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intheorangebedroom · 2 months

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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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draagu · 3 months

Text

give me your enots!

enot won the 1k follower scug group drawing poll! so! y'know what that means

send me your enots!!!

the theme will most likely be cyberworld! from deltarune! it's the best I could come up with and I think it'll be fun :]

basic premises, submit one design, anthro or feral (alts are okay), and if you want u can include any additional stuff you'd want to see, like the enot doing something specific or being with someone else's enot etc. etc. (w the other persons permission ofc)

also it must be your design. don't submit other people's designs unless it's like for a friend to be included or something and you have their permission. don't claim other people's designs as your own either

submit the designs through reblogs!

you all have 4 days before I will not be taking anymore designs, or if they become too many I might end it early, you'll know if it's closed if the reblogs are closed

and of course, it'll probably take me a while to both get started and get finished, so all I ask in return is your patience

I think that's all, go crazy

#dragurambles #late submissions are probably fine for frens #just lmk #the deadline is so small bc I feel like there's gonna be a massive wave of ppl hsbjd #scheduled post

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meandtheyeehaws · 3 months

Note

HI!! I'm a huge fan of your art, and I was wondering if I could have permission to make clay figures baised off your duck designs for the hellaverse? I wouldn't be like. Selling them at all, only making them for me and my irl friends, but I still wanted to ask for permission :3

OMGGG OFC?? pleasee send me pics when theyre done i might die😭😭😭😭😭💞💞💞💞💞

#asks

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k-evans-reads · 1 year

Text

In Living Color

Chapter 22 - Part Two

Summary: When Natalie Marton, lead character designer for Buzz Lightyear, meets the voice of Buzz, Chris Evans, the sparks are undeniable. But when their work pushes them away from each other, both physically and emotionally, will the sheer differences between their worlds be enough to force them apart?

Pairing: Chris Evans x Pixar Animator OFC Natalie Marton

Word Count: 3,962

By: @k-evans-writes and @ourfinest-hour

We do NOT give permission for our works to be reuploaded, translated, or reposted on any other site. Our work is our own.

Warnings: None.

Previous | Main Masterlist | In Living Color Masterlist

April 2022

“Hi Nattie.”

Nat felt as though her stomach was in her throat and she could do nothing more than stare at Chris – her ex-boyfriend – in disbelief. Her phone sat abandoned and ignored in her hand as it buzzed with a notification, watching the man who was no longer hers stand in the opening of the elevator, his hand holding the doors open as his ball cap sat low over his face.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to find something to say to him, hesitating for several moments as her brows furrowed even deeper and she pushed her curls back behind her ear nervously. Nat swore then that her eyes were somehow tricking her. There was no way that he actually was standing there, holding the elevator doors open in the lobby of that San Francisco hotel. So many questions started swirling in her mind, not knowing how or why he was here, let alone how he even knew where she was. But even in that moment of pure shock and plain confusion, there was a piece of her heart that knew this felt right, that somehow knew that there was something still holding them together.

“C-Chris?” She finally asked shakily, pausing to clear her throat and hopefully calm down a bit. She slipped her phone into the pocket of her leggings, then crossed her arms over her chest as she curiously asked, “What are you doing here?”

“...I wanted to talk to you,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder quickly as a couple entered an elevator on the opposite side of the room. He turned back to look at Nat, raising a single eyebrow and added, “If that’s okay with you.”

“I’m just um, I can’t believe you’re here,” she admitted, blinking her eyes rapidly as she shook her head. She reached up absentmindedly, adjusting the strap of her purse before she paused and asked, “How did you know I was here?”

A slight grimace appeared on Chris’ face as he shook his head, glancing down at the beat-up sneakers on his feet. “Jamie told me,” he informed her quietly. He paused as the elevator behind them beeped and someone exited it, leaving the room without a second glance to them. Once they were alone again, he explained, “After I went to your apartment and you weren’t there, I asked him if he knew where you were.”

Nat’s brows furrowed deeply at those words, surprised at the admission. “You went to LA first?” She asked him in disbelief.

“Yeah, um, Nat, can we talk? Maybe somewhere more private?” He asked, a tight expression on his face as the sound of a large group approached from the lobby. But then he paused, staring at the mirrored wall of the elevator before he clarified, “...Do you want to talk?”

She hesitated, still reeling from the sudden change in events before she nodded and stepped to the side, telling him, “We can go up to my room.” Her hand hovered over the button for her floor as he removed his hand from the opening and stepped into the small elevator car.

It felt so weird to have him step into that elevator, leaving space between them while an uncomfortable silence settled over the space. She didn’t have a clue what to say or even how to feel in the moment. As her brain slipped back into memories of the previous weekend, Nat felt a pang in her heart as she thought of all those harsh words and the pain that it had caused. Tears prickled at her eyes as she remembered Chris saying he felt as if he didn’t know her and how easily he had wanted to draw boundaries on what she should be doing in life while he did exactly what he wanted.

She hadn’t thought their relationship was like that, and wanted to believe that it wasn’t and was just a massive misunderstanding. But when he slammed that door of her apartment, leaving her alone and in silence, she hadn’t thought even then that her phone would go quiet without a single text or call from him which only solidified that it wasn’t a misunderstanding. That was it. They were over almost as quickly as they had started.

Nat felt like her heart had completely broken in two. She had never felt love like she had with him, feeling fully known, fully celebrated, fully challenged, and fully loved by him in every way but having him leave so easily and holding her job decision over their relationship had caused her trust to be shaken. Nat had spent the last week feeling like this whole relationship truly had been too good to be true. At the end of the day he didn’t want her more than anything. He wanted her only as long as it worked for him.

The problem was that she still loved him. She still wholeheartedly loved him and didn’t know how she’d get that to stop. Nat was a headstrong person and wasn’t afraid to work hard, but the emotions that she felt so deeply and clearly made it so hard. She had thought this time was different. This time was going to be forever. But all of that had come crashing down with one simple argument.

But now she wasn’t so sure.

Seeing him taking her by surprise, standing here while asking her to talk gave her hope. It made her think that maybe he was feeling the same way she was. Maybe he wasn’t willing to give up as easily as he had seemed to. Nat had so many moments this last week that she had picked up her phone, staring at his contact as she thought about just clicking ‘Call’, but each time, that hurt and fear seemed to creep back up and resulted in her clicking her phone off. It seemed so hopeless and as if there wasn’t a point, but seeing Chris who had flown across the country – and evidently, the state too – just to talk to her made her realize that it wasn’t as hopeless as it had seemed even just a half an hour earlier. She’d been struggling to reconcile what their reality had quickly become, but now, face-to-face with the man who had admittedly hurt her so so badly, she felt her arguments and defenses weaken.

She got pulled back to reality when the elevator dinged and the doors opened. Nat tucked her curls behind an ear as she stepped out into the hallway and saw Chris out of the corner of her eye lift his hand, instinctively reaching out to rest his hand on her back as he followed behind her, just as he’d done so many times before, but then saw him drop it just as quickly when the reality of the situation dawned on him. Just that one simple action was enough to make her want to cry, hating the chasm that seemed to be between them.

They were never like this before, having been drawn to each other since the very first day they met, over a year ago. Even though their relationship hadn’t started until the previous May, he’d quickly become her closest companion before then. They were always affectionate, nearly always touching when they were around one another, and to see him hesitate to touch her for the first time ever… it hurt. It hurt almost more than the sound of him slamming her door did the week before.

Right then, Nat knew in her heart that although there were a lot of things that still were left unsaid and needed to be dealt with, she knew that she didn’t want it to be this way. She wanted him. She wanted to be with Chris and she was willing to work through the struggles that came with it because to her, he was worth it. As she pulled out her key to hold it up to the door, she felt emotions weighing down her chest, touched as she thought of him getting on a plane in what had to be the middle of the night to try to track her down. He had gone to so much effort just to talk to her, without any guarantees of a positive outcome, and the realization of that had tears forming in her eyes and she just couldn’t seem to hold back any of her feelings once the door was closed.

Now it was Nat’s turn to surprise Chris as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling her body up against his and pressing her lips against his. It didn’t take him more than a second to react, his hands coming to press against her back, holding her even tighter against him as he kissed her back just as passionately. Nat knew they needed to talk and work through this all, but she just couldn’t have gone one more second without him knowing that his effort to come track her down hadn’t gone unwanted and that through all of this, that she still truly, deeply, loved him. It was still there, she always knew that by how much pain she’d been in for the last week. But to know that what they shared between them was still there, still beating strong in both of them, unaffected by what had been fractured, gave them both something to continue fighting for.

When they couldn’t breathe anymore, they each finally pulled their lips away from one another but their arms stayed holding onto one another. They just stood there for a long moment before he brought a hand up to tuck some of her curls behind her ear, giving him a better view of her face as he looked down at her with so many emotions in his blue eyes.

“I love you, Nattie,” he told her, his voice low and wavering before he took a deep breath, shaking his head in frustration then admitting, “I was so stupid. So fucking stupid and I’m so sorry.”

The tears that had been threatening to fall since the second they saw each other finally spilled down her cheeks openly as her body shook with the weight of the words. He pulled her closer to him, his arms wrapped around her and holding Nat up as she buried her face in his chest. She let the emotions finally leave her system as he pressed kisses to her hair, quietly holding her until she finally took a deeper breath, gathering herself as she moved her face away from his now tear-stained tee shirt.

“I love you too,” Nat’s voice cracked as tears still cascaded down her cheeks while looking up into his arched eyes as she honestly spoke, “I’m sorry too Chris, I overreacted and I’m sorry and I just…I really really love you.”

When her words dissolved into more tears, Chris just pulled her right back against him, her head laying against his chest while he rubbed her back and comforted her with, “Shhh, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay, baby.”

