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intheorangebedroom · 6 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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weirdmarioenemies · 5 months

Text

Name: Melon Bug (again)

Debut: Super Mario World 2: Yoshi’s Island

(I wanted to write some more about Melon Bug, and I liked the original post just fine, so this post will be a continuation since that one was so short!)

An isopod! Oh, joyous day! It may not look like one at all with that big ol’ nose, but when it’s rolled up, there is no mistaking it! Here’s a very fun fact: when an isopod curls into a ball, it’s called conglobation! Use that in your everyday lives.

Melon Bug technically isn’t an enemy, you know the drill, weird Mario friends, that usual thing. When curled up, Yoshi can lick them up and spit them out, defeating enemies they hit! Could this be the first instance of weaponized isopods?

The Player's Guide says "These feisty hoppers transform from bug to melon and back again." Feisty? They're only slightly more feisty than a real pill bug! And a real pill bug has a negative Feistiness Level. I don't think whoever wrote this has played the game, since Melon Bug is harmless! I also don't think they know about real pill bugs, because they clearly can't cogitate conglobation. A bug transforming into a melon? How unrealistic! What do they think this is, Trip World?

I think "Melon Bug" is a very good name. An incredible name, even! When Melon Bug curls up, it, obviously, resembles a melon, what with both being round with stripes. While real pill bugs don't really have "stripes", their tergites (armor plates) do give a "lined" appearance. If you ask me, Melon Bug could be a good name even for real terrestrial isopods!

What do YOU call pill bugs? I've always called them roly-polies, but they have so many wacky names. Woodlouse? Yeah sure, a bug that lives under wood, why not! Butchy-boy? I don't get it, but it's funny. Then there are all the names comparing them to pigs which I just do not get, but groundhogs also get compared to pigs in common names a lot, so maybe people just don't know pigs as well as they like to think. And THEN! England gave them a bunch of CHEESE-related names. What is happening over there? Are British people somehow making cheese from isopod secretions? Why would you call this creature a CHEESELOG? That's a straight up food! I kind of love this name for them for being so ridiculous! Anyway, my point with all this is that Melon Bug would be more actually fitting than the majority of the common names these have been given, but sometimes it is more fun to be unfitting!

Isn't it weird how Melon Bug's art doesn't quite look like the sprite? Such bulging eyes in the art, but little dots in-game... well, we now know the reason!

Remember Super Donkey, from the 2020 gigaleak? I feel like it's been far too forgotten for how interesting it is! Anyway, as I mentioned when talking about that game, Melon Bug was originally designed for it! It seems like the Yoshi's Island art was drawn before they decided to shrink its sclerae, and lighten its colors, but after they decided to give it little red shoes.

If you grew up calling roly-polies something else, or if you know fun names from other languages, I would love to hear them! And I hope you love and appreciate these creatures! They are so common and easy to observe, so rather than get jaded to their presence, celebrate them, and you will be able to find delight whenever you turn over a log!

#melon bug #yoshis island #super mario world 2: yoshis island #mario entities #weird mario all stars #mod chikako

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topguncortez · 11 months

Text

Taking A Sick Day || Whumptober Day 18 - J. Seresin

whumptober masterlist

synopsis: what you thought was just a stomach bug, turned into you having to make the biggest decision of your life and putting you and Jake's relationship to the test

word count: 5.3k

@ailesswhumptober prompt: vomiting

warnings: medical abortion, abortion pills, pregnancy, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of missed menstrual cycles, grief, mentions of teenage pregnancy, pro-life protestors, cursing, vomiting.

note: all humans deserve the right to choose what they want to do with their own bodies, whether you support abortions or not. any kind hate of any kind while not be accepted. this is a safe space.

“You look like hell ran you over,” You groaned and lifted your head, looking at the person invading the bathroom you were currently occupying. Jake’s annoyingly perfect self stood in the doorway, his head tilted slightly in confusion as he took notice of your pale face and the sheen of sweat on your forehead.

“Go away,” You waved your hand.

Jake chuckled and sauntered into the bathroom, that megawatt smile on his face as he fixed his hair in the mirror. How someone could look so good at 8 AM while you were fighting for your life, you weren’t sure. Another wave of nausea hit you as Jake sprayed the smallest bit of cologne on his body. You groaned, dry heaving into the toilet bowl, Jake looking at you with concern.

“You okay, Ace?” He asked, using your nickname that you’ve had since you were a kid.

You grew up with the infamous Jake Seresin. Why he chose you of all people to be friends with, was beyond your knowledge. Your parents didn’t run in the same social circles. Jake was all athlete while you were all books. But, your bond was tight. The two of you grew up thick as thieves, following each other to the University of Texas. While Jake decided that he was going to study political science and join the NROTC, you decided to go with biology, following your goal to become a doctor.

