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the-anxious-youth · 7 months

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Bubbles

Pairing: Buggy x gender neutral!Reader

Summary: While he's being held captive by the Straw Hats, Buggy won't shut up, which gives you an idea.

Warnings: none, this is all fluff, some mentions of insecurities from Buggy but nothing too angsty

Word Count: 4.2k

Author's note: This idea came to me while I was daydreaming the other day, and I just had to write it down. This is based off of the live-action Buggy, although I am only on the second episode so it may not be canon-accurate. Also, he has long hair in this cause I said so (begging to see Jeff Ward with long hair next season). Hope y'all enjoy and let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! There will be a part 2, don’t worry <3 (The banners are from cafekitsune)

Edit: part two is up!

“So now what?”

The collection of Luffy, Zoro, Usopp, Sanji, and yourself stood in a circle, discussing what to do with a certain clown pirate’s head. Usopp is the first to speak up after Luffy asked the question.

“Well, we can’t leave him unsupervised; who knows what he’d get up to.” Everyone turned to look at Buggy’s detached head, which wore a cheeky look, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I vote Y/N to take care of it,” Zoro states blankly, crossing his arms as he speaks.

“Hey! I’m still a person, even without the body, so don’t refer to me as it!” The objection comes from the animated head, vexation seeping through his tone. Your mouth momentarily twitches upward at his little outburst, it was almost reminiscent of a kitten hissing after unwanted pets.

“Why do I have to babysit him?” You turn to Zoro, matching his apprehensive stance. He meets your gaze with a cold look. You hadn’t been a part of the straw hat crew for long, and Zoro was taking his sweet time warming up to you.

“Because you’re the newest here, and that’s how hierarchy works.”

His tone left no room for argument. Your shoulders slump, and you let out an irritated sigh, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance.

“Fine.” Rolling your eyes, you walk over to pick up Buggy, making sure to be gentle. The clown winks at you, a flirty smile on his face. You take him back to your cabin, not wanting to risk accidentally dropping him overboard. Despite only being a head, a smug aura radiates around him, already planning ways to mess with you.

You reach your cabin and kick the door open with your foot. Being the newest member of the straw hat crew, you were given the smallest room, not that you really minded. You place Buggy down on your bed, moving to sit at the small desk in the corner of the room.

“So what are we going to do first, darling?” Buggy smirks as he talks, clearly trying to get under your skin.

“We? There is no we. You’ll sit there quietly while I go over these maps.” You bark, not even bothering to spare him a glance.

“Aww, but where’s the fun in that?” You can hear the tease in his tone and can tell that he’s grinning without having to look at him.

“You’re not here to have fun. You’re being held captive, remember?” Smoothing your fingers out over the maps, you tilt your head, trying to focus.

“Yes, but who says captivity can’t be enjoyable?” His question shocks you, and you turn to gaze at him with an unamused look. Realizing that he’s completely serious, you let out a scoff.

“You really are crazy, clown.”

He smiles smugly, not bothered by your comment.

“It’s more fun that way.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to the maps, choosing to pretend he’s not there. ‘He must really like the sound of his own voice’, you think to yourself. The clown continues to talk your ear off, but after a while, you’re able to tune him out. Before long, you’ve analyzed all the maps. Turning back to him with a curious look, you realize he’s gotten to the end of some story you couldn’t care to listen to.

“And that’s why you don’t fall asleep on the beach.” Buggy smiles at you, enjoying your annoyance, watching you tilt your head at him.

“Cat got your tongue?” He purrs. Rolling your eyes, an idea pops into your head.

“Hey… I think I know how to get you to be quiet.” A sly smirk crawls its way across your face, and the clown’s chipper mood falters.

“Oh yeah? What might that be?” He tries to keep his confident demeanor, but the look on your face scares him.

You nibble on your bottom lip without responding before walking over to him and picking him up. This immediately wipes the smirk off his face, and he looks up at you, suddenly concerned for his safety.

“Hey now, what are you doing?” He asks nervously, secretly afraid you’ll throw him overboard for talking so much. You place him on top of your desk and move to grab the empty basin in the corner of the room.

“I’m giving you a bath,” you shrug nonchalantly, a cheeky smile on your face. He pales at that and laughs nervously.

“Wait, what do you mean? Are you going to waterboard me or something?” The look on the clown shows that he thinks it’s a real possibility, which causes you to chuckle.

“No, I’m just going to give you a bath; you smell like you could use one.” He just stares at you silently, quickly dropping his playful persona.

“What, cat got your tongue?” You mock him, and he gulps quietly. The fear in his eyes is quite amusing, you admit to yourself.

“You mean you’re literally going to bathe me?” A confused look crosses him, all the confidence in his voice gone.

“Yes.” You nod. “You look like you haven’t showered in weeks. Besides, now I’ll finally get some peace and quiet.” A smirk crawls across your visage, enjoying seeing the trickster squirm. It wasn’t often the clown had the tables turned on him, and he definitely didn’t expect it coming from you.

“Now, wait a minute, I can be quiet without that.” He looks up at you worriedly, the idea of a bath visibly rattling him.

“But I thought you wanted to have fun?” Your smirk widens and you put a hand on your hip.

“Okay, I take it back. I’ll be good, I swear.” A nervous laugh emerges as he tries to break the tension.

“Too late.” His face drops, triggering a small chuckle from you.

“Oh, relax, will you? I’m technically doing you a favor.” This time, a genuine smile graces your face, which does nothing to calm his nerves. “Now stay.” You put your hand up as if you were talking to a canine, to which Buggy rolls his eyes, your other hand holding the metal basin.

“I’m not a dog,” he mutters softly, not having the courage to stand up to you entirely.

You leer at him, opening the door to leave before shutting it behind you. Sitting there quietly, Buggy questions how he even got here. Not before long, you return, the bucket full of warm water. You place it on the ground, grab the towel off your shoulder, fold it, and lay it on the bed.

“You’re serious?” He says quietly, watching you semi-curiously, shocked that you weren’t kidding. You hum softly and nod your head.

“I am.” Looking up at him, you can see the fear on his features, and your eyes soften a bit. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

He eyes you suspiciously, not sure whether or not to believe your words. Grabbing a small pouch, you pull out a bar of soap and a small bottle, which Buggy assumes is shampoo. Lastly, you grab a small wooden board and place it over the center of the tub.

“So you don’t drown,” you utter, his question practically visible on his face. He nods slowly in response, having a hard time believing the situation.

“I’ll have to take this off,” you gesture to his bandana and he bows his head in agreement, deciding not to fight it as you seem pretty determined. Gently removing the striped cloth, you fold it nicely and place it on the other side of the desk. Secondly, you remove the hair tie that kept his bright blue mane in a ponytail. Buggy watches you silently, interested in your next move. Softly grabbing the sides of his head, you place him on the wooden board that lies across the center of the tub.

“I’m going to wash your hair first, okay?”

He nods in response, curious eyes never leaving your face. You grab a small cup and fill it with warm water, asking him to lean his head backward so it doesn’t get in his eyes. The clown does as you say, though instead of closing his eyes, he keeps them glued on you, not trusting that you won’t dunk him in the water. You gently pour the water over his hair, moving your other hand to shield his eyes as he seems to want to keep them open. The usually talkative clown stays silent, not wanting to admit to himself that the warm water feels quite pleasant.

“When was the last time you actually washed your hair?”

He raises an eyebrow at your question, pondering it momentarily before replying.

“I, uh, I’m not sure.” A nervous chuckle escapes his lips, expecting you to laugh at him. Instead, you smile gently and continue pouring water onto his hair.

“I can tell.” The words contain no malice as you utter them, merely expressing an observation. Seeing that his hair was now thoroughly damp, you grab the small bottle of shampoo, pouring some out into one hand. Rubbing your hands together to form some bubbles, you move to start massaging the soap onto Buggy’s head.

“Were you born with this?” You ask curiously, referring to the cerulean color of his tresses. He raises his eyebrow at you, not expecting the question.

“I was.” Nodding as he speaks, his eyes continue to analyze your face as if you were a puzzle he was trying to solve. You smile at him, continuing to lather the shampoo into his hair.

“It’s pretty. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Your words are soft, making sure that his whole scalp is covered in suds. He scoffs at this, thinking that you’re making fun of him. Momentarily pausing your movements, you lower your gaze to meet his eyes, finding insecurity dancing through them.