She felt his hand moving up and down over her back, the action soothing her as he tucked her head under his chin. Her ear was pressed against his chest, next to the spot where she knew his tattoo for Dodger was, but as she nearly clung to him, she recognized the sound of Chris’ heart racing below her ear. The rapid thumping of his heart echoing in her ear reminded her that it wasn’t just herself that was relieved, put back together from being broken. It was about the two of them coming back together as one whole unit instead of two fractured halves, something she hadn’t thought was possible before stepping onto that elevator today.

Breaking the silence, she felt his low voice rumble in his chest as Chris spoke, “I know there’s a lot we need to talk about, but I just want you to know that I adore you Nattie. I was such a fucking idiot and I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry and I love you so much.”

“I just can’t believe you’re here,” Nat shook her head while she ran a hand over his chest that was covered in a soft tee shirt, almost wanting to remind herself that he truly was here. She brought her eyes up to meet his, still in disbelief as she asked, “You really flew all over just to find me?”

“If I wasn’t so stupid I would have done it a helluva lot sooner,” he admitted, his voice low and slightly amused as he chuckled to himself with a shake of his head.

“I still can’t believe you came here for me,” she whispered. She’d never be able to reconcile that – that he believed so strongly in even trying to fix this mess that he’d fly all over just to try to find her, with absolutely no idea if it’d even work.

But here they were. And she was so so so glad he tried.

“I love you Nat, and I just couldn’t give up on us,” he whispered to her, a soft smile on his bearded face as he stared down into her eyes.

She was completely out of words, unsure how to even say how she was feeling and instead just pulled herself back against his chest, hugging him tightly. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head as he held her right back just as securely, both feeling like everything was finally going to be alright.

They shared another long kiss, relishing once again in the feeling of being back in each other’s arms before they made their way over to the small couch, Nat leading Chris as she held his hand. She paused right as they came to a stop in front of the couch, dropping his hand to unceremoniously move the various clothes and her bag that she’d shoved onto the couch the night before, only so she could sleep in the messy bed behind them. Once the couch was clear of her things, she curled up next to him, bending her legs to let them rest in his lap, his hand dropping to rub along her thigh as they relaxed in one another’s presence.

“How’s Dodge?”

“Did you really just ask how Dodger was?” Chris asked, his nose scrunching as he laughed in disbelief. His voice was light and amused as he pointed out, “I flew across the country and the first real question you’re going to ask me is about Dodger?”

She simply shrugged her shoulders, a smile spreading across her lips as his hand kept moving over her legs absentmindedly. “Well he’s clearly the best part of being close to you,” she joked.

His voice was low as he pulled her impossibly closer to him with the arm that rested over her shoulders, admitting more to himself than to her, “God, I fuckin’ missed you Nattie.”

Reaching out to rest her hand on his chest, fingers brushing against his necklace as she admitted, “I was so afraid I’d never see you again.”

“I felt that too which is why I just couldn’t stand it anymore,” Chris spoke truthfully, fingers curling and uncurling against her leg, just happy to feel her underneath his touch once again.

There still was an elephant in the room though, one that couldn’t and shouldn’t be avoided and they both knew it. Although they both would have loved to just stay in that happy and relieved moment, Nat spoke what they both knew to be true and said, “I think you are right though, I think we need to talk about…everything.”

“Do you want to talk now or do you want to go get something to eat first or just have a break for a while?” He asked her, his voice small as his fingers tapped on her leg softly.

She pursed her lips as she thought. She was hungry, that was undeniable, and her goal earlier had been to go find some food before she ran into Chris. But putting off this conversation would do them no good, especially if she knew Chris was only a few floors away, pacing in his own room before they talked it out fully. “I think I’d rather talk now,” she began slowly, pausing to sigh as she shook her head and confessed, “I just don’t even know where we went wrong, Chris. I feel like everything just blew up suddenly.”

He took a deep, steadying breath, his nostrils flaring slightly as he nodded his head. “It did, but I think where we both went wrong was walking away instead of just tabling things until we were more clear headed,” he pointed out.

“I know you’re right,” she agreed with a whisper. It was easy now to point out the faults in everything, seeing things clearly once the dust had settled. But they had to do some work before things got to an okay place. As his hand sat on her shin, she pushed the rising anxiety back down inside her and mustered up the courage to tell him, “I know I overreacted and I’m sorry for that. I know I can get all spun up and too emotional about things but I just felt really… alone. I felt like you weren’t listening to me at all.”

A small sigh escaped Chris at those words, and she knew that seeing the other’s view for the first time wouldn’t be easy for either of them, but it was certainly necessary. “Nattie, I want you to know that I really was trying to look out for you. I really was just trying to make sure you were doing what you want, but when you told me that you wanted to do it, I should have supported you and I didn't. And I'm sorry for that.” He simply apologized, his thumb moving in a small path over her leg as he spoke.

“I know you were Chris and I’m sorry I didn’t really give you any room to voice your concerns. If I ask for your opinion, I need to be ready to listen and I wasn’t,” she apologized. She recognized her own faults in the argument, she had since the second he stepped out of that apartment in a fury. But the fault laid on both of them, and she needed him to admit that.

He nodded slowly, fingers tapping an anxious pattern on her leg as he said, “I just didn't think that this job was something that you wanted to do and I think it surprised me and I didn’t really understand why… although I still don’t.”

Nat nodded, knowing she hadn’t been able to give him the full reasoning behind this move. She ignored the way her heart was racing with adrenaline, anxiety, and nerves, and instead explained, “I really thought that this job would be the answer to so many things. I thought it would give me better hours for us to be together, I’d have more flexibility to go home and see my family, and I’d be putting so many years of hard work to use and having a great career in art.”

Judging by the tender look that had crossed his face, she knew that the vulnerability in her voice must have been evident and he shook his head softly for a moment before his eyes came to look right into hers, “I’m sorry that I didn’t support you and I promise that I’m completely on board for what you want, Nat.”

“It’s not an excuse but I think I’m just a little extra sensitive because of Shane. He expected me to just drop my career for him and I was feeling like you were willing to go film and sign onto new projects but didn’t want me to keep moving up,” she tried to explain. Nat wanted him to see how what he had been asking her to do was something he wasn’t doing himself. “It wasn’t fair to project that onto you though. I let my emotions rule me rather than relying on what I knew was true about our relationship.”

“I’m not going to lie Nat, that really did hurt me that you felt like I was just trying to control you and not that I had your best interests at heart,” Chris’ voice was soft, his hand lifting up in the air as he thought of what he was trying to say before it fell back down to rest on her knee, “I want you to be able to trust me.”

“I do, Chris, and I’m sorry. I really am,” she honestly apologized, dipping her head to the side to catch his eye. “I think what wasn’t okay was that you wanted everything to revolve around your schedule and not taking mine into account. You signed onto new projects and wanted me to come see you but then complained when I’d have to work longer because of taking time off to see you.”

There was something in his voice that was almost unrecognizable that she didn’t understand was fear until he told her, “I was just worried about you working so hard.”

“Something to keep in mind though is that you have an irregular job,” Nat wanted to be sensitive to his feelings but also wanted him to be able to recognize how wildly different his life was from most peoples. “You work hard, but you don’t go to work every day and never have and most of the people you’ve dated had a similar schedule. I think some of it you just don’t realize what having a more regular career is like.”

He blinked a few times as he stared at Nat, a perturbed look settling over him as he admitted, “I guess I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I feel like you were only looking at it through your point of view,” Nat pointed out to Chris, starting to touch on the root of the issue on his end.

“Nattie, I really wasn’t trying to be selfish. I just didn’t think that this job was a good fit for you,” he still wasn’t changing his mind on his reasoning but went on to explain, “But what I realized is I don’t think we have to agree. I care more about us being together than all the other shit.”

“I feel that way too,” Nat couldn’t help but reach out to rest her hand on his bearded cheek, her thumb stroking softly as she told him, “I love you so much.”

At first Chris didn’t verbally respond, but the tenderness in his blue eyes said everything he needed to. His hands came to rest along the sides of her waist, leaning in slowly, his lips brushing against hers before he whispered, “I love you,” before crashing their lips together.

Nat melted into the kiss, moving to lay back against the couch as Chris followed her down and kept kissing her and moving against her until they both were seeing stars. She realized just how true Chris’ words were, how they truly didn’t need to agree or always see eye to eye, but what they did need was to be together.

Everything felt like a blissful blur as they peeled each other out of their clothes and let their hands start to explore warm skin and hear soft sighs. Nat swore it didn’t even matter what he was doing, but just feeling him again was pure heaven as she was reminded that they belonged to one another. They needed one another more than they even knew and Nat knew now, in her heart, that they’d always have each other, no matter what.

A/N: Our asks are always open!

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andydrysdalerogers · 4 months

Text

Cross-Checked ~ Chapter Eight

Andy Barber x OFC Leighton "Leia" Andrews

Summary:

Andy Barber is having the best year of his life. His game is on point. It’s gets to play with his best friend and his fiancé just... dumped him?!.

Reeling from a sudden change in status, Andy decides it’s time to just focus on hockey. Until his best friend's sister comes out with news that rock the entire organizations world.,

Andy has always carried a torch for the untouchable Leighton but in her hour of need, is now the time to shoot and score or risk getting cross - checked again?

Warnings: Cheating (but not by the MCs); slow burn; friends to lovers eventually; SMUT!; pregnancy; jealousy; handsome goalies, evil exes...

A/N: The tag list is open!

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS. Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Banners by me!

Previous: Chapter Seven ~ A Little Boston Magic ~ Andy/Leia

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter Eight ~ Nothing But Lies ~ Andy/Leia

Andy

I feel like I have been here before.

I’m pretty sure I’ve been here before.