Your relationship with Jake had slowly evolved the older you got. You went from making mud pies in the backyard to those awkward middle school dances, to the relationship you have now. You weren’t exclusive, he wasn’t your boyfriend and you weren’t his girlfriend. But you were his and he was yours.

Jake got down on his haunches next to you, as you closed your eyes, hoping that the rising bile in your stomach would subside. He pressed the back of his hand to your head and frowned.

“You don’t feel hot,” Jake mumbled, “Maybe you’ve got a stomach bug? Food poisoning?” You just shrugged gently laying down on the bathroom floor, curling up into a ball, “Is it your cramps making you sick, again? You’ve been upchucking every day this week and according to the calendar on the-”

You sat up quickly, your eyes wide as you looked at Jake. Nothing needed to be said, Jake could read the panic on your face as you looked at him. You ran your hands through your hair, looking down at the floor as you tried to recount the last time you got intimate with Jake.

“Are you. . . Do you think. . . that you. . .” Jake gestured toward your stomach, “Maybe the condom broke?”

Your eyes snapped towards him, “You didn’t check it?”

Jake felt his heart pounding in his ears, “I did, but maybe there was a small tear, I-I don’t know,” He crawled a bit closer to you, “Tell me what you need me to do.”

You told Jake exactly what you needed from him, and he left without hesitation to go get pregnancy tests. Your mind was running a mile a minute as you paced the small floor of your shared apartment with Jake. This couldn’t be happening. Not to you. Not now. Not when you haven’t even gotten secured on your feet. Not when you weren’t settled down in the life that you wanted. Not when you didn’t know if you and Jake would last past college.

Your parents had always wanted better for you. Your mother was a young mom at the age of 19. She had dropped out of college to raise you, while your dad started working at the local steel mill. You didn’t have an extravagant life. You lived within the means of your parents’ income. You had the things you needed, even though sometimes they were hand-me-downs, or bought second-hand. There wasn’t money to do extra things, like trips to Disney World, or to go on shopping trips to the mall. You had to decide if you wanted to do dance or softball, not getting to do both like the other girls in your class. Sending you off to college had been the biggest victory in their lives. And you weren’t about to let them down.

Jake had returned to the apartment to find you sitting on the couch, a stoic look on your face. He knew that you had a plan for your life. It was one of the things he loved about you. You knew what you wanted to do with your future, and you were going to achieve those goals. He set the bag from Walgreens on the counter and sat down silently next to you on the couch. He didn’t touch you, put a comforting hand on your thigh, or around your shoulders. He knew you well enough that you would just shrug it off. Instead, he sat silently next to you, letting you have the floor to talk.

“I can’t have a baby,” You said, “I can’t have a baby, not now. Not when I’m not financially stable or have a house that doesn’t have chipping paint and a power panel that doesn’t allow you to run the AC and the microwave at the same time.”

Jake nodded his head, “I agree with that one. I don’t think either one of us is ready. But if financials is what scares you, you know that I-”

“No,” You shook your head and looked at him, “I know that you will take care of me and this. . . baby,” You swallowed thickly, “But I don’t want that. I want to be able to equally provide for my family. I want to feel stable myself, and I just don’t feel like I am. Not right now.”

Jake nodded again, understanding your words. You were painfully independent, and there were times when Jake just wanted to wrap you up and take care of you.

“What do you want to do?” Jake asked.

You gulped, finally turning to face him, tears in your eyes, “I think the best thing for me. . . is to get an abortion,” Your voice cracked. Jake grabbed your hand, holding it tightly as you cried, “I-I want a baby, and I want a family. . . but I can’t right now.”

“I know,” Jake said, softly. You sucked in a breath as you tried to breathe through your sobs. He moved you closer to him, rubbing your back as you hiccuped “Let’s take this one step at a time, okay? First thing, is we need to know if you are pregnant, alright? And then we can go from there.”

You nodded your head, and Jake got up from the couch, grabbing the bag from the counter. He held out the box of pregnancy tests and a bottle of water. You stood wordlessly, grabbing both the items from his hand, and staring at them.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Jake asked.

“No,” You shook your head, “I think I’m capable of pissing on plastic sticks.”

Jake chuckled a bit at your words. He gently grabbed your face in both of his hands and pressed a kiss to your hairline, “We’ll figure this out. Just need to know where we are before we start making a plan.”

You nodded and looked up at him. You pressed a kiss to his cheek before turning and heading into the bathroom. Once the door was shut, Jake released a deep sigh, running a hand through his blonde hair.

Those five minutes were the longest five minutes of your life. Once you had finished in the bathroom, setting the three sticks on the counter, you went back out to the living room. Jake had tidied up the apartment a bit, cleaning up the dirty dishes that had been in the sink for who knows how long. As you looked around the apartment, it became more clear to you that you couldn’t raise a baby like this. You had a collection of empty liquor bottles on top of the cabinets, you basically lived off of pizza rolls and mac’n’cheese, and you used paper plates more than actual plates because it was easier. You could hardly take care of yourself, there was no way you could take care of another human.