“I’m being serious. I wish I had brightly colored hair, maybe purple or something. Guess I wasn’t so lucky.” Going back to massaging his scalp, he looks up at you, utterly flabbergasted.

“You really think so?” He asks softly, timidity laced through his tone. You nod in response, a gentle smile on your face. Humming softly, the clown takes in the new information, wondering what else you think about him. He didn’t want to admit it, but the way your fingers carefully danced across his head felt incredible, not being able to remember the last time someone treated him so gently.

Reasoning that his hair was thoroughly soapy, you dunk your hands in the warm water to get rid of the remaining suds and quickly dry them with a towel. Subsequently grabbing the cup, you fill it with water and begin to wash the shampoo out of his hair. He stares at you all the while as if he is trying to commit your face to memory. After all the soap is washed out, you squeeze the ends of his hair to rid it of any excess water and grab a towel to wrap around his head. Leaning back to get a good look at him, you smile, finding his curious expression cute.

“Now for the face,” you utter, moving to grab a fresh towel and the bar of soap.

“Wait a second, you’re going to wash my face too?” asks Buggy, his timbre uneasy. You nod in response, replying in a steady tone.

“You’ve been wearing the makeup for so long that it’s partially gone.” Smiling at him softly, not expecting him to be so nervous. He laughs bitterly, not an ounce of humor in his voice.

“Can… can you just leave it?” His question is soft, and your surprise is visible on your face.

“You do know that leaving makeup on for too long is bad for your skin right?” You quip, trying to lighten his mood. Letting out a shaky breath, he shakes his head softly, and you can tell he doesn’t know what to say. Your smile drops, and you watch him for a moment, figuring out what to do next. His face paint seems to be a sensitive topic, and you don't want to push him too far.

“How about this,” you start, a kind smile returning to your face, “If you let me wash off this old makeup, I’ll redo it for you so it’s nice and fresh.” Sitting across from him calmly, you try to give off a safe and non-threatening aura to make him feel more comfortable around you. He stares at you for a moment, astonished that you would offer such a thing. You stay silent, patiently waiting for a response.

“You’d do that for me?” he asks after a moment, the surprise in his voice evident. You nod, making sure to maintain the soft smile on your face. “You’re in luck because I just got some new face paints.” Leaning over to open the drawer of your desk, you pull out a palette with every color of the rainbow on it and some clean brushes, holding them up so he could see. He tilts his head in response, trying to discern whether or not you were serious. After what feels like forever, he finally returns your smile and nods.

“Deal. Can you make it match how it normally looks?” He looks up at you with a soft smile, secretly hoping that you’ll do a decent job.

“Of course.” Grinning, you grab the towel and soap, excited that he’s letting you do this. You wet the soap bar, rubbing it between your hands to generate some bubbles, and gently start the wash the old makeup off his face. The clown continues to stare at you, though his energy is much more relaxed than before.

“You’re really pretty,” he comments after a moment, causing your hands to falter. Feeling the heat rise to your face, you smile, taking a moment to meet his gaze.

“You’re pretty too,” you mutter softly. Now that his face is mostly clean, you see a light blush begin to form on his cheeks.

“I’m nowhere near as pretty as you.” The confidence is back in his voice, and he winks at you flirtily. You can help breaking out into a smile, choosing not to say anything in response. He watches you quietly as you wash the soap off of his face. Unbeknownst to you, Buggy never let anyone see him without makeup, but something about you told him that he could trust you. He’d also be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy the view of your face being so close to his.

“Now for the fun part.” Grabbing the palette with one hand and a brush with another, you grin at him, excited to replicate his face paint. Truth be told, you loved doing makeup, but the only person who would let you do it was Luffy. There was one time Nami let you do hers, but it was after everyone else went to bed and she wiped it off immediately after. Your smile faltered at the thought of the orange-haired girl, and you remembered why Buggy was with your crew in the first place. The clown immediately noticed and looked up at you inquisitively.

“You okay?” He asks softly, already missing your smile. You nod and debate on telling him the truth, ultimately deciding that you should.

“I’m just thinking about Nami.” You force a smile back on your face, but Buggy can tell it’s not real.

“That’s the girl Arlong took, right? Fiery personality with hair to match?” He asks, and the description of her causes a genuine smile to come across your face. You nod softly.

“That’s the one.” Staring at him with interest, you wonder if he’ll tell you Arling’s location since he clearly knows it.

“We both know I know where they are, and truth be told I had no intention of telling any of you, but something about you is special.” Your eyes widen at his words, was he really going to give it up that easily?

“He’s at Arlong Park, and I’ll bet she’s with him. I’ll take you there, as a thank you for all this.” You beam at him, ecstatic at the thought of saving Nami. It’s at that moment when Buggy decides your smile is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You rush out, your excitement getting the best of you. He chuckles at your enthusiasm and nods, a smile on his face as well.

“Now be quiet so I can do your makeup,” you say cheekily, dipping the brush into the white knowing that it’s the base for his signature look. He laughs in response but has one last thing to say.

“Do you need me to tell you how to do it?” He looks at you as you shake your head, your smile still prevalent.

“I’ve seen so many of your bounty posters, I’ve practically got it memorized.” His eyes widen at this, and his grin gets bigger.

“Oh, do I have myself a secret admirer?” The clown asks smugly, and he notices the blush that falls upon your face. If he knew it was so easy to make you flustered, he would have done it far sooner, finding you absolutely adorable.

“Shut up and let me work.” You bark, your tone not holding any aggression. He laughs again but does as you say, and you begin to paint his face white. For once, he remains silent, watching you work. Before long, the base is done and you move on to the blue triangles above and below his eyes. You stay silent as your brush runs along his face, wanting to make it look perfect until a thought comes into your head.

“You know something?” He hums, prompting you to continue. “You have the most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen.” Said eyes widen, never having been told that before. Buggy silently thanks the universe for the makeup covering his face because he can feel the heavy blush rising to his cheeks.

“Th-thanks,” he mutters quietly, not sure how to respond. You tilt your head at him, curiously studying his face.

“You’re not used to receiving compliments, are you?” Smiling at him softly, you watch as he shakes his head, letting out a nervous laugh.

“Usually I’m the one giving the compliments.” He looks up to meet your gaze, partially expecting you to laugh at him. You do nothing of the sort, instead smiling at him gently.

“Well, that’s a shame because I think you’re pretty handsome.” You wink at him, wanting to make him feel more comfortable since flirting seems to be one of his pastimes. His eyes widen again, the surprise written all over his face. Without saying anything else, you finish the blue around his eyes and move on to the red, cleaning the brush and dipping it into the face paint. The clown stays silent as you work on the red smile around his mouth, internally wondering if you meant what you said. When you get to his nose, he tenses up, a clear indicator that he’s insecure about it. You make sure to be extra careful as you paint the red onto his skin.

“I meant what I said, I do find you quite attractive.” His eyes search yours for any hint of insincerity but find none. The king of flirting himself is stunned into silence, feeling his heart flutter at your words. You say nothing else and go back to finishing the makeup. Deciding to observe your face while he had the opportunity, he notices that you stick your tongue out slightly when concentrated, and he swears he’s never seen anything cuter.

“All done!” You pull away proudly, assessing your work. It looks almost identical to his bounty picture, and you internally pat yourself on the back for your memory. Getting up to grab a mirror, you find one in the small dresser and bring it towards Buggy, holding it up so he can see his reflection. He looks in the mirror and instantly grins, impressed with your makeup skills.

“You know, you would be a wonderful addition to my crew.” You chuckle in response, not thinking that he’s being serious.

“You need a professional makeup artist?” You joke, internally glad he thinks you did a good job.

“No really, we could use someone like you.” His proposal shocks you, not expecting him to say something like that.

“You don’t know me,” you speak quietly. He just smiles at you, taking in your beauty.

“I know enough. You’re kind, funny, and great at makeup.” The clown winks at you, enjoying the surprise on your face. “I’ve also heard you are quite the fighter.” Smirking at you, he gives you a look that tells you he means what he says. You just stare at him in silence, having a hard time believing your ears.

“So, sweetness, what do you say?” Gaping at him, you blink a few times, processing his offer. After a moment, you sigh, indecision written all over your features.