The pain in my back is getting worse the longer I stay in this position. I finally pry my eyes open and am blinded with pain. Why is my room so bright? And why am I so uncomfortable? I blinked a couple of times and realized, I’m on my couch. I slowly sat up. What the fuck happened? My mind runs throught the previous night. I remembered watching Leia and Jeremy and then heading to the Red Line. I frowned as I remember Stella being there but then, nothing really.

“Oh, you’re wake.”

I snapped my head up (which was a terrible mistake) and saw Leia coming down the stairs, fully dressed. Oh shit, there was a game today. I scrambled for my phone before Leia stopped me.

“Its ok Andy, its only eight. Practice is at ten. I’m going to make some coffee.”

I sat back with my head on the cushions. Fuck, being hung over for the second time in three months is not a good look for a captain of an NHL team. I took a moment to breathe before Leia came back in with two mugs. “Thanks,” I muttered.

“Wanna talk about it?” She took a sip, looking at me.

“I’m fine.” I took a sip and avoided her gaze.

“Ok, why are you getting drunk the night before a game? That isn’t like you, Andy.” The look on her face was breaking me. But how can I tell her? How can I tell her that her new boyfriend is a tool bag and I’m so in love with her, it kills me to see her with her. What do I say? How do I tell her about what I overheard in the locker room a couple of weeks ago.

Two weeks ago...

“That is such a sweet shot you took on Ullmark,” Luke said, laughing as he and Andy walked down to the locker room.

“It’s all in the wrist,” I replied with the pretend flick of the wrist. “Are we heading to the bar after?”

“Yeah, Cubby said she’s be our designated tonight after the game.” Luke high-fived me when they heard laughing coming from the locker room. They were about to burst in when they heard Swayman’s voice.

“Dude, she had a thing for me. When I was talking with her on the plane, she was playing hard to get. But I know, she’s into me. I’m gonna ask her out.”

“You really want to ask out the assistant captain’s sister?” Andy could hear it was Ullmark. “Is that wise?”

“Why not? You heard Andrews. He gave his blessing.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know your reputation.”

“He knows. I’ve been with him at the bars and stuff. He was just as bad before he met Miranda.” He heard him chuckle. “I just want a taste. She is sexy as hell and I can feel like she is a devil in the sheets.”

“You better make sure that Barber and Andrews don’t hear you talk like that about her.”

“What is Barber going to do? He’ll ruin his friendship with her which is ok by me. I just want a piece of her. Fuck her and leave her. Make it look a mutual thing so there’s no bad blood. Trust me, I’ve done this before and I’ll do it again.”

It took everything in Andy to restrain Luke.

It took everything inside of Andy not to tell Leia.

Present

I lied.

“Fiona called and she was trying to convince me we should make another go at it. I told her to fuck off but it messed with my head. Got to drinking to numb the feeling.”

I lied big time.

“Oh Andy,” Leia came to sit next to me and held my hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.” She leaned over my shoulder. “She is the worst.”

I never wanted the feeling of her body pressed against mine to ever stop. “Yeah, I know. I’m not even sure why I answered the call.” I am a complete asshole for lying to her but the truth would hurt her more and I can’t do it.

“Well, I’ll be home tonight after the game. You don’t fly out until tomorrow so we can relax tonight, ok?” She gave me her smile, the one I go weak over.

“It sounds like a plan, Princess.”

I have to remind myself that he is my teammate and I can’t fuck with that. It would screw everyone else and I can’t do that.

But boy, do I want to.

Practice went as practice goes but my head was not in it. Warm ups for the game are the same and I know everyone can see it. Its obvious, especially when Swayman looks at me with concern. “You ok, Cap?”

“I’m fine,” I mumble, lacing up my skates. “Leia told me what happened. Thanks for helping her.”

“It’s no problem.” He frowns. “But everything’s ok?”

“Fiona called.” Yep, maintaining that lie. “It just got to me. I just want to skate.” I pushed past him and start taking laps on the ice. I know Luke knows the lie because Leia told him. But I can’t face him. I can’t face anyone. My heart is broken right now and I just can’t do it.

The game is a tire fire right from the start.

I can’t focus. I just see Leia and Jeremy and the happiness on her face and it makes me sloppy. So sloppy that coach has to bench me in the third period, probably for safety reasons. I sat there, watching the game, knowing that if we lost this, it would be my fault. Luckily, Luke was able to take control of the team and pull out the win.

I was sitting in my stall, trying hard not to show emotion. I just wanted to go home and cuddle with Leia. I just wanted to be with my girl.

Fuck.

She's not mine.

I’m still totally fucked.

Leia

15 Weeks

The last few weeks with Jeremy had been amazing. He is such a gentleman. We had the road trip right after for ten days and Jeremy made it a point to sit across the aisle from me so we could talk. He would carry my bag when we got off and made sure that Stella and I are safely in our rooms. In the mornings, he would bring me a tea, make sure my gloves were on and then hang out if he was done for the day.

We would go out every couple of days, some days I just can’t from how tired I was. I still hadn’t told him about the baby. I spoke with management and they agreed to modify my duties but it was up to me on who I told. I love the Bruins.

The only thorn in my side is Andy. He’s been distance since my first date with Jeremy. Not just distant but angry even a little hostile. I’ve noticed that sometimes he is sharp at practice with his teammates, especially Jeremy. Its so unlike him. I decided to text Luke to see if he knew anything.

Leia: Do you know what’s wrong with Andy Luke: No Leia: You are so helpful Luke: Seriously, I’ve asked and he says nothing Luke: You know Fiona called Leia: its still from that? Luke: I guess so Leia: I guess I’ll talk to him to see what’s up

I frown at my phone. Its near 8 pm and Andy still isn’t home. Its weird for him not to come home after all of his meetings and stuff but lately he’s been coming home later and later. Sometimes, especially on days when I got out with Jeremy, I won’t see him until the next day. I decided to cancel plans with Jeremy and head home. I sit in the living room, reading when I hear his car pull up. He walks in. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey Andy. How was your day?” My voice is super sugary sweet and Andy narrowed his eyes at me.

“What’s going on? Why are you talking to me in your ‘I’m pregnant and don’t feel good so can you help me’ voice?” Andy crossed his arms over his chest. Normally I would find this very attractive, because he’s still in a dress shirt and slacks, and fuck, focus Leia!

“Just realizing that I haven’t seen you around much.” I smiled softer at him. “I missed hanging out with you.” Andy snorted and went to grab a beer. He had been drinking a little more than usual. “What? Don’t you miss hanging out with me?”

“Of course, I miss hanging out with you. I didn’t realize that you and Swayman were not serious and that you would be home more often.” He took a long pull.

“Jeremy and I are fine. What is the matter with you?” My tone was sharp.

“Me? I’m not the problem. I’m giving you space to grow in your relationship.” He raised his hands and move towards the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”

“You can’t do this Andy. We live together, we’re roommates...”

“Yes, Leighton, we’re roommates. Doesn’t mean I have to share everything with you or acknowledge your relationship.” I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. “Oh, here we go, the crying.”

“You’re being such an asshole right now Andrew. You are not like my best friend right now.” I wiped at my eyes furiously.

His face turned angry. “A best friend? You want me to be a best friend to you. Fine! Jeremy is not this great guy you think he is. He’s a douchebag and a womanizer. He’s going to hurt you and you’re just planning your entire future with him and your kid.”

“You’re just jealous because I’m finding happiness with him. I’m moving on unlike you!”

“That’s rich, moving on. You’re not going to move on with Swayman.”

“That’s not your decision!”

“I’m not deciding anything. Its facts; you’re not going to find what you are looking for with him.”

“Stay out of my life Andrew. I’m happy and that’s all that should matter.”

“He’s going to hurt you and I’ll be left to pick up the pieces again. Just like your high school boyfriend and just like Bret. You can’t even see what’s right in front of you. You keep choosing fuckboys when you could have something better. I don’t know why I would think you would look at the bigger picture with Swayman. He’s a fuckboy hockey player just trying to sleep with you so he can say I fucked my teammates sister. You are just a warm body to him and you’re too stupid to see it.” His words vibrate against the walls and his face falls with realization. “Leia...”

My heart cracks at his words, his mean and awful words. “Fuck you! I fucking hate you!”

I ran past him up the stairs and slammed the door, locking it behind me. I slide down to the floor and sobbed. I’ve never had a real fight with Andy but he’s so wrong. Jeremy and I are just starting. Things are different this time and I know it.

I woke up the next morning, my eyes sore and raw from crying. Its still early but I can’t face Andy again. I got up to shower, using the hot water to loosen my muscles. As I’m drying my hair, I stand in front of the mirror and gasp.

Between my hips is now a distinct bump. I grab my phone and check my pregnancy tracker. 15 weeks, one day. My bump popped and now there is no way to hide this. I can get away with it while I’m out because of jackets and scarfs but at work I tend to wear leggings and sweaters. I run my hand over my belly as I stare in the mirror. Hi baby, I croon softly. I move to open the door to tell Andy but I stop.

He lost the right.

I sneak out the house and head to the coffee shop for my morning tea and muffin. I work on my notes for work when my phone chimes.

Jeremy: Morning beautiful Leia: morning handsome Jeremy: so since we bailed on dinner last night, can we try again tonight Leia: I would love to

I smile as I think about the date with Jeremy. And then my smile falls. I don’t know how I can hide my condition. I have to tell him about the pregnancy. But maybe I should wait.

Perfect.

Andy isn’t home when I get there so I take advantage of it and start getting ready. I put on a fit and flare type dress with stockings and booties. My nice coat and scarf will hide my secret until I’m ready to talk to Jeremy. He’s prompt like always and we head out.

I’m nervous because this is like date four and every romance book has told me that by now, the man is hoping to get lucky. And I would, I totally would follow this except I feel so uncomfortable in my body. Having Andy and Stella tell me all the time that I look gorgeous is just getting to my head. What if he is grossed out about my body? What if he finds me repulsive? My mind is spiraling.

