet to coat your hands. The soap slips right off it, and—

Oh god, is it staining your skin?

It absolutely is.

... fuck.


Towel it off and call maintenance, right?

But the sludge won't part from your hands. No matter how hard you try, the towel doesn't pick up even the slightest bit of it, and the thick slime keeps on spreading higher and higher, covering you in a thin silvery layer—

It's almost like a cloudy mirror spreading over your flesh, a faint tingling prickling sensation creeping up your arms; your heart is beating so fast and you feel so hot and there's something right about how wrong this is and, and, and—

It runs out of material just past your elbows, thank god, and the faucet doesn't seem inclined to spit out any more.

So that's ... something, right? Small mercies. Who knows what might have happened if it got into your eyes, or your throat, or ...

The shower's dripping again.

It's so easy to yank open the curtain. The motion feels natural in a way that you're sure it didn't before, a way that it shouldn't, a sudden burst of metal chiming on metal to reveal the tiny space behind, the unscrubbed tiles and filthy little window ...

As you watch a droplet of silver slithers out of the showerhead and plops down onto the shower's floor; a beautiful little thing dripping down to join a gooey, oozing pool that would have long since spilled out of the shower onto the bathroom's floor if it weren't so viscous.

It almost looks like it's reaching out to you, little bubbling tendrils trying to grab your hands and welcome you in—

“Oh my god, fuck this,” you mumble to yourself as you stumble out of the bathroom. “What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—”

Maintenance doesn't answer your call, which isn't too surprising. Half the building must be having the same issue, right? All the pipes are connected, and ...

No one in the building's groupchat replies, but that's also to be expected. Even you keep it muted most of the time.

Maybe this calls for more than that, though? Like. Maybe even knocking on one of your neighbor's doors? There's the cute enby down the hall, and that one buff student you have an unreasonable crush on, and ...

Your feet don't make a sound as you creep along the carpeted hall.

Neither of them answer.

You can tell they're each there, their panting breathes are clearly audible behind their doors, but ...

God, you can't just wait until they're done, right? Standing outside listening would be so fucking creepy. It's fucked up that part of you wants to.

So back you go to your little apartment and your fucked up shower and whatever's clogging the bathroom sink.

Maybe ...

Maybe you can just deal with it tomorrow?

Relax a bit, get high, try to chill out. It can wait. It's ... it's fine. Right?

Your silvery hands don't tremble one bit as you light up, and the setting sun soaks the view from your window in golden honey as you blow the smoke outside. It's nice.

Even the way the sunset shimmers on your arms is beautiful; suddenly so much less distressing, suddenly—

You really do feel so warm and languid. Everything feels right, just the way it should, even though part of you screams that it's not, that you should be freaked out, that you should Do Something.

But what would you do?

Even that panicking part of you can't think of anything.

And it feels so very nice to just relax on the floor, to watch the sunset and let your hands wander across your body. Every touch feels so good, so soft and smooth and slick, like the silver coating your hands is just an oddly colored lube—

It's so, so good.

Every touch sends warmth rippling out through your body, each bit of sensation makes your mind a bit hazier and warmer and softer, and it's not long before you're panting and gasping in a perfect reflection of all those wonderful little sounds you heard your neighbors making—

You're spasming on the floor, back contorted and toes drawn tight, when you notice the way your crotch has started to shift and squish beneath your hands, the way every stroke and curl and shuddering flutter seem to shift that shape which you're so used to feeling.

The path from that realization to finally looking down is a long one, full of distraction and confusion. You didn't mean to get quite this high, but so it goes, right? And it really does feel so very good ...

There's silver coating your crotch.

A thin, faintly splotchy layer, migrating from your hands, drawn by the moist heat; the start of something more, of something different, of a body that you don't need to be high to touch, a body you could truly inhabit—

But there's not enough, something whispers in your mind. You need more.

More of that strange silvery goo; more of the spreading ooze that coated your arms so wonderfully, the strange gift oozing out of the pipes ...

And you know just where to find it.