“I don't know, I’d have to leave the straw hats, and I’m not sure I could do that.” Surprisingly, his face softens at your words.

“Tell you what, let’s head off to save your friend and find my body, and then you can decide.” His smile remains soft, which is unusual for the clown. “I don’t think your current crew appreciates you. I mean, look at today, they gave you the task of babysitting me when you have so much more to offer.” Eyes widening at his words, you realize that maybe he’s right.

“Luffy appreciates me,” you whisper softly, though you’re not sure whether you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

“He might, but grass head certainly doesn’t.” You want to smirk at the nickname for Zoro, but there’s too much going on in your mind for your facial muscles to pull through.

“All I’m going to say is this, you’d have a real place in my crew, and not just on the bottom of the totem pole. Besides, I think you like my company just as much as I like yours.” He gazes at you, studying your body language, and you realize that he’s right, you do enjoy his company. You start nibbling on your lip out of nervous habit, and he picks up on it immediately.

“You don’t have to decide now, we can go rescue your friend first, okay?” He watches your shoulders visibly relax at that, and smiles in return.

“Okay.” You say softly, smiling back at him. “Your hair should be dry now.” Moving closer, you carefully take the towel off his head and giggle at the fluffy blue mess.

“Thank the stars I have a brush.” Buggy chuckles at the comment and watches you grab the hairbrush with a smile on his face. Softly working through the tangles, you watch as his hair goes from frizzy to smooth. As you’re running the brush through his mane one last time, the door opens, revealing a shocked and somewhat appalled Zoro.

“What the hell is going on in here?!” Yells the swordsman, and you turn to him with a confused look.

“Well, you told me to watch him so I did.” You shrug, not liking the attitude coming from your crewmate.

“I said watch him, not give him a makeover! Did you do his makeup too?” The horrified look on Zoro’s face made Buggy laugh, not used to seeing the man lose his cool.

“You guys never let me do your makeup, so I had to improvise!” You bark back, crossing your arms. Zoro just stares at you silently, clearly having difficulty processing your kindness towards the clown. After a while, he rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“Whatever. Luffy needs him so we can find out where Nami is.” He mirrors your stance, crossing his arms.

“I already know where she is,” you spit, growing tired of the way he speaks to you. The swordsman scoffs, not believing you for a second.

“Oh, really? How?” A faux smile creeps onto his face, prepared to catch you in a lie.

“Because Buggy told me.” Zoro’s face drops and the man is stunned into silence. The clown immediately bursts into laughter, enjoying Zoro’s dumbfounded look. The green-haired man gawks for a moment, before moving his hands around, silently asking the question ‘how’.

“Because they’re nice and you’re an asshole,” Buggy says smugly, and you can tell he’d be crossing his arms if he had the rest of his body. You break out into a soft chuckle at this, which snaps Zoro out of his trance.

“I’m not explaining this to Luffy, so you better take the head and go find him.” The swordsman scoffs again before leaving the room, shaking his head the whole time. Rolling your eyes, you move back toward the clown, mumbling to yourself while putting his hair back in a ponytail.

“Don’t let him get to you, he won’t know what he has until it’s gone.” Buggy’s cheeky grin triggers your own, and you laugh softly, gently picking him up to go find Luffy.

©️ the-anxious-youth, 2023

Please do not replicate/repost :)

#my writing #buggy the clown #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x reader #buggy #one piece #one piece x reader #buggy one piece #op buggy #op buggy x reader #buggy fanfiction #buggy fanfic #buggy the genius jester #buggy one piece x reader

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recuira · 7 months

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Buggy Headcanons ˗ˏˋ꒰🍒꒱ˎˊ˗

★ — OPLA Buggy the Clown ♡

﹢he's the type of guy to follow the "i hate everyone but you" trope. the second he sees you, his heart lights up and he drops everything he's doing to go talk to you, even just for a moment. he could be heated, yelling at his crew, but when he sees you, he smiles and drops everything until you leave.

﹢he's a sucker for cuddles. absolutely loves them. if he's had a long and stressful day, he'll just fall on top of you and pass out. he loves to lay on you. his head on your chest as he rub his back or play with his hair. he definitely snores. not too loud but not quiet either. sometimes it'll get loud and you'll need to wake him up to get some decent sleep x)

﹢both a morning/night person. he goes to bed late and wakes up early. he doesn't get too much sleep because of how busy he is. sometimes the only time he gets with you is when you're both in me. if he's not deathly tired, he'll lay on his side with his head propped up on his hand as he listens to you talk about your day. your voice soothes him.

﹢he's very insecure. lowkey hates himself. his ego is forced and a facade for others so he can intimidate them. he hates his nose. he hates the subject being brought up in any conversation. when he was younger, before meeting shanks, he would wear a mask to hide his nose.

﹢i know everyone is like "buggy is a sex god and dominant and-" no. sorry. he is extremely insecure. it took him a while to show you who he really was. he lets himself unfold with you. he is himself with you. his true self.

﹢the crossbones on his forehead and upper cheek are tattooed on but he paints his face with makeup. his eyelashes are naturally long but he does wear falsies to accentuate it and make himself look more like a clown. his hair is naturally long but he tends to tuck and pin it back underneath the striped bandana.

﹢he likes things to be equal during sex. no top or bottom. as cringe as it may sound, he loves to call it 'love-making'. no fucking or hooking up - rather making love with one another. he worships you, especially in the bedroom. constant kisses and praise. loves doing all of the work, especially if you're stressed out. his favorite position is when you're both laying down on your sides and your holding each other while he makes love to you.

﹢he's a strict believer in taking care of you. pays for meals, surprises you with presents, doesn't want you working- he wants you to be completely comfortable and satisfied. someone as special like you should never even lift a finger. he has it all covered.

﹢loves to let you do his makeup. sometimes he'll be reading the newspaper while you're painting his eyes or lips. it's like he's an actor and you're his makeup artist. he can never get the lines as precise and as neat as you can. once you're finished, he gives you a kiss on your cheek, leaving a red mark. this happens every time.

﹢he's a goofy drunk, very humorous and silly. but as he sobers up, he becomes extremely clingy and doesn't let go of you.

﹢in the public eye, he acts very possessive of you, like he's the one in control. he always needs to be touching you. if you're apart, he'll send a hand your way and hold yours while he's busy. preferably his off-hand so he can still get some work done.

﹢people are scared of him for obvious reasons but when it's just the two of you, he's a big baby. sometimes he'll even use a certain voice whenever he talks to you. you tease him in public, telling others he's a completely different person when you two are alone. he laughs, calls you crazy, and plays it off.

﹢he loves no one more than he loves you.

﹢whenever he performs a show, he always gets you a seat up front. makes sure you can kick your feet up, your popcorn is always full, and you're enjoying yourself. whenever he pulls someone up on the set to help with one of his acts, you're almost always the person he picks.

﹢his favorite moments with you are when you're sitting on the deck of his ship, everyone else is asleep, and the two of you are counting the stars together and admiring one another.

﹢he loves to eat. if you two are eating together, he'll ask for the rest of yours and then some. messy eater, too.

﹢he's a great listener. loves to hear about your day.

﹢he loves to give you massages. just loves to pamper you, in general. your feet will be kicked up on his lap as he rubs them and you vent about your day or your laying on your back and he's above you, massaging your shoulders and hips.

﹢he just loves you. and he is a sweet and delicate man so treat him like one. he's the type of guy to sacrifice the world for you, not you for the world.