“Everything ok Leia?” Jeremy smiled at me as he placed his big hand on my thigh. His finger are long and I can feel the warmth, strength and roughness in them. A hard working man.

“Yeah, just upset about Andy is all. He’s still being closed off and that’s unusual for him.” There was no way I would tell him what Andy said. That would be just asking for an argument. “He’s never been so distant before,” I say before smiling. “But, I’m going to let it go because I’m excited for our date.”

“Good. I was thinking of just going to Lou’s for pizza and North Park has those Christmas lights up. Could be really pretty. “His fingers are dancing over my skin and it feels so good and distracting.

“Sounds like the perfect night.” God, I am falling hard for this man.

After pizza, he drove us to the park for the festival of lights. As we are climbing out, Jeremy hands me a soft ball. I look at him curiously. “Because I know you forgot them.” I open the bundle and its a pair of mittens. I blush because I did forget and I look down. Jeremy touches my chin to lift my head. I look into his eyes and all I see is kindness. “Its ok, beautiful. Its our thing.”

Our thing.

Swoon.

As we walk around, all the twinkling lights are setting a mood of romance. An aphrodisiac of scents fills the air from the food stalls. Jeremy gets some hot ciders to keep our hands warm as walk trough. “Ok, Halloween or Christmas?” he asks.

“Christmas. I don’t like to be scared.” I shudder at the thought. “Plus why does it involve so many spiders and clowns. Spiders are poisonous and they are creepy. Clowns... well, clowns eat people and just no.” I take a breath and look at Jeremy’s face. His face is surprised and unmoving. “What?��

“That is the most passionate speech I have ever heard about Halloween.” He burst out laughing. I huff with mock indignation and cross my arms, hip jutted while he is bent, hands on knees trying to calm himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says wiping his eyes. “Sweetheart, are you afraid of spiders and clowns?”

“It’s not funny.” I pouted at him and begin to walk away.

“Sweetheart!” Jeremy chases after me and pulls me to him. “I’m sorry,” he says with puppy eyes.

I can’t be mad at this man. “It’s ok,” I say softly.

“Let me make it up to you.” He smiles. “Let’s go back to my place, I’ll start a fire, some hot cocoa, we can cuddle on the couch.” He kisses me softly. “What do you say beautiful?”

Shit. He’ll try to touch me and he’ll know. He’ll know and I’m not ready. I’m not ready for this bubble to burst. “I would love to but I have a six am call with a club in England. I need to be up early and presentable, at least, from the waist up.” I smile. “But that sounds amazing. Maybe another night?”

“Of course, sweetheart. I like that you are working to conquer the world.” He kisses my cheek and whispers, “maybe one night I can dominate you and take you to places you never knew existed.”

I blush as he gives me a sexy smirk. Refusing this man is hard.

And I don’t know how much longer i will be able to delay it.

Its been a week since Jeremy has asked me to go home with him and I know now my time is up. My baby belly is growing and I don’t want to lie to him. I ask him to lunch and he said he would meet me at a cafe near the house. I bundle up as the falls weather has now turned to the colder side. It also helps with the bump hiding mission. I’m putting on my coat when Andy walks by. “Going out?”

“Yep.”

“Princess...” he face falls at the lack of energy in my voice but I don’t want to hear it.

“Nope.” I walked out the door and drove to the cafe. Jeremy is sitting there in a hoodie and jeans, his black peacoat over the chair. He looks like a goddamm snack. “Hey!”

“Hey sweetheart!” He gets up to kiss me on the cheek. “Its cold today.”

“Yeah, winter is coming,” I say with a giggle.

“Nice,” he smiles. We order and chat but the more I chat the more i start to get nervous. I mean, how do you tell the man you are seeing that you are pregnant with another man’s baby? Now he can tell something is wrong because he asked me something and I completely spaced. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Leia, you are a thousand miles away. What’s going on?”

I take a breath and hope for the best. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “You can tell me anything.”

“So, I’ve been dealing with some life altering news for a few weeks now and I didn’t know if I should tell you earlier because I hadn’t finished making some decisions.”

He frowns. “Is everything ok? Are you sick?”

“No, not sick. Just... pregnant.”

Swear I feel like a pin could drop and I could hear it. Jeremy’s face froze and I know, this is the end. Finally, he says, “you’re pregnant?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah, I didn’t know if I was keeping it or what I was going to do but I decided that I wanted the baby. I’m sixteen weeks pregnant. I told management last week but I needed to wrap my head around it and I needed to tell you because I know you want more with me and I just couldn’t while lying.” He still sitting there, not moving a muscle. “Say something, please.”

“Wow.” I blink, not sure what he is going to say. “I mean, wow, that’s big news.” He takes a long sip of his drink as I try to blink back tears.

“I understand if you don’t want to keep seeing me...”

“No, that’s not it, sweetheart.” He takes my hand. “I just need a moment to process this.” He smiles. “You’re gonna be a mom.”

“Yeah. Its big but I’m determined to give my baby the best life.”

He smiles. “Anything I can do to help, ok? Just let me know.” He cups my cheek. “I believe in you, sweetheart.”

Its exactly what I needed.

Taglist:

@patzammit

@texmexdarling

@slutforchrisjamalevans

@firephotogrl74

@tinkerbelle67

@before-we-get-started

@bunnyforhim

@alexakeyloveloki

@sunnyhummingbee

@whiskeytangofoxtrot555

@peaceinourtime82

@saucy-sassy-sparkly

@kmc1989

@kandis-mom

@lokislady82

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merwynsartblog · 4 months

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basic idea au where the main gang + some others are monsters/creatures who tries to play off as humans so they dont get hurt or anything-

edd the ghost- he has such a good heart he likes helping others and trying to keep everyone safe. he can possess people but he rarely does it unless needed. he is a graphic designer and likes to animate

Tom the siren. He is always calm and selectively mute. he only talks to the main gang to be honest unless he wants to cause problems then he will speak- he can sing pretty good and basically can lure people to him if he does. he works in a music store ofc

(MY HUS-/j) A nice clumsy vampire who tries to make everyone happy and very optimistic... he carries sunscreen with him at all times and only drinks blood if he gets permission from his friends. he stays home with tord due to him being very sensitive to light

MOTHER FUCKING TROUBLE MAKER. He always causes fights and problems without thinking. he is cocky and just a silly bastard i hate him but love him. he doesnt work since he causes so much trouble-

uh under readmore is like. tw for some gore stuff since i did drew marxin and mayline in it

marxin the zombie and his adopted sister mayline. he used to be in the army but died to a gun shot to the head. he doesnt trust humans alot and stay in the gangs house most of the time.

mayline is a goblin who found marxin and just..stuck with him.

#idk wtf to name this au tbh #uhh yeah silly stuff tho #eddsworld au #ew au #eddsworld #ew matt #ew edd #ew tom #ew tord #andd-#marxin the sleep deprived #mayline the lil sis

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dr-donogood · 6 months

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Hey! Idk if this still interests you or not but I saw your post saying Richtofen isn’t a n@zi

I also believe this and have done a lot of research but I think I have trouble with finding sources as I haven’t been able to find anything that shows that he is against fascism + hates it, which makes it difficult to argue that he isn’t one when talking to others about it.

Do you have proof or some sort of instance that either states or hints towards this that could help with the argument that he is against n@zis?

I’d appreciate any info you give!

Hello anon! Oh wow It has been a hot second since I've Codsed my Zombies. I'm not sure how much you know already. So I'll just go down the list of things I remeber! And i'll make this a bit beginner freindly, just in case anyone needs to show this to someone.

Also feel free to add to it!!! Or feel free to point out if I misspoke it HAS been a bit...

1) For starters, although the lore reason for Richtofen's outfit is unknown (most anything i could say here would be pure speculation and HC), we do know that he was originally just a re-used asset from the main game. He comes from the villian character Heinrich Amsel. When COD Zombies (previously Nazi Zombies) first started out, all the characters were blank slate re-used and slightly recolored assets. They ofc later gave them all names and stories (although testing the waters at first, a lot of early story got ret-conned. Such as Richtofen being a back ally surgeon.) But they unfortunately never re-designed him outside of removing the swastika :( but I also belive it's important beacuse I feel like it's one of the only things ppl bring up when the try and say Richtofen is a nazi, and I feel like it holds no weight beacuse of these things.

(Here is Heinrich Amsel. As u can see, clearly where Richtofen's original model comes from.)

2) lore stuff is dificult to pile evidance for due to how the lore in the game itself is presented. If you want the freshest and best sources (aside from meticulously beating every easter egg and finding all the secrets) YouTube videos with the quotes/Easter eggs/secrets are your best bet aside from going in game and grabbing them yourself. I can't particularly remeber what exsact maps may be able to help you. Aside from Classified!

It's just generally a real important part of the basic lore that Richtofen isn't a Nazi and hates them. It's kinda what kicks off....everything that happend. Im sure anyone could get this information from any reliable Cod Zombies lore video (i uhhh don't know which ones are reliable i haven't watched any! Probably check out Mr.RoflWaffles?). For starters, Richtofen was always a spy. He worked for the Illuminati before Maxis asked him to join Group 935, and Richtofen only joined so he could feed information back to the Illuminati. It's also important to note that Group 935 was not originally associated with Nazis. Maxis made a deal with the nazis without anyone's permission (funding and test subjects in exchange for weapons and super soldiers.) And that was one of many things that pissed Richtofen off so badly that he gathered everyone up to make a secret section of Group 935, that both worked with the allies, and planned on killing off Maxis. (Ofc his goal was later shifted and corupted by the Apothicons. But this is about how Richtofen isn't a Nazi, not questioning him as a dubious person. There was also all of the moon shit, Maxis not caring about Richtofen's experiments, a whole boat load of resons that Richtofen wanted that man dead.)

(Also. Richtofen never fought in ww2 and ww2 is already over by the time the zombie breakout happens.)

Here is a link to the Film Reels in Classified, many of which talk about how Richtofen was working against Maxis (and the nazis) and even has some verbal confirmation from Richtofen about his distaste for nazis.

youtube

Also here is also the Kronorium! As far as I know, it should still be a reliable sorce! (Like i said, it's been a while). And I think it's a bit better than the wiki (which still says his nationality is nazi german...instead of just saying he's german....) there is plenty of stuff in the interactive book that explains

https://kronorium.com/

2) here are some instances of his voice actor, Nolan North, confirming that he isn't a Nazi! (Thank you @jamieaiken919 for digging these up for me!!!)

And did that's kinda all I have for now! Like I said anyone is free to add!

#cod zombies #edward richtofen #tw nazi #nazi tw #man i made that original post when i was 13-14ish that was a while ago #i was also kinda cringe as shit back then but at least i was right about COD Zombies!!!

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loving-n0t-heyting · 9 months

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Imagine that we as a species suddenly encounter some new and acutely horrible infectious parasite. Doesn’t kill, exactly, not right away, but causes constant and excruciating pain and cognitive/emotional deterioration. And it’s horribly infectious. It’s just the worst!

So we could kill them all, the drugs exist, but instead, out of the abundant kindness of our hearts, putting every buddhist monk to shame, we instead do our best to try and communicate to them in worm-ese: please, please just fucking stop. Ofc that doesn’t work, so we resort to the next most divinely merciful thing: individually isolate and house the great mass of these parasites in a little enclave, sometimes alone but more often with a bunch of other wriggly bloodsucking friends, filled with nutrients and artificial stimulation, away from vulnerable human flesh. Until suddenly, one day, one of the parasites breaks free of its bell jar as tho by magic, pulling others out with it, and starts wreaking havoc once more on humanity

Again, we could kill them all! Would be a piece of cake! But instead, we create a giant container to contain all the other containers still remaining, to wait and see if any of these others are able to pull this same bit of invertebrate!Houdini trickery. Or at least, most of us do. There’s an eccentric, tho, who tries a different tack. Bc he cares about these little fuckers. They are his special little buddies. Instead he picks one, his precious little fucking nightmare pet, to bring back into his own privately maintained demon habitat, doing his best to communicate with a tiny little worm puppet he crafted specifically to interact with the bastard. Waits for it to spawn younglings so he can set up them with their own living quarters. He even arranges a sort of pen pal programme where the worm can wiggle and get wiggled at by its monstrous broodmates, and eventually finds them all a particularly dangerous conspecific roommate, all the while tending to its every need thru the puppet.

Why? Why does he maintain this ludicrous arrangement with a little worm boasting fewer brain cells than he has has taste buds? Bc he is going to teach it to talk, and then converse with it to see how the other worm could have escaped, and build a way forward for the two species to live in harmony. It’s insane, ofc. Nobody takes him seriously bc it’s the stupidest idea they’ve ever heard. Any number of snide remarks are made by his colleagues (as much as anything bc they see in him their failures). But it works!! One of his ~100 iterations bred from the first manages to learn to speak in human speech! It’s a fucking miracle! And so he presses on with it, showing it the damage the outbreak has caused, pleading to help him find a solution to keep both species in safety and comfort

And what does this little platyhelminth bitch do? How does this pampered little tapeworm ingrate respond to these overtures of inter-phylum peace? Tells him it thinks the one to mysteriously break free was a hottie, that he should have somehow asked permission and better collaborated on the interior design of the terrarium with it before it had the gift of fucking language to convey its wants, that he was tooooo pushy in trying to talk about how to avoid species-wide relentless torture, and now its going to use what it learned in conversation to a) kill him and ii) escape to cause the plague to end all human plagues. And it does it! While he’s prone and vulnerable and screaming for mercy and avowing his confusion and refusing to defend himself, it fucking does it!!

God what an entitled little fucking bitch

#chirality angels #some scorpion and frog shit

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daz4i · 11 months

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ohh if you do a character design analysis, i'd love to read one on atsushi and the removal of his beloved (to me) black stripe. could just be laziness but it's always been very strange to me

oooooo yeah i think the removal is out of "it would be a pain to add this to every frame he's in" D: same as the chain on chuuya's hat 😔

but as a general design analysis! atsushi actually has a lot going on!

lore wise, we know from some manga omake that 1 his hair looks like this bc he got a haircut from the kids in the orphanage 2 his clothes are a collection of stuff from the ada, each member got him a different piece

first off that's adorable. he's so cute. second i think it goes to show how affected he is by those around him - everything you can see on him besides his actual face was someone else's choice. i don't think it's entirely out of wanting to please others, more like being grateful to those who help him and are there for him, as well as not having enough of an established identity to make these choices on his own

atsushi's whole driving force for a good chunk of the story is to help others, so he can earn the right to live. and i think this is a good reflection of it! he is very dependent on the people in his life to confirm even the most basic of things (that he's allowed to live), and so it makes sense it'll be reflected in his design c: even if it ends up being mismatched or a mess of a haircut, he'll keep it this way, because that's physical proof that someone else gave him this permission, on him all the time

in addition to that, his design is mainly white with some splashes of black. that is ofc to oppose akutagawa's design, with the whole ying yang thing they've got going on

and ofc! to mirror the tiger! that's also why he has the black stripe in his hair, i think. black stripes on white fur hehe. as well as mirroring the smidge of white in akutagawa's hair imo! really hammer in the ying yang thing :P

it's interesting how his eyes are yellow and purple, usually a mix but sometimes with one overtaking the other. i think i read once that they're yellow when atsushi's more... protective and ig "good"? and purple when he's being vindictive or petty, but i could be misremembering/the thing i read might've been inaccurate, so pls take this with a grain of salt 🙏

still, whether or not that's true, i think this mix of colors is very interesting. to get into interpretation (which, tbf, this whole post is just that lol) it might be related to the time of twilight, governed by the agency? a connection between night and day, darkness and light. in a way, atsushi himself embodies that, by being the key to finding the book that every group in the story is looking for, that is the connecting force between everyone in the world due to its reality altering powers, but i like the idea that it's a subtle way of saying atsushi definitely belongs in the agency, and always has.

that's all i have now! i encourage others to offer their own takes, or cover anything i might've missed in the reblogs 🫡

#bsd design analysis #<- in case i post more of these. could be cool to start a whole tag for them 😳#dan rambles #hope that wasn't overwhelming anon ajdkflg and I'm sorry i didn't have a better answer to your actual question D:#unfortunately no links to the omake in question bc I'm on mobile but if anyone's interested i could try finding them!

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emsprovisions · 1 year

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Gustholomule HC’s Part II

• Matt goes to bed at ungodly hours on school breaks. He could easily sleep for over 12 hours. Gus sometimes wonders if he’s alive or not until he finally gets a good morning text around 5pm.

• Gus however has a bedtime he needs to stick to, not because he has to, but because if his sleep schedule/routine is broken, he will be SO crabby the whole day.

• however, Gus has spent late hours into the night giggling and kicking his feet talking to Matt over penstagram for hours, this was when he first started crushing on Matt. Matt no longer expects Gus to stay up late for him, he will do many things, but he will not face Augustus Porter’s wrath for sleeping an hour late.

• alright, I have seen SO many takes about this one and it may be controversial but. Gus is gay and Matt is pan.

• stolen with permission from @sapphic--kiwi but Gus did used to identify as bi, back when he was a young baby gay and still figuring out his identity, but as he got older, he realized he didn’t like girls at all! He’s a man kisser yuck /aff

• Matt, however, has had many crushes, on many different witches and demons (and even a robot) but Gus was the first crush he’d ever felt so strongly for. It was more than just a crush. Matt Tholomule was in soul wrenching, disgustingly utter Like™️ with Gus. He’s the first person Matt’s ever liked that he looked at and wanted so badly. He’s disgusted ofc but damn if he didn’t want to hold stupid Gus’s hand and kiss his dumb face—

• Matt has a snake palisman, named Gremlin (hc by me and design courtesy of @sapphic--kiwi ) but he has a fear of flying. It gives him motion sickness. Especially the way Gus flies on Emmiline Bailey Marcostimo. Still, he flies sometimes if he’s running late to school and Steve can’t take him in the motorcycle.

• Gus and Matt LOVE supporting each other in their respective sports. There’s no way in hell Gus would ever miss one of Matt’s grudgby matches, and the reverse is true too: Matt goes to all of Gus’s flyer derby games. They are so so supportive of their S/O and they both turn into complete idiots when they see each other in uniform.

• when they do eventually get married (when they’re much older ofc) they take the name “Tholomule-Porter” :))

• Gus is so particular about being clean but he’s also a hoarder. They have so many random human artifacts in their house, but the moment Matt tracks mud in the house— all hell breaks loose.

• I can also see Gus as an upper-level Illusions professor at Hexside one day and Matt being an architect (again, thank you @sapphic--kiwi for helping refine this one) who sometimes has to work in the field and get his hands dirty to make sure his vision is properly executed.

#gustholomule #gus porter #matt tholomule #mattholomule #toh hcs #gustholoser #the owl house #toh spoilers #toh

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maareyas · 2 months

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Hey there! Hope I'm not bothering you, but your various Cosium AUs are living in my head tonight. :D I was wondering if you had any little snippets of info you'd like to share? (About any of them. I'm not picky. ^^ I'm more than willing to listen to you ramble if you so desire.) Also, your Phantom Ben design is SUPER cool and I was wondering if I could have permission to draw him?

glad you enjoy them :^] also yeah feel free to draw him and any other of the au designs

As for snippets, you gotta give me a specific au XD I have. so many--too many, one could say. And all of them have some level of ✨Unreleased Lore™️✨ that I don't know which to talk about ahhdh

Here's some snippets for the RuBen au (aka the nickname I've lovingly given Phantom Ben):

The entire cosium family is from Mobius in this au

Ofc the entire story takes place during Forces.