#buggy one piece #buggy the genius jester #captain buggy #buggy the clown #one piece live action #op buggy #x reader #buggy #buggy x reader #buggy smut #one piece buggy #opla buggy #buggy headcanons #buggy opla

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chrollohearttags · 4 months

Note

AU where y/n and producer eren were very much high school sweet hearts, then years later deciding to take their relationship to the next level as in losing their virginity 🙃

ANONNN, why’d you do me like thissss?? This is genius 😫 not even to spoil but this was literally the alternate plot line to reverb LSLFKFJ. Ugh this is just too damn cute so ofc imma talk about it.

content + themes: both reader and eren are virgins, reverb spoilers, lots of sweet stuff, bc I can’t handle angst rn, gentle sex/smut, accidental cream pie, this is SUPERRRRR long bc y’all know I love detail and got 20,000 pages of lore for these two!! Smut is at the end so if ya’ll can’t wait, I’m sorry.

eren left home at what would be considered incredibly young by most standards. At fifteen years old, he found himself frequenting the mall and playing basketball down at the local park in the suburbia of Montclair, New Jersey to being thrust into the fast paced lifestyle of Miami, Florida. The harsh, crime ridden town known as Opa Locka to be exact. A complete contrast by a long shot. Even so, with spite and determination on his heart; fueled only by his desire to win this illustrious battle called the rap game, he toughed it out and persevered. Not only that, to rid himself of the toxic past that had scarred him and a family who betrayed him. Make no mistake, his ‘privileged’ upbringing was nothing more than a mere experience and not a part of his identity. He never tried to pretend that he was ‘hard’ or tough, no need for a facade, he was simply Eren and that was all it took. He also never viewed anyone as different or beneath him because of how he grew up. Most of his friends back home came from very humble beginnings and had less than savory lifestyles. It wasn’t something he did for shock value or to piss of his parents. He just always had a knack for befriending others who may have been cast aside or forgotten about because he knew the feeling quite well. So it came as no surprise when he enrolled in the local high school to finish out his last couple years, he was a rarity in these parts…looking and acting completely different from everyone else. But it didn’t take long for the green eyed brunette with the buttery smooth voice and oblivious charm to assimilate.

“Wassup, EJ?” “Hey, EJ!”

from the classroom to the hallways, he was greeted by his fellow student body, who at first, saw him as an easy target. Alluding to the fact that he must’ve been some rich boy stuck in the middle of the hood to be “taught a lesson” or something of the sort. That it wouldn’t be two weeks because he was tucking tail and getting his ass back on the first bus to Jersey. Little did they know, he was the last person to back down and damn sure the last one to run from anyone! During gym class, there was a scrimmage basketball game, nothing too serious or exerting, just a little fun competition. It was then that not only did Eren catch the eye of the boy’s team head coach and that of (y/n) (l/n). Who had been discreetly seated against the wall after running two miles. You had been quietly observing the game and having grown up around tremendous players; spending afternoons down at the Boys and Girls Club..you recognized talent from a mile away. That also could’ve been attributed to the fact that you were the current co-captain of the majorette team, where you danced during games. Even so, you always stayed to yourself. Never really clinging to one group or another, truthfully only talking to your best friend. Your head in a book and studying was your only focus. That much was apparent by your four point two grade point average. Nonetheless, this new boy couldn’t help but to grab your attention. It was unfortunately for that reason, that his opponents once the game ended, would use that to his advantage.

not exactly keen on the idea of having somebody like him strutting around..besting them in a sport they’d always exceeded at and intriguing the girls who never even so much as paid them attention, they were pissed! So as anyone with stunted emotional maturity would, they decided to try and ambush the new student in the locker room. Granted, he was a little smaller and had just hit six foot one inches. He was fairly tall but still lanky and skinny. So he’d have his work cut out for him. Unsuspecting of the attack, he chopped it up with classmates and laughed on his way back. But not without flashing you a glance first. That ultimately made your heart flutter a little..you didn’t pay attention to boys often and had many speculating that you were possibly gay but no one had ever roused your fancy. In a way, you envied him. As someone from the proverbial ‘other side of the tracks’, who was different from you all in any facet was fitting in just fine! Quickly becoming the talk of the school. Meanwhile, you were a lifelong resident of this city and yet, you never drew any attention on yourself. Outside of your impeccable dancing. Hell, everyone always referred to you as ‘the quiet girl’. A moniker that you were proudly..the less you spoke, the less trouble you could find yourself in.

however, that peaceful life would come to an end when you’d walk towards the girls locker room and find yourself stopped by the gaggle of guys who were planning their ambush for after school whilst he was walking home. They figured he’d be an easy lick but they couldn’t be too relaxed. He mystified them all..acting completely oblivious to his environment, never behaving differently; talking exactly the same and all or even seeming afraid. He was the same person regardless of where he went. So that’s when they’d try to enlist your help. “Aye, (y/n). Lemme talk to you right quick..” waving you over and although you were about to ignore him, you accepted anyway. A tall dread head with a bottom row of golds gleaming from his mouth. Something he wasn’t supposed to have but did anyways. “I seen you looking at jit earlier, you like white boy, don’t you?” Immediately feigning any sort of confirmation. Acting uninterested as always. “That’s what you called me over here for? I gotta go change—“ but before you could coldly turn on your heel, he’d grab your shoulder and request a ‘simple’ favor:

“Help us set his ass up. He ain’t been here a whole month and already actin’ like he run this shit. We’ll even give you a cut.” but again, you didn’t care! Him or any of their petty jealousy was none of your concern. That boy hadn’t said the first word to you or even bothered you in the slightest. The hell did you look like conspiring with these dumbasses to not only bully him but to tarnish your hard work? Smacking your lips, you’d merely brush his hand away and continue to walk by. “As my granny says, you can’t get blood from a turnip. If you wanna risk jail for some stupid shit, do it by yourself. I’m not interested.” truthfully, Eren was no more wealthy than anybody here. Working odd jobs after school and rooming at a boys home on the southside. Hell, he could barely even afford lunch sometimes!

but alas, this only seemed to enrage your peers. See, the ring leader was the current basketball team captain and a shoe-in for first draft to a top college once he graduated. However, there was another side of him..a hothead with a bit of a past. Selling drugs and hanging with bad crowds..a mere product of the environment. But basketball was his ticket out. Hence was, considering that he stayed in trouble, grades were a wreck and he had a bad reputation. It was his exceptional skill that was keeping him in his spot and that alone. The coach overlooked a lot of his antics just to have a star player. Nothing new. However, with Eren on the scene, his position was threatened. Contrary to his belief, it had less to do with his skin and the fact that he was a better player with less of a headache! He had better grades, better manners and a lot more skill. Teachers constantly complained to the coach to kick him off the team so he could focus on his academic studies. Several calls were made home with no answer from parents..it was a crazy situation. Even so, it was no excuse for his behavior. Almost everyone here came from hard circumstances, he just loved acting this way!..especially when it came to preying on the weaker..

“Oh I see, you gon’ take his side but not mine? You green as hell, (y/n). Some ol’ weird ass shit, bruh. You really not tryna’ help me?…” even getting closer, despite your pushback. “Darius, imma tell you one more time. Leave me alone. Ion want no parts of this. It’s not my business.” But before you could do anything else, he’d grab your wrist and pull you back. A cliche if you had ever seen or experienced one. But just as the old time tale went, your knight and shining armor would swoop in to defend your honor.

“I think she said leave her alone.”

a familiar voice, one you hadn’t heard often but enough to recognize. The reason behind this whole ordeal..

“Wasn’t nobody talking to you. Mind your business.” “This is my business. Putting your hands on a girl..I see your sorry ass jump shot ain’t the only thing that’s weak.”

which only pissed him off even further. Long story short, he’d attempt to pick a fight with the ever so sly Eren but to no avail. He wasn’t taking the bait. Not out of fear but because he wasn’t worth the energy. Eren was a bit of a hothead, even admitting so himself. However, he couldn’t afford to screw up right now. Getting into unnecessary fights would only put him in an even worse situation..especially for the people caring for him. He had done that once and wasn’t about to let it happen again. “(Y/N), right? That’s your name?..” answering him with a nod. “Don’t worry about him. You go ahead, beautiful. He won’t do anything..I can promise you that.” Standing toe to toe with the taller bully. His cheeks puffed up and fuming in rage. Meanwhile, Eren wore nothing but a smirk. He could fume all he wanted but as long as he didn’t put his hands on him. If he took it there, then he’d be glad to show him why trying him wasn’t wise..

luckily, the coach noticed the bubbling scuffle and told them to break it up. Fast forward a few days, give or take and you’d see Eren around campus. Always carrying a pair of headphones and a notebook. Two things he’d never be caught without. One thing was for sure, he was an intriguing dude for sure..you’d eventually find yourselves paired up for a project and needless to say, you were incredibly nervous. Mainly because neither of you had spoken since that day in the gym. It wasn’t for a lack of you being thankful, you just didn’t know what to say. That was until you were in the library doing research together and you’d blurt out your gratitude, along with your apology. Which made him laugh! “What are you thanking me for? He only did that because of me. If anything I should apologize to you.” He was so respectful and bashful, qualities you truly admired. Although he remained shrouded in mystery, he was fascinating and you wanted to know more about him and turns out, you’d learn a pretty interesting tidbit of information! “You have a point. I mean, are you really planning to take his spot as captain though—“ which only further fueled his hysterics. He’d double over laughing and all you could do was give him a look of confusion. “Why are you laughing? I ain’t that funny.” “I’m sorry. I just..listen, I don’t know what you were told but I don’t want his spot. Basketball’s fun, it’s sum’ to do but I already know what I want.” And his answer would shock you, truly. See, Eren had always had an affinity for music. Singing, playing all sorts of instruments since he was a little kid and recently, he’d taken to writing his own songs. That infamous notebook he carried? Filled with poems and songs about everything from basic lines to his deepest emotions. Spilling his heart onto the page as he talked about his family, his anger towards his father and even the loss of someone he held dear to him. Sometimes, they weren’t about him at all..they were just vivid portrayals of elusive tales. He obviously had quite the story to tell but he couldn’t do it or even have the time shooting balls into a hoop. He told the coach he’d consider but his true goal?

“You wanna be the drum major?!” “Yeah, why not? I mean, I know it’s prolly lame but it’s one of my favorite instruments. It was the first one I learned..to me, the drum line is the highlight of the game. They make it entertaining.”

but little did he know, he had piqued your interest for sure! You were so flustered you tried to feign it off but he was too freaking cute! Here you were expecting this athletic, cocky playboy who only cared about girls and being popular but he was so much more than you expected! A nerd just like you. And you knew so for the fact that you’d never held a conversation with a man longer than to give them the answer to a question or let them borrow a textbook. He was so captivating. But perhaps, getting to do incredible solos at halftime wasn’t his only motivation to join the school music program. He had other reasons as well..

“Besides..I would actually get to see you perform. I call it a win.” Causing you to scoff, dismissing his seemingly perverted comments.. “Oh, so you just like everybody else.” but the tension was misplaced. He admired your craft and respected it. Seeing you doing your moves while walking past the gym on his way home, how hard you worked and just overall how graceful you looked. Not to mention, you were drop dead gorgeous! The prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on.. “..I seen you practicing the other day and you’re really good, (y/n). You’re completely different when you’re dancing. You seem really happy..I mean, you make the dance team from my school back home look like stiff ass robots.” Earning his first giggle out of you. From that day forward, a beautiful friendship blossomed..studying together, eating lunch in the library, walking home with you as his group home wasn’t far away, sneaking into the chorus room so you could hear him playing the piano and singing. A privilege reserved strictly for you. Making you sob when you heard his rendition of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Ribbon In The Sky.’ He was so kind, sweet and it didn’t take long before rumors of you guys dating began to permeate through the school. Hallway whispers of you ‘going with that new boy’. It was all the rave. It didn’t help matters any when at the mention of each other’s names, you’d both freeze up like popsicles! It was adorable, really. A budding crush that would soon bloom into something far more than just a platonic bond. After about six months into his arrival at your school, Eren had undoubtedly made a name for himself for not only his basketball skills but his musical ones as well. He had made good on his promise to join the band and make his first step toward becoming drum major. Because the band and majorette team often performed together, you’d be together at practice also and eventually, became inseparable. Flashing you smiles and watching intently while you performed your solos. Him joining proved to be a great addition to an already powerful band because he was so talented and kept up quite nice. In no time flat, he mastered the quads and studied underneath the current drum major, playing at games. Even when he decided to cave and accept the offer to join the basketball team, he had the pleasure of seeing you dance during intermission and even greeting him after the game with a giant hug. You in your shimmering leotard and him in his drenched basketball uniform.. number nineteen printed on the back.

“You looked good out there, princess.” A name he affectionately called you because your team’s competitive name were the Crowned Royalty as your school mascot were knights. And because you often times outshined the reigning captain, you were dubbed “The Princess.” Besides, it sounded so much better coming from him. “Nah, that was all you, Mr. Star Player.” It didn’t take long before he’d do the one thing everyone had been waiting on and ask you to be his girlfriend! With encouragement from his teammates and homeboys, Connie Springer and Onyakopon. They too treated you like a little sister, always teasing you and making sure you were good in Eren’s absence. “You one of us so we gotta make sure you good.” They all worked together at a local shoe store and stayed only three houses down from one another so they spent a lot of time together. In addition to their shared passion and talent with music. Granted, neither of you had experience with dating or having many friendships for that matter but it felt so natural when you were around each other. His cheeks flushed with red the entire time he held your hand on the way to class. Your entire body trembling when he kissed your forehead because you were too scared to kiss on the lips at the time. Even sitting next to him and his friends at lunch was an experience. Listening to them freestyle and make beats. Your best friend Niesha, right beside you, teasing you about how cute your man was and how you’d gotten lucky. And all you could do was shake your head. Eventually, all five of you became thick as thieves. Hanging out after school, going roller skating on weekends when practice permitted and just stayed in your own little bubble. You loved it so much. It was the first time you’d ever had a friends’ group, a true support system.

your grandmother and sole caretaker since you were a kid was absolutely thrilled to see it. Although you called her your best friend, she was happy to see you coming home excited to tell her about something besides a book or your report card. As proud as she was of her baby, she wanted you to experience life. Often times, she’d invite all of them over and cook you all large meals that were nothing short of heaven! Repayment for the boys coming by to mow the grass or help with repairs. They were more than thrilled to do it. “My future grandson in law is a nice young man, ain’t he?” A statement you��d brush off with a smack of your lips. “Cut it out, granny. Ain’t even like that.” She adored Eren and when she learned that he could sing, knowing a few gospel songs as well..she all but claimed him now! He was family and you were so glad that he was in your life. A likewise feeling because for once, he felt as if he belonged. One night, while meeting at your usual spot in the park, high on top of a jungle gym where you’d gaze under the stars, you’d ask him one thing:

“You ever thought about what you want to do with your life?”

and to him, that answer was simple. “..I wanna change the world.”

a dream he’d held onto for as long as he could remember. He loved music more than anything and he wanted his to transcend any genre, any one archetype. He wanted what he created to someone’s reason for living, someone’s inspiration to keep going even when things got dark. He wanted it to put smiles on the faces of people who listened..he didn’t care about awards or being some mega celebrity, he just wanted to pour his heart into what he made and hoped somebody heard his passion.

“And I want you right beside me…(y/n). I don’t wanna do any of this without you.” Clutching your hand atop the structure. He had never been this vulnerable or open with anyone in his life but now was a good of time as any to start.. “..I know everybody prolly thinks I’m some spoiled rich kid who left home just to piss off my folks. Honestly, their opinions stopped meaning anything to me a long time ago..my mom, I love her so much and I really do miss her. I hope one day I can step to her as a man and apologize for putting her through so much. Making her worry about me…” as he spoke, you could feel the tension in his hand as he squeezed yours. This was the first time he’d spoke in detail as to why he was alone down here in such a dangerous city when he by all accounts lived lavishly back home. “I just couldn’t stay..not when my own old man is a fucking coward. I know it’s a long shot but at least I can stand on it. Him? He’ll sell his soul for a dollar. I could never be under the same roof as someone like that. I will do this and I’ll prove him wrong. I’ll make a way for myself so I never have to depend on anybody ever again.” You couldn’t help but to feel that you were missing part of the story but maybe it was something far too traumatizing to hash out in detail right now so as you’d always done, you’d support him. Cradling your arms around him with a giant hug before kissing his cheek. “I’ll always be here for you, Eren. I promise. I know you’ll make it and I wanna be right there by your side. I love you.” “I love you too, (y/n).” Words that sounded insane from a teenager but you meant it. Meant it more so than anything you’d ever said! Some people would say you were too young to know what you wanted but you both knew that no matter what path you took, as long as you walked it together, you were unstoppable!

soon, graduation was right around the corner. You two attended prom together, even made homecoming king and queen and by all accounts, had an amazing senior year! You guys turned eighteen only a couple months apart and thus, were thrusted into adulthood. Working here and there to provide for yourselves all while chasing your dreams. You’d gotten accepted into the University of Miami on a dance scholarship and even though it was a huge opportunity..your heart was misplaced. You felt like another cog in the wheel and a moving piece on a machine. You’d love to dance your entire life but you wanted something more than this. Stiff eight counts and bland rehearsals. Something refreshing..that’s when you’d begin taking pole classes outside of school! An idea you came up with after seeing a popular dancer on Instagram and she looked so graceful..surrounded by plants with her beautiful afro as she swung around the pole. She looked so free!…you wanted to experience that joy too. It took no time at all for you to master the craft and just like that, your spark was reinvigorated. By this time, Eren was all but halfway to his own goal after going viral for singing in the store he worked at and still very much an important fixture in your life. He managed to catch the eye of one of the industry’s top executives and legendary musician herself, Vivian James. She was one of your grandmother’s favorites, despite being younger than her. This woman had a powerhouse of a voice and needless to say, Eren’s had her intrigued.