Ben, Kaze, and Darren were separated from their parents when The War™️ started. They still have some contact with Mort and Athena at least.

Benonic is the only who is an "official" Resistance member. Kaze likes to tag along despite Ben telling him to stay where it's safe.

Kaze and Darren take up some of The Avatar/Gadget's roles in the story. I imagine that Gadget himself and his story still exists though.

There was a planned third part to the Ruben saga I ended up never drawing. It would have depicted this au's equivalent of the last Infinite fight. Kaze and Darren would have defeated Ben and destroyed the Phantom Ruby that was encasing his hand.

Ben however ended up in a coma because the ruby's power fried his brain.

A 4th "epilogue" drawing was also planned. This time it was Ben at the hospital with a robotic hand to replace the one the Ruby consumed before. He would have been surrounded by his brothers, Athena, Carrie, and Regina.

Mortesen and Rakar would be off to the side, talking. Rakar was a neurosurgeon in this au and operated on Ben's brain to help it recover and remove any leftover stuff from the Ruby.

Ben has striped scars on his arm from his time as RuBen. He also still has weak reality-warping powers, but using them at all takes a lot of energy and causes a terrible migraine.

#asks #the-sky-queen #Fateswap alone has so much unreleased lore hoo boy #There are also aus I never really talked about outside of my Secret Discord Circle of friends #a part of me wishes I could go back to working on them but my conscience tells me I shouldn't #I had a moment of clarity a while ago and I realized that I might have passed the boundary #for what is acceptable when making stuff for other people's ocs #so out of respect for liyu I decided by myself that maybe I should stop lmaoooo #(making aus of cosium i mean)#rey rambles

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anxious-witch · 6 months

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Hey, so, your 'positivity train' idea made me think. Disclaimer, this might be a completely stupid idea and I almost chickened out of sending this like, 5 times so really feel free to turn it down, but here goes nothing: what if we collected all the positive confessions and made them into a mini-fan project? All with the permission of people who post them/send them in, ofc, and if someone wanted to change theirs a bit or sth that would be included too.

I saw some people say that they hope they get to share what the band means to them with JO at some point, but they don't know if they will ever get a chance. It made me think about how so many ppl who don't get first few rows at shows maybe never get the chance to give the guys letters and would maybe love to share what the band means to them, but doing it from their own IG profiles is too exposing. On the other hand, the band spoke so often about how much this kind of stuff means to them.

What I was thinking was maybe like, a series of 'virtual letters', where each confessions gets transformed into a virtual letter (I can do that in Canva), with a nice design (ppl can even say what they want to include into the design and how they want to be signed). And then we could email all the letters to the band?

Once again, this is just an idea, really no pressure!

Okay, wow.

Um, I am absolutely all for the idea! That said, I believe there was a similar project on Instagram a bit ago? So I'd need to check we aren't like, copying anyone.

And obviously I'd need permission from everyone who has sent a confession/made a post if they'd be okay with the confession being used that way.

The idea is wonderful though. I'll be busy for about next two weeks bc of uni stuff but if you are willing to wait, I also can help with canva designs as well.

Obviously, people can join in and we can discuss this more through dms, but I am curious to see what other people think and if/how many would be interested in joining

#joker out #I am so writing a new confessions if we do this lmao #and will have to try not to make it a 10 0age essay

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konata-izumi-kinny-writes · 2 years

Text

Insecticons x F! Reader HCs

Help.

[A/n: i like the G1 designs and voices, but i like the hivemind concept and neutral kind of role they play in tfp, so this is a combo of both.

Yall met when one was curious and tried talking to you. You tried to mimic his weird beetle noises, then you got to know the hive and befriend them, then one thing led to another and boom.

You are now the Beetle Queen.

They all love you dearly

Just please be kind to these bug lovelies

Lots of bug cuddles every single day

In fact, they barely let you get up at all, they want you to rest, even if you're perfectly healthy.

They don't really have proper mouths in their alt modes so they just nuzzle you to simulate a kiss.

They don't really grasp the concept of the human economy so they just randomly bring things they think you'll like. Whether it be an outfit, a plushie, an instrument, pretty much anything unless it is deemed unsafe.

They treat you like the Queen you are.

And since they're a hivemind, if you tell one of them something, the rest of them now know as well

You say something about liking worms on a string to Kickback? The hive brings you a whole box of em they got from a nearby Amazon warehouse.

You ramble about a hyperfixation of yours to Shrapnel? Cool! Everyone else knows now too.

You tell Chopshop about something thats been bothering you? They all know.

They feed you your favorite snacks, even if you aren't hungry they'll bring you something.

The Insecticons are very territorial over you.

Both Autobots and Decepticons are sent aggressive warnings and clicks if they come too close.

If they don't heed those warnings or try to get near without asking you for permission first... oh boy. Lets just say, thats one less Cybertronian fighting in the war.

If you do authorize them coming close, then they back off, but their guards are still up. For good reason too.

If you wanna go for a walk, then at least one of them is following to make sure you're safe.

They think you're the most gorgeous thing in the galaxy.

They treat you like glass due to how small you are compared to them.

Nicknames include; Our Queen, Our Spark, Sweetspark, Ladybug, and Snugglebug.

The Insecticons pick you up by their mandibles in their alt modes, otherwise, you're carried like a baby.

They fly you anywhere you wanna go. But sometimes they just go ahead and fly you somewhere. Kinda like a date.

Your birthday is a big thing for them.

Its is today that you, their Queen, came into existence, how can they not be excited?!

Ofc yall celebrate their birthdays too, but they want yours to be big. Even if you get flustered or feel bad that you can't throw a party as big for them as well.

Big snuggle piles.

One of them rolls on his back and puts soft things on its stomach, another puts you on said soft things and tucks you in, then literally every single one of them joins you.

They're everywhere, next to you, above you, at your feet, on your torso, everywhere. They are careful not to squish you though.

Grab headphones for late May and early June. You'll need it.

These bitches do mating calls all the way until 3 in the damn morning 🤣

Its literally the song of their people. I'm not even saying that as a joke (not intentionally at least Lmao).

For them its one big Cybertronian love sonnet.

You don't have the heart to tell them that you just hear a cacophony of noise.

In Autumn, the amount of snacks they bring you increase by... quite a bit. Even if you're not hungry.

Explain Halloween to them, they'll love it. They don't get why Trick or Treat-ing is a thing but they like seeing you skipping around in your costume.

Thanksgiving is fun with them if you celebrate it. Say you're thankful for them, they will absolutely melt.

In the winter though, they all snuggle close to you and vibrate in an attempt to keep you warm underneath all the blankets they covered you with.

Remember all of those snacks they brought even if you weren't hungry? This is where that comes in since its a bit too cold to go out.

They will celebrate Christmas with you though. (If you celebrate that is.)

They don't really know what its about or why you're decorating a tree or why you're putting their leaf-wrapped gifts and these weird boxes under it, but if you're happy then so are they.

Same goes for literally every other holiday, sometimes they understand, sometimes they don't, but either way they wanna see you happy and join in on your festivities.

To wrap things up, your buggie boyfriends love you with all their sparks, and they want you to know that.

Thanks for Reading

Requests are closed, srry yall

#konata izumi kin writes #transformers x reader #insecticons x reader #insecticons #G1 Insecticons #TFP Insecticons #fictober #SoundCloud

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k-evans-reads · 1 year

Text

In Living Color

Chapter 24

Pairing: Chris Evans x Pixar Animator OFC Natalie Marton

Word Count: 3,953

By: @k-evans-writes and @ourfinest-hour

We do NOT give permission for our works to be reuploaded, translated, or reposted on any other site. Our work is our own.

Warnings: None.

Previous | Main Masterlist | In Living Color Masterlist

Nat watched with a smile as Chris opened the sliding doors from his room to the patio, stepping out in his swim trunks and a tee shirt and into the bustling backyard. The kids all hurriedly shouted greetings to him before they turned their attention back to the game, and soon enough he’d made his way over to Nat and Alex as they sat on lounge chairs near the pool as Jack napped on Alex’s chest.

Her eyes slipped shut momentarily as he pressed a quick kiss to her lips and murmured, “Hey,” before he greeted Alex.

“How’d it go?” Alex asked him, her hand moving up and down Jack’s back as he slept soundly.

She watched Chris shrug, pursing his lips before he smirked as she saw him watching the kids playing with Heather and Ryan in the pool. “Alright,” he finally answered with another shrug. “Didn’t go awfully but I never like doing talk shows.”

Nat frowned as she listened to his words, but the reassuring look on Chris’ face as they met each other’s eyes quelled her fears. He winked at her before he slipped his sunglasses over his eyes, shielding him from the early evening sun, and turned, giving Dodger a scratch before the dog ran off again.

“Zach is just about to start grilling,” Nat began, before Chris nodded, turning his head over his shoulder as he headed over towards the outdoor kitchen.

Nat’s words were proven true when Zach and Eric came out of the house carrying chicken and burgers to grill, bright smiles on their faces when they saw Chris had returned. She listened happily to the sounds of the kids splashing in the pool, Chris catching up with her brother-in-law and father as they turned the grill on, and the soft breathing of Jack as he slept happily, and Nat felt… content. She was happy and warmth spread over her body, not from the summer sun, but from just how great she felt here with everyone.

It’d been a rough few months not only for her, but for Chris as well, and for the first time since early April, Nat felt like she could take a deep breath and kick back. She had the week off of work, having arrived in Los Angeles from San Francisco late the previous Saturday. She’d been more than happy to hang out with Chris in his home in between him running around the city, making appearances and doing interviews to promote the film. She’d relished in the familiarity of it all, something she’d been missing since she’d moved up north.

But the best part was when her family arrived the previous day, just after Chris finished his Zoom interviews at home. Getting to hug everyone and finally be with them meant more to Nat than she’d realized, and she felt her gratitude for Chris’ generous offer of playing host for them grow as she got to spend more and more time with him and them.

Nat’s brain was cycling through thoughts of feeling as if it was her playing pretend. That the elated shrieks of joy from the pool, the roar of the grill kicking on as Chris’ laughter echoed through the backyard, and that the content sighs of Alex next to her all weren’t real. That this wasn’t her reality, her life, or where she really was, not after spending so much time alone and unhappy as of late. She knew some of it was her fault – her fault for turning down invitations from her new co-workers of bar hopping on Fridays after a long and busy week, of taking lunches at her desk as she tried to keep up with her ever-growing inbox, and not venturing out much. But she was tired. She was simply so exhausted at points that she could barely muster the energy to brush her teeth at night and turn the lights off before falling into bed, that it was hard for her to summon the energy to be Nat.

She’d expected the transition to San Francisco to come with growing pains, but she’d been comforted by the knowledge that it wasn’t an entirely new place. She’d been there before for work trips to Pixar’s main campus, and she knew most of the team there already. But her reputation around the Disney offices of being the jokester, the happy-go-lucky, cheerful one had followed her there, and she struggled reconciling that persona and personality with reality now. She’d thrived in Los Angeles, with her core group of friends, her routine… and with Chris. But now she didn’t have that consistency in her life, with an ever-changing schedule depending on what department needed her and what meetings she was needed in, and by the end of the day she nearly always had a pounding headache. Any plans to finally take that scary step, to try to form friendships with people or finally start going to that yoga class she’d had bookmarked for weeks now were thwarted by the pain. Instead, Nat would go home, scrounge up some semblance of dinner, and quickly talk to Chris as she continued working in an attempt to make tomorrow better, but it never did. It truly never stopped.

But now, here in Southern California, with her entire extended family and the man she so desperately loved – and had been for well over a year now – she was happy. She was herself. She could’ve stayed there on that lounge chair all night as the sun dipped below the horizon, but she joined everyone at the large dining table on Chris’ back patio, her hand on Chris’ back as they passed the plates around and helped the kids get situated.

Carson’s blonde hair stuck up every which way as his pool towel draped over his shoulders, and his eyes were wide as Chris helped serve the young boy food. Nat’s smile was soft as she watched Carson eagerly take the plate from Chris before he started eating in the chair across from them, and then her attention was drawn to Lily, sweet Lily, who was quietly sitting next to Chris, a smile on her lips as he whispered something to her, making her laugh.

Looking around at everyone here, Nat knew this is where she was meant to be, and was so thankful that Chris had fought for them to get to this point, to make it this far. But she didn’t want to stop here. She wanted to add a few more seats to the table, if they were able, and to see these kids grow up, hand-in-hand with each other at every graduation, birthday party, and soccer game, signing each Christmas gift and birthday cards from “Uncle Chris and Aunt Nat”.

She’d been zoned out and in her own head for a long time when she felt Chris’ elbow nudge her side, expectant eyes staring back at her as Chris slyly nodded his head to Ryan. “Sorry, what?” Nat asked, a sheepish look on her face as she looked at her brother-in-law.

“I was just asking how San Francisco and work has been for you,” Ryan explained, shrugging with a small grin.

Nat took a deep breath, biting her lip. “It’s… alright,” she began, pausing as she felt Dodger pass her underneath the table. “It’s just been really busy. I didn’t really expect the adjustment to be this hard,” she explained in a moment of honesty, one she hadn’t really divulged to any of them yet.

“You just miss that soft serve machine at the Disney campus,” her brother-in-law Ryan pointed out, causing a loud round of laughter to pass through the group with each of them being well aware that it was a fixture Nat loved. But in that moment, she couldn’t seem to muster up a laugh because the situation felt anything but lighthearted to her.

Heather encouraged her with a smile,“I’m sure you’ve already made a ton of friends there.”

“Well, it’s hard to compete with Mark and Jamie,” she muttered in response, not wanting to admit that there truly hadn’t been anyone she clicked with, leaving so much loneliness inside her but just shrugged, “It’s just been a lot different settling in than I thought.”

“Probably because unpacking that disaster called moving boxes was a job in itself!” Chris slapped a hand to his chest while boisterously laughing before he started telling the story to the family of how he had to dig through pots and pans just to find Nat’s socks but the playful teasing seemed to gloss over her feelings that she struggled to even wrap her brain around, let alone share, so once again Nat just pushed those emotions away for the time being.

She knew she’d have to figure out a way to settle in and figure out her new life in San Francisco, especially after how hard she fought to take this position, but now wasn’t the time. Nat was here in Chris’ house, which felt like it was partly her home too with her section of clothes in the closet, hair products in the shower, and her little touches of throw pillows and artwork around the house. She was sitting here with the man that she loved more than she ever knew was possible and her family that was here to go to the premiere of the movie that changed her life. Right now she didn’t have to think about going back to San Francisco, she was here with the things that mattered most to her in life and she was happy.

The minutes on the clock kept passing as the family all hung around eating and talking while the kids played, in their own bubble of happiness until Chris’ phone chimed with a notification from his older sister. Quickly, Chris and Nat scurried to the door to open the gate to Chris’ home, wide grins on their faces as they finally got to see Chris’ family arrive for the premiere. His mother and older sister Carly, along with her husband, Kevin, and their kids had made the trip from Massachusetts to Los Angeles, but that wasn’t the only thing Nat was excited about.

Chris’ niece and nephews were each holding a few randomly colored balloons in their hands as they ran up the front walkway to greet their uncle, and Carly held a bag, giving Nat a knowing smile as she followed Lisa up the path, who held a box in her hands.

Nat had reached out to Lisa a few weeks prior when she realized that Chris’ promotional schedule had him flying to London just before his birthday, putting him thousands of miles apart from everyone during his special day. They’d decided on doing a small celebration for him, not only for his birthday, but to celebrate the hard work he’d put in for the film for years now.

She hung back, taking the ice cream from Carly and passing the cake to Alex as she came to help and went into the kitchen with her sister, giving Chris a moment to say hello to everyone and have some privacy. But as they slowly gathered everyone inside around the large dining table, passing cake and scoops of ice cream to everyone after they sang to Chris, she found herself sitting closely next to the man of the hour. His arm was around her shoulders as they stood at the island, his attention devoted to watching his niece and nephews as they ran around outside with the dog. His thumb moved side to side over Nat’s bare arm, occasionally tapping the skin there in a way that told her he felt just as happy as she did.

The conversation amongst the group flowed easily until Lisa switched the subject to what would be taking place tomorrow night and commented, “I can’t wait to see you two together tomorrow night. You’re going to look so good together!”

Upon hearing the comment of the impending news of their relationship being broken to the world tomorrow night, Carly was curious, “Nat, did you decide what you’re wearing?”

“Oh did you get that expensive dress?” Heather chimed in.

“No but what I picked was just as expensive,” she admitted with a chuckle. She remembered her weeks-long search, having consulted with Chris’ stylist to make sure what she’d wear wouldn’t clash with his planned outfit. She then shrugged as she added, “I figured if photos of Chris and I are going to be plastered all over the internet I might as well go all out.”

Carly smiled as she listened to Nat’s words, just as Nat’s brothers-in-law grabbed the kids to get them ready for bed after their long day of swimming. “So what did you choose?” She asked, eyes glancing outside at where her children were playing with Dodger before she looked at Nat with a raised brow.

Nat leaned back against Chris’ embrace, his thumb still moving over her skin. “Um, it’s over in that garment bag,” she began, nodding her chin to the two garment bags hanging in the doorway of the laundry room. One was smaller, a black bag with Chris’ name in his stylist’s handwriting on the outside of it and the other was full-length and a beige color.

Lisa, Carly, Heather, and Alex went over to the bag, unzipping it and taking in the chartreuse wide-leg pantsuit she’d had altered in the previous days. She hung back with Chris, relaxing in his touch as she heard the women excitedly whisper to each other as their eyes took in the outfit. Eric stayed near the couple, but his attention was captivated by the garment bag across the room as he craned his neck to sneak a peek at it. But with the women crowded around the clothes, hands reaching out to delicately run over the material and the embroidered bra she’d wear with it, Eric got up and headed over to get a better look.

“I’m so nervous,” Nat muttered quietly, chewing on her bottom lip.

Almost instantly, Chris tightened the arm that was tossed over her shoulder, pulling her close so that he could kiss her cheek and comfort her with, “Nattie, remember you don’t have to do this,”

“Well people have been hardcore speculating we’re together ever since the house party last year and then you coming to my art show and the other times we’ve been spotted, so it makes sense to just come out with it,” Nat shrugged, recalling the multiple conversations they’d had about this and finally coming forward publicly with their relationship. They had hoped just coming forward with it would help stop some of the speculation and let them have a little more freedom.

“I think so too,” Chris agreed before dipping his head and smiling at her sweetly while adding, “Besides, I want to be arm in arm with the most talented artist at Pixar.”

“So that means I have to be arm and arm with you then?” She couldn’t help but tease him.

“Sorry baby, you’re stuck with me now,” he simply shrugged. “If it makes you feel better though, I’m nervous about tomorrow too but it makes me feel better knowing I’ll have you with me. And now we won’t have to hide.”

Nat just nodded, tucking some of her curls behind her ear while acknowledging, “If you think it’s the right time to appear together, I trust that.”

Chris nodded toward her, silently saying he thought it was the best decision before sealing it with a soft kiss before telling her, “I love you, Nattie.”