“You did it, ‘ren. I’m so proud of you, baby!”

although he hadn’t quite made it yet it was one hell of a start. It wouldn’t be easy but he was willing to put in every bit of the work it took to succeed. Having you there to encourage him would be all the strength he needed to keep going. But he wanted to support your dreams as well! He never wanted this relationship to be one sided. “What about you, princess? Do you really like dancing for the school? Are you happy?” If anyone could see through the facade, it was your boyfriend of almost three years. He saw how amazing you were when you did pole. It didn’t matter which avenue of dance you took, you excelled but he’d never seen you more happy than when you were twirling midair and doing all these crazy stunts. He wanted you to be safe, of course, but he wanted to find joy in something the way he did. “I just..I don’t want to do what everyone else is doing or what they expect of me. I loved majorette but pole is just so different. I have so much fun.” There it was, a glimmer in your eye that couldn’t be sated when you spoke about it. The rush you felt setter coming down from a death drop. Eventually, you’d go on to quit the dance team, forfeiting your scholarship but your grades alone afforded you many other grants and things so you’d do online classes while working for your uncle’s shop and practicing under his wing. Eventually you found the courage to upload yourself online and it wasn’t long before you reached your own bit of notoriety. Captivating thousands with not only your skills but your stunning looks. Eren always called you princess but honestly, you were like a divine being. A goddess and sometimes, not even he could believe you were real.

before either of you knew it, you were nearing twenty and your dreams were falling into place. It seemed as if the hard times and rainy days both of you had gone through were over. You were so ecstatic when he got his own place, after securing and successfully completing an audition with AMG. The biggest talent agency in the country. Along side his two best friends nonetheless and eventually asked you to move in with him. But it wasn’t the only proposal he had. No, there was something else he needed to ask you..so with trembling hands, tearful eyes and in the same empty park where you’d spend countless nights talking about your futures; surrounded by faux candlelight and roses, he’d ask the one thing you never thought you’d hear:

“Will you marry me, (y/n) (l/n)? Will you do this forever with me?”

and it was no question! The answer was yes, a million times over! That night, the two of you exchanged intense, heavy kisses and warm, inviting touches underneath the moonlight of your very first place. A one bedroom apartment but it didn’t matter. It felt like a castle; an unreal fantasy when you had him. You’d let him caress and run his hands along your body. Kissing and licking your neck on the frameless mattress as your nude bodies entangled in the white sheet covering them. Neither of you had ever done anything like this before and although you were nervous as all hell, you were ready. Ready to take this next step. When you were in school, so many other kids were already going the extra mile and some had even fallen pregnant by the time you graduated. But your love was so pure and innocent, sex seemed like a foreign concept. It was the furthest thing from your minds. You enjoyed being around each other. The feeling you derived just from when he grabbed you and pulled you into his chest with a kiss to your forehead. You never felt pressured to lose your virginity because you knew that a moment like this would make it all the more special and that he’d be the only one you’d share it with. So in that moment, Eren moved his tongue down your body, kissing and marking your neck with a trail of sloppy pecks. Your hands trailed up his back that had now been stamped with his first tattoo. His hair..that once tapered brown haired cut was dangling in front of your face as half of it remained tied into a bun. He had often dreamed about what this moment would consist of..how it would feel to be given the flower of his beloved. To ‘pop’ your cherry and have the honor of being your first and vice versa. Would he hurt you? Would he fuck it up? His only true goal was to know that you were feeling good. He didn’t want to sound like a weird degenerate but his only experience was through videos and his hand. And yours? He was scared! So terrified that you had to grab his shoulders and tell him to breathe as he was trembling when he began to touch your sensitive center.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s just us here…take your time. You’re doing so good..”

only backed up when he slowly circulated his fingers around on your clit and watched you writhe in pleasure. Whimpering and crying out his name. It was so slippery and juicy but he assumed that was a good thing from the way you rutted your hips and pushed down on the single digit that he put inside of you. “Oh my God…Eren that feels so good!..” “It does? I’m so glad, baby.. can I keep keep going, like that?” Watching you break into a smile as your eyes squeezed shut was as close to nirvana as he could get. He loved seeing you happy. Breathing heavier and begging for more when you added another and stimulated you even more. You were so incredibly tight that he was sweating bullets, wondering how he’d be able to fit inside of you. How could he top this moment?…carefully examining your body; that gorgeous skin, those perfectly round breasts that had grown exponentially since he’d first met you, dark nipples erect and drenched in his saliva as he kissed them softly and those curves that had only filled out in all the right places. He wanted to adore this beautiful body forever..make love to you until he perfected it. Until he could know every bump, line and curve that made up your frame. So much so that even in absence, you’d crave one another and no one else could ever fill that void. He wanted to love you with his eyes closed. To know every tick, every like, dislike and point that made you explode with pleasure. He wanted to be yours in flesh, mind and spirit until you both left this earth.

eventually, you’d find yourself squirming around in the sheets and with his fingers alone, you’d reach your very first orgasm! The feeling was so indescribable, you couldn’t even speak. Only curse and flail around, which he thought was so cute. Chuckling as he pulled you to his chest with a cooing tone. “Aw, baby. It’s okay. There you go, just let it out.” Embarrassed by the fact that you let out a gentle stream of liquid, thinking you had actually urinated but it was the furthest thing from. “Trust me, that’s not what happened. It’s okay, beautiful.” Neither of you even gave a damn. All you wanted was to experience him in his entirety. You’d look down and see that his cock was stiff. Swollen, thick and glowing red at the tip. You’d never seen one in real life but by comparison, it was huge and you were so scared, your knees pushed together and began to buckle as you swallowed a large gulp, wondering how you were supposed to take all of that inside of you… “..we can go slow. We don’t have to fit it all at once. You just let me know how much you can handle, okay baby?” Seemingly trying to console you when he was all but losing his mind. Slowly but surely, his tip would make place atop your overly sensitive slit. Splitting open your folds with that puffy mushroom tip. Bright red and dripping with cum..he was so ready to make you his. “Eren…” hearing the nervous yet needy quiver in your voice made him twitch on his own but he’d merely chuckle, reaching down to stroke your face. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care you, okay princess? Here, hold my hands.” without hesitation, completing devoting yourself to him, you’d intertwine your fingers with his own as he integrated from the top to the inside of your warm center. Both of you broke into a high pitched gasp, never experimenting such a sensation before. It was truly like magic..

“Oh fuck..” the words escaping each of your lips as the same time, so much so, it made you and him break into a giggle. The realization of the moment setting on you both. “We’re actually doing this, huh?” “..yeah, but I wouldn’t want it with anyone else..” with that, he’d lean down and brush the side of your face as he began to buck his hips. “I’m gonna start moving, okay? You just let me know if I need to stop..” acknowledging his question with a nod, he’d persist forth and keep pushing. One slow stroke turned into two and before he knew it, he had established a rhythm. Being as gentle and doting as possible. That tight flesh sucking him in with each thrust but still not giving way..you’d squirm and whimper but all from pleasure. You’d claw at his sides and although your eyes were shut tight, you’d let him know that you were alright. Eventually, that room filled with soft cries and the two of you uttering each others names, along with lewd moans. “It’s..so good! Fuck…” “..please, keep moving..don’t stop, Eren.” Begging for more, despite the fact that his shaft had become coated in a very thin sheath of blood and a few tears trailed down your cheek. Signifying that he had finally unwrapped the gift that you’d waited so long for him to claim. The mattress began to jolt around and the floor underneath creaking from the sounds of your lovemaking. That red liquid soon replaced by a clear mucus and his dick nestled inside of you to the halfway mark. What felt like an eternity was in reality..only five minutes and already, he was about to tap out. Panting and breathing heavily as that pace sped up. His pattern was off kilter but he still had you clawing for the sheets, screaming his name. “Yes, baby! Right there, I can feel it again. I’m gonna—“ but before you could announce your own climatic peak, he’d beat you to the punch and without thinking or warning, he’d let out a loud cry, sobbing even and spouting expletives the entire time as a warm load filled your newly defiled cunt. He was in such shock, it didn’t even dawn on him until he’d look down and see it spilling out of you.

“I—shit. I wasn’t supposed to do that. I’m so sorry, (y/n)!” But it was fine. You trusted him so dearly, the two of you forgot any protection. Luckily, you had long been on birth control for reasons unrelated to sex so you weren’t scared. Besides, in that moment, all you knew was that you wanted more. You didn’t want this moment to cease for anything. “It’s okay, baby..I’m fine. Come here..” beckoning him towards you so you could get another one of those divine kisses. It was the best part. With you both having experienced that high for the first time, you didn’t want to come down so for the entire duration of that night, the two of you made love. Exploring and enjoying each other’s bodies. Laughing, kissing, touching and making blunders..the joy that could only come from true lovers. A long time coming certainly, but a moment nonetheless that was worth the wait. By the time you finished, you were both an emotional wreck. Crying but only out of pure rejoice. Having given yourself to the one man that you’d love for the rest of eternity.

“I love you, Eren..”

“I love you more, (y/n)..”

and this time, there was no question, hesitation or doubt when those words were uttered. You were older now and for a flame that everyone was certain would die out, it was now burning brighter than ever.

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avitute · 5 months

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buggy the clown would cherish his harley quinn. not in the “you’re mine and what i say goes” but a “wow guys look at my hot gf isn’t she so cool and awesome” kind of way

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targaryenluvs · 4 months

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I absolutely love how you write!! Now I've got this under my skin: basically the President Coriolanus and maid dynamic. The servant has this behavior in which she avoids crossing paths with Coriolanus at all costs but he already has her in his sights.

coriolanus snow x fem!maid!reader

mr president

tw: mdni 18+ (m masturbation, jerked off, implied sex in, power abuse, humiliation kink, guilt trip, cheating, degradation, naive reader, implied short reader)

coriolanus had been watching you all day. you knew it. he knew it, and he didn’t care. you’d always been taught to put your head down, go unnoticed, to just work. but it seems president snow had other ideas to how you could be of service to him, preferably with your legs wide open.

but this week felt different. you were use to his stares, they always seemed to linger even once he was long gone. but lately they set your body on fire, consuming you. you could barely look at him when he asked you to fetch a glass of water, when he requested for another seat at the table to be set tonight, and so on.

he loved to embarrass you with the most ridiculous and tedious jobs. but at first they’d been mild in want, for you to feed him, for you to clean his shoes and tie them, pick any lint off of his coat. but as his desire for you increased so did the humiliating nature of them. to clean the floor in your uniform which he knew you’d ripped that morning on a sharp thorn, to pick up the utensils he’d dropped, when he’d requested fresh new sheets after he’d soiled them himself. watching intently as your hands bunched up the sheets, cradling them in your arms as your cute little face scrunched up in horror as his cum coated your hands.

he loved you.

and you had no idea as to why. you never drew attention to yourself and certainly not enough to warrant his. yet coriolanus was hellbent on having you.

when you were awoken by one of maids in the middle of the night you’d expected something different, maybe one of the girls needed help in cleaning. but when she told you of president snow asking for you specifically for help with something, you could only help but be scared. you didn’t want to go help him with whatever. you didn’t want to be within arms reach of him let alone his own quarters. his wife was away on a business trip that week, leaving him with free time to torment you.

but you went nonetheless, who were you to refuse your dear president?

the entire walk to his quarters had you reassuring yourself, he’ll want you to bring him something. ‘water perhaps, then he’ll let you go. he’ll let you go y/n.’ you approached his door, raising your hand before knocking but a voice stopped you in your tracks. was it a cry? a groan? you leaned into the door, ear pressed against the cold wood, listening for a hint of what was occurring.

‘fuck,’ he groaned out, ‘so good, fuck s’ so good.’ that must be some really good soup! you thought as you smiled, you’d made his soup today and he said he’d eat it later on that night. ‘fuck y/n.’ now you weren’t arrogant, it may have been your soup but you didn’t name it after yourself. you should correct him.

‘mr president?’ your sweet voice called out, your voice went straight to his throbbing cock. ‘c-come in.’ you smiled to yourself as you opened the door only to be with president snow on his bed, hand wrapped around the base of his cock, completely naked with a smirk on his face. definitely not eating soup, you thought. ‘close the door, now.’ you did exactly that, what would someone say if they found the president so indecent? you should protect his image.

‘sit down.’ you crept over to him before hoisting yourself up, your small frame dwarfed by the overly-large bed. meant for two. his wife! you instantly covered your eyes like a child who’d seen something they just weren’t meant to. ‘i’m so sorry president snow, i didn’t mean to look. i’ll leave.’ you rambled as you slowly wriggled away, but not before his hand landed on your thigh. ‘i didn’t call you in here for you to leave right after.’ his hand rubbed into your thigh, soft and gentle, everything he wasn’t. it drew a soft moan from your lips, snows smug expression was evident, only if you’d just open your eyes.

your hands slowly peeled away from your face as you gazed into his eyes, ‘i saw you looking before, you liked it didn’t you slut?” for some reason the word made you blush as you looked down at your lap, his hand was playing with the hem of your night dress. ‘no mr snow.’ you bashfully replied, his hand worked its way up underneath your dress, the other preoccupied with his dick.

‘no? am i not pretty?’ you eyes widened at the implication, president coriolanus snow, ugly? he was anything but, ‘no! i- i mean yes, yes you are pretty, very pretty mr president.’ he grinned at your words, ‘yeah? you wanna prove it to me? you’d do anything for your president right?’ you nodded along quickly, not before gasping as his hand now played with the waistband of your underwear.

‘i want you to suck me off.’

‘suck what?’ his eyes trailed downwards.

‘oh! oh.’

the sentence sent your head into a spin, were you really going to do this? but his sweet voice, so soft and hushed, his body illuminated by the gentle orange glow of his lamp, his hooded eyes, so sleepy. it all coaxed you in as he led your hand to where he needed.

another quiet groan escaped coriolanus’s lips as your thumb rubbed over the tip of his cock. he was already close but just your presence, along with your hand had him tipping over the edge. your slow tugs, unsure and trying, your timid voice, ‘am i helping you sir?’ sir, the clear line distinguished the two of you in place. ‘yes, yes you are y/n. call me by my name.’ and soon enough he reached his peek, sticky release all over your tiny hands.

he was sure the picture would be ingrained in his head, you’d lifted your hands as you simply stared at them, then looking up at coriolanus.

‘what do i do?’

‘swallow.’

#kira and anon chat <3 #anon u and ur brilliant mind get a million smooches #hunger games x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x female!reader #coriolanus snow x fem!reader #YOU ARE A GENIUS THANK YOU!! glad you enjoy my work <3 #OH THIS WAS DIRTYYY

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aesthetic-bbyg · 7 months

Text

“STOP TRYING TO FUCK THAT CLOWN”

WELL HOW ABOUT YOU MAKE ME🙄🙄

#buggy one piece #buggy #buggy the clown #one piece #buggy smut #buggy the genius jester #buggy is my man #fine ass clown #why is this mf so fine????#he’s literally a clown #with a fat nose #lowk love big noses tho🤭#MY MAN #smash #clown #buggy babbles #buggy x reader #one piece live action #one piece show

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suiana · 18 days

Note

Yellooo!! May I request a M! Yandere that is very VERY Intelligent/Smart that is also a sarcastic, narcissistic, arrogant person?

It's fine if you don't do this bruhh, it's just that it's very hard to find things like this

Also don't forget to eat regularly and drink water everyday!!