“I love you too,” she smiled, knowing how easily those words fell out of her mouth.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, but held her close as it grew into a smile. His head leaned against her own as his hand slipped down her side to rest on the small of her back, fingers tapping absentmindedly against her worn shirt.

Nat was admittedly scared, she didn’t think there was anything anyone in her position could ever do to properly prepare for this. But at the end of the day, hiding would always cause more stress for the both of them. She struggled sometimes with knowing they couldn’t run to the grocery store together in most places for fear of him being spotted, which would spur further attention and interest in not only him, but Nat as well.

The attention on Nat’s personal life had calmed down much more when compared to this time last year, and she finally felt like she could breathe when she wasn’t faced with thousands of follow requests hourly on her social media. But with this big scary step towards finally acknowledging the relationship publicly, she and Chris had discussed how things would likely look going forwards. More interest and requests for interviews and comments to his press team, more speculation online, more attempts to get a glimpse into her private accounts… it all was just so foreign to her.

But she felt ready. She felt ready to get to be side-by-side with him as a partner, to finally be able to speak openly beyond their tight knit circles about their relationship statuses, to get to post things a little more freely without worrying if someone will see her in the background of a story of Dodger, if a hostess at the Italian place downtown would share that they were together having dinner, or any of the thousands of other scenarios her mind made up while she couldn’t sleep each night.

Even though she maybe wasn’t one hundred percent ready, she’d seen the frustration Chris felt, and tried to hide, when he’d admit that he just wished things could’ve been easier. That no one cared who he was with or if he was dating. So with that knowledge, and hearing Chris out when he came to her with the idea of walking the carpet together at this smaller-scale premiere than he normally had… she agreed. Maybe with a bit of anxiety, a bit more fretting than she anticipated, and with a bit of hesitancy, but she agreed. And now, in less than a day, she and Chris’ faces would likely be all over any coverage of the event.

She only hoped that this was the right choice, that this big leap and change in their relationship was for the better. He’d felt the same, she knew that he was excited for the event as a whole. It was hard to overlook the importance of the premiere for both of them. For Nat, her first released work as the lead character designer for the main character of the film. For Chris…. His lifelong dream of working in a Pixar movie was realized. And she couldn’t have been more proud of him and hoped he’d have a chance to remember that tomorrow.

“I still can’t believe how fuckin’ amazing that movie looked,” Chris whispered as he shut the bedroom door behind him quietly. They’d just arrived back at Chris’ after the premiere, having quietly made their way to their room, careful to not wake anyone in the rest of the home. Her family had left after the movie, with Alex and Zach coming home first with the kids to relieve the sitter for Jack, and the rest slowly making their way during the after-party. Chris’ voice was full of awe as he reminded her, “Baby, that was what you created.”

She smirked, lifting her shoulders in a half-shrug as she reached back and took off her necklace while she kicked off her heels. “Well you’re the one who brought it to life with your voice,” she pointed out, relaxing as her bare feet hit the hardwood floors.

“Are you kidding? Nobody could have given a shit about my voice, they were too busy staring at those incredible reflections on Buzz’s helmet,” she heard him protest as he made his way through the bedroom, bathroom, until he finally reached the large walk-in-closet. Nat followed him there, desperate to change out of the fancy clothes and into something comfortable. While she’d loved – practically adored – the outfit she’d worn and felt beautiful, she was ready to relax and just be Nattie, instead of Natalie Marton.

She smirked as he caught her eyes as he unbuttoned the knit polo, her voice quiet as she confessed, “Okay I will admit I was pretty proud of that.”

A soft smile was on Chris’ lips as he watched her carefully hang the blazer before she changed out of the rest of the clothes. “I’m pretty proud of you,” he told her honestly.

“And I’m proud of you. I can’t get over how talented you are and I feel like I got to see so much of that come to fruition tonight,” Nat admitted to Chris just as easily. She could see the effect her words had on him, the way he stood up a little taller, the smile growing on his lips, and she couldn’t help but be struck by the realization, yet again, that they were each other’s.

“I can say the exact same thing about you, Nattie,” Chris replied as he hung his clothes up and held a pair of sweatpants in his hand, placing them on the countertop in the center of the closet. He walked out into the bathroom in only his boxers, Nat’s eyes moving over the freckles and tattoos covering his torso until he was out of sight. Once she’d changed into pajamas, she joined him in the bathroom, side by side as they each washed off the perfectly applied makeup from earlier. “And I’m so proud of how well you handled everything tonight… you know, about us appearing together. I’ve done things like this before and it’s still not easy for me, so seeing how well you handled it really blew me away.”

“I don’t think the reality has settled in yet,” Nat admitted as she hung her wash cloth up, brushing off his praise a bit while she reached for her toothbrush. “I’m terrified to see what’s going to blow up on the internet tomorrow.”

“I’m sure it’s already blowing up now,” Chris simply stated as he quickly brushed his own teeth, causing Nat to look at him curiously as she moved her toothbrush over her teeth. She hadn’t really thought about it much during the premiere, too distracted by everything going on and listening to Chris’ publicist’s instructions, but back here, in the quiet of his canyon home… her mind started racing.

As she rinsed her mouth out and put her toothbrush back in its spot, she looked at Chris as he hung a towel on the shower door. Nat went into the bedroom and called back to him, “Do you think so?”

“Baby, let’s try not to worry about it now. We had an incredible night getting to celebrate what brought us together in the first place so let’s focus on that instead,” Chris told her, standing in the doorway as he shook his head at her, then told her he was going to shower and would be out in a few minutes.

Before Nat climbed into bed, she picked up her small clutch from her nightstand, pulling out the lipgloss, her phone, and her gum, placing them on her nightstand. As she heard the shower kick on in the bathroom behind the bed, she settled back on the luxurious pillows, staring at her phone as she weighed her options. She could sneak a glance, indulge a little bit and see what was going on… or she could sleep, relish in the time she was getting with Chris before his busy summer schedule truly kicked off, putting them hundreds and thousands of miles apart for most of the time, and face their new reality tomorrow once she was awake. But her curiosity got the best of her and she reached for her phone for the first time that evening, staring at the screen as it powered on.

Nat felt her stomach drop as she saw what felt like miles and miles of notifications on her phone from texts from friends who now found out she was dating Chris Evans, to thousands and thousands of new follow requests, and articles people were sending her. She wasn’t stupid, knowing that tonight would bring on a barrage of things like this, but actually clicking on a link to an article on People Magazine’s website and finding a picture of her there with the title “Chris Evans surprises at Lightyear premiere with secret girlfriend!”

It seemed like this entire year had brought on so much stress to Nat’s life. It had started with her having to work on two movies at once, causing her to be stuck in the office for all hours of the day and then had ended up with her being promoted. She had been so sure of this promotion, knowing it was the right thing for her career but had resulted in Chris walking out of her life. Although that had turned out well with them back together and stronger than ever, the job she had been so sure about hadn’t panned out the way she wanted.

San Francisco had been… lonely. Nat didn’t feel like she fit in there and had come to see that Chris’ words had been true and that being in charge of the department had left her feeling exhausted and burnt out in all the worst ways. But she had chosen this, she had put everything on the line for this and didn’t feel like she could give it up that easily, and the one thing that had been her saving grace was that she knew that she’d get this week off tucked in Chris’ home with him once again while their families surrounded them.

This past week she felt like she could finally breathe, causing her to see just how suffocated she was in her new life. But now even this safe place now came with her face all over the internet and all the stress that came with it. Tears welled in her eyes, feeling nothing but overwhelmed in this moment as she kept torturing herself by scrolling on her phone until suddenly it was being pulled out of her hands.

“Nattie, don’t do that,” Chris told her, a deep frown on his face as he put her phone down on his nightstand, sliding into the bed. His hair was still wet from the shower, sticking up messily from his attempt to towel dry it, and his chest was bare with a pair of sweats hung low on his hips. His frown remained as he explained to her, “Looking at everything right now is only going to stress you out, trust me.”

Nat blinked a few times, wiping the tears from her eyes harshly before her hands fidgeted at her side, absentmindedly wishing Dodger hadn’t gone to bed with the kids earlier. “I’m going to have to see it sooner or later,” she protested, tensing a bit as Chris’ hand found her own before he squeezed it comfortingly.

“Let’s not worry about it now,” he suggested, his voice soft and calm. He then lifted his shoulders in a shrug, pointing out, “Besides, I only have you for a few more days.”

“Don’t remind me,” she muttered, shaking her head. Her brain had a mental countdown to her flight on Saturday back to San Francisco, almost taunting her with the reminder of her return to her sad reality. “I don’t want to go back to work.”

Chris arched an eyebrow at her, his eyes surprised. “Nattie the workaholic is saying this? I don’t believe it,” he murmured through a laugh.

“You can believe it now.”

Nat just stared down at the blankets while using the back of her hand to wipe at the tears spilling down her cheeks until she felt a warm hand on her waist while a low voice coaxed her, “Hey, c’mere.”

Wanting his comforting touch more than anything, Nat scooted over, letting Chris’ thick arms wrap around her. She laid her head on his bare chest while his hands just rubbed up and down her back and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and tried to encourage her, “I know it’s taking a minute to settle in at your new job but you know it’s going to be just fine. You’ll get used to something new, I know you will. And everything from tonight and us appearing together seems big right now but it’ll all die down and be just fine.”

And although Nat wanted more than anything to have someone understand just how deep her emotions were, how scared and lonely she felt out in San Francisco, something else was stirring inside of her. She knew Chris meant well with those words, but she felt like she had to get over this. That it wasn’t an issue, that this was all in her head, and it was only reinforced by the continual promises of “It’ll get better!” each time she brought up her feelings around everything.

She’d stick it out. She’d get over it. It’d get better. It had to.

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