-AnonSemSam

technically yandere genius is this description so I'll just make more content for him

(yandere! genius x gn! reader) (u and yandere genius r besties in this and u like to be an annoying little shit :3)

"Professor can I do my exam next week instead? I'm kinda busy tomorrow."

"You-"

"Please doctor? I'm gonna be hanging out with my bestie tomorrow."

You pout, batting your lashes at him as you lean against his desk. Watching as he clenches his fists, you can't help but snicker at his annoyed reaction. Just as you were about to hear disgusted noises leave his mouth, some random student comes up to the both of you.

You watch as the student gingerly holds a rose stem, cheeks flushed as she walks up to you, likely about to confess her heartfelt feelings.

"Y/n... I really like you-"

"I'll pass."

You reject immediately, not even giving her a chance to confess before you go back to smirking smugly at the professor who looks like he's about to burst a blood vessel.

Then, you feel his anger suddenly shoot through the roof as the girl who was about to confess to you suddenly turn to the professor, declaring her love for him as well.

"Doctor, I have really liked you for a long time as well and I-"

"Who do you think you are to confess to me? You're not even half of my level, don't even think of getting with me. And didn't you just confess to this... idiot? What am I? Some second-rate option? Don't think me as some trash. I'll actually kill you."

You watch as he brutally insults the female student, the paper he was holding crumpling into nothing more than a ball as he hurls insults at his student before shooing her away. You can't help but pout slightly at his words, realizing he had also insulted you along with her.

"Doctor you're so mean! You called me an idiot too-"

"Y/n, shut the fuck up. You are an idiot, why are you even asking me to reschedule your exam?"

He hisses, glaring at you with narrowed eyes. But before you can even respond, he adds onto his previous sentence as though he had already predicted what you were going to say.

"You're not even a student here."

"So?"

You hear the professor scream into his hands as you giggle and walk away. Haha, he's such a funny person to be friends with!

#suiana's sinners #anonsemsam #yandere #tw yandere #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere concept #yandere genius #yandere genius x reader #gn reader #suiana rambling #suiana brainrotting

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intheorangebedroom · 1 month

Text

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡

Word count: 12.2k

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Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier

Make us come, baby. Make us come together.

These words are yours.

Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep.

He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body.

They’re yours, right?

Even if you don’t get to see him ever again.

—

It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles.

Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here.

It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.

Not today. Please. Not today.

Friday.

Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head.

Today is Friday.

You reject the obvious.

Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.

Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.

Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night.

You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons.

Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours.

Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping.

Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.

And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you.

You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet.

You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.

Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can.

You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine.

It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor.

—

On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body.

You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze.

You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste.

Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.

Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you.

If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be.

With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia.

You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste.

All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down.

Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums.

At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again.

All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.

Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.

You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black.

—

In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation.

You did want to get better.

You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities.

On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results.

But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality.

For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.

Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were.

Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear.

As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.

Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.

Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all.

And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.

—

The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places.

Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed.

Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…

Frankie.

You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?

“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”

Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through.

Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before.

He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel.

The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.

Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish.

There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.

So many cords. Too many sensors.

“Where’s my phone?” you mumble.

Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore.

“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed.

You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.

“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”

He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness.

“What day is it?” you try again.

“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”

The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”

You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you.

Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it.

“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.”

You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape.

Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”

“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.

It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.

Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most.

The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate.

“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”

“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week.

Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.

“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.

There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping.

“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”

So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known.

It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.

There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute.

“Polly’s not old,” is your answer.

“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”

“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”

“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.

The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt.

“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”

You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline.

He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small.

“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”

The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence.

“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation?

You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out.

You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show.

Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology.

“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!”

He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine.

“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.

“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink.

And he’s gone.

Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping.

Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse.

The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location.

Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.

Is this how it ends?

Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close.

You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday.

Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.

The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.

Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE.

The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case.

Your heart rate slows down.

Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.

—

The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you.

You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.

On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation.

Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed.

You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.

You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.

After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.

One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you.

You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.

Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.

Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.

Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week.

In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak.

You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid.

Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.

You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours.

You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it.

On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in.

She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child.

While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse.

True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material.

At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”

So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image.

“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”

As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.

Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC.

That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood.

You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted.

You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.

“Fuck it.”

You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic.

The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour.

It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut.

Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper.

As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor.

You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.

Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks.

That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.

You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity.

Is this how it ends?

Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here.

Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours.

The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes.

Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar.

“Good evening,�� you start with a tight smile. “I—“

A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again.

“I come in every week?”

Jesus.

“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”

“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”

You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.

“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”

“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”

“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”

“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund. Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“

“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”

Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long?

If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will.

“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”

The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe.

“Do you want to book it?”

You shake your head slowly.

“No. Thank you.”

Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot.

He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding.

You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you.

You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.

All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years.

The before and the after him.

He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him.

Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story.

The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed.

That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel.

“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan.

His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob.

It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind.

Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.

“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers.

“What?”

His smile drops when you take a step back.

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“

Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall.

He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.

“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.

“What happened to you?”

The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms.

“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper.

“Did he do that to you?”

“What?”

“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.

“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”

“How did you fall?” he presses.

He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to.

The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own.

“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”

“I’m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze.

“You can barely stand.”

However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.

“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.”

“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”

“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”

He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.

The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all.

“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.

“Wanna bet?”

You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could.

“Listen,” he begins with a sigh.

“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“

“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.

His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness.

“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”

Our minds.

He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control.

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Yes, ok.”

He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”

—

The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you.

What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?

On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing.

You hate yourself for that, too.

After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard.

Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual.

The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it.

“Hey. You ok there?”

In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate.

“C’mere.”

The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his.

The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer.

You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart.

“I’m not married.”

“Ok.”

The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it.

“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”

“Ok.”

The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit.

“And I really fell.”

He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist.

“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”

You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened.

He tightens his embrace.

“That when you hurt your head?”

“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”

“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”

“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”

You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”

How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again?

“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.

If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks.

“No,” you lie.

“Mmh. And for real?”

You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.

“A little. I’ll be fine.”

The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines.

Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.

“He wouldn’t hit me.”

“Ok.”

“That’s not what he does.”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“What does he do?”

You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason.

“He makes me doubt.”

“Him?”

“Myself. And him too.”

Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel.

The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights.

His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist.

Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber.

“You ok? Want me to close the window?”

His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness.

“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”

Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy.

—

When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare.

Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone.

You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin.

At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light.

You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there.

Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then.

You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh.

“Wait. I need to talk to you.”

His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will.

You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him.

“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes.

Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest.

“I understand.”

“I imagine you can’t be here either.”

No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always.

“No, I can’t.”

The following week, either. But you don’t share that.

This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.

Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.

In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you?

Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket.

“Kiss me, Frankie, please.”

“Yes.”

His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips.

All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his.

Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else.

His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too.

You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness.

Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire.

There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent.

He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.

Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles.

“Want me to make you come, baby?”

He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration.

“No, I want you inside me.”

“Shit, you sure?”

“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.”

You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth.

“You think I don’t know that?”

So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back.

Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.

“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.”

It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place.

“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans.

“I know you can.”

When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair.

It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.

You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside.

In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes.

He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart.

Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue.

Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.

Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.

“You ok?”

His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff.

His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.

Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it.

He stays like that for a while.

Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes.

“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”

“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”

You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts?

“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.

But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him.

Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”

You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within.

“I want you.”

His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion.

He doesn’t.

He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling.

Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named.

You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice.

“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt.

The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties.

You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face.

He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest.

The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale.

Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you.

“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”

He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.

“Fuck you’re tight.”

“Please, Frankie–”

His frame tenses up under your palms.

“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”

“No!”

That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out.

“I can—“ You trip over your words.

“What?”

“I can sit on it.”

Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles.

“Yea. Yea you can.”

He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal.

“Spit on it,” he says.

You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.

“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”

Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed.

His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours.

“Sit on it, now.”

His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look.

“Yes,” you pant.

Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.

Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing.

The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel.

Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back.

You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help.

You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically.

His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs.

“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”

You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.

A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.

You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats.

His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit.

And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall.

“Too much?”

“Oh god yes.”

You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.

“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”

His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind.

You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.”

He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire.

His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.

“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?”

You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are?

“Say it again, please.”

“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you.

“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”

“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.”

He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon.

You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already.

He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk.

You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave.

And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss.

****

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