“Hey,” Jake said, noticing you standing in the middle of the living room, “We wait now?”

You swallowed, “We wait now.” You sat down on the couch and Jake brought over a plate with two pieces of buttered toast.

“Thought you might be hungry,” Jake offered, “It’s easy on the stomach.”

You smiled at him, taking the plate from his hands. Jake sat down next to you, grabbed the television remote, and turned it on. It felt so normal, sitting next to Jake as he searched through the very limited amount of channels that the cheapest cable package could get you. It wasn’t like you were waiting for three sticks in the bathroom to determine your fate.

Jake settled on a rerun of Jeporady, as the two of you silently watched it, waiting for the timer to go off. Once it did, Jake stood up first.

“Do you want me to-”

“I got it,” You said and handed him the plate with the half-eaten piece of toast.

Jake followed you as you walked down the hall towards the bathroom. He lingered in the hallway, watching as you took a deep breath before grabbing the first stick. You paused for a moment, your face expressionless, and Jake thought for a split second that this had been a false alarm. But then your shoulders fell and tears ran down your cheeks as a sob left your mouth. He didn’t even wait for you to turn over the other two, as he barged into the bathroom and pulled you into a tight hug.

“Jake. . . I. . . I-”

“I know,” Jake whispered, cradling the back of your head and running a hand down your back.

— — —

“The closest center is in Kansas,” Jake said, looking over his shoulder at you. It had been a couple of hours since you found out that you were pregnant. The shock had worn off and now all you felt was grief. Jake had put you in bed, tucking you in tightly with all your blankets as he started the search for the closest women’s clinic that also offered abortions since Texas had completely banned them.

You sighed and rubbed your eyes, “Eight hours away?”

Jake nodded his head, “Yeah. It’s illegal here and in Oklahoma. We can get you into a clinic here, but they don’t offer-”

You huffed, “Fucking lawmakers. Why do men get a say in what I do with my fucking body?”

Jake shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s fucked, I agree.”

You stared at the ceiling. Your mind kept flip-flopping back and forth as Jake tried to find a place for you to be seen. It made you wonder if you were making the right choice. All this hassle to find a clinic, when you could just be seen in Texas, carry a baby, and give the baby up. Then you started thinking about adoption, there were both pros and cons to it. You would be giving a baby to a family who couldn’t have their own, but finding a good family was hard. But then you started to think about yourself, could you really give up a baby that you had grown for nine months? That you had bonded to? And what if you didn’t find the right family? What if they did something to hurt the baby you had grown and delivered?

You sat up in bed, letting out a frustrated sound. You didn’t know you could cry this much as you pulled on the roots of your hair.

Jake closed his laptop and leaned over to you, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” You sniffled, “I’m thinking that this decision is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. People really think that women just. . . do this with no remorse? I know what I’m doing. I know that this fetus is growing and multiplying by the second. I study biology, I’m well aware of what’s going on inside of my own body.”

“But,” Jake said, anticipating the conjunction.

“I can’t do it,” You sobbed, “I can not be the one who grows a baby and gives that baby up. I just can’t. I know if I wait even a week longer, I will not be able to make that choice. I need to do it now.”

Jake nodded his head and squeezed your hand, “Whatever you want to do, I am here for you. If you want to go to Kansas, then I’ll drive with you to Kansas. If you want to have the baby, I’ll be here to help you.”

You gave Jake a watery smile as you squeezed his hand back, “I love you, Jake. And I want to be with you forever and maybe someday, when things are right, have your kids. But I can’t do that right now.”

“I know,” Jake gave you a small smile back, “And there’s no one else on this planet I want babies with. . . when the time is right,” He cradled the back of your head as he pressed a kiss to your temple, “I’ll schedule the appointment in Kansas. You just get some rest, I’ll handle it all.”

And true to his word, Jake did handle it all. He worked out all the details, scheduling your appointment at a women’s clinic right over the border in Kansas and booking a hotel room. He helped you pack a bag with a few pairs of clothes in it, knowing that you would have to stay for at least a day, maybe even two. Jake drove the whole way there, as you stared out the window at the changing landscape. You were silent the whole eight-hour drive, imagining how different your life would look if you didn’t make this choice.

You loved your parents, but you didn’t want to end up like them. Your mom had always dreamed of becoming a doctor, having studied biology for a year before she got pregnant with you. You had always carried some guilt and burden that your mother couldn’t have finished her dream. You wanted to reach your dream, the dream that you shared with your mother before you had children.

You and Jake stayed in a hotel overnight, your appointment bright and early the next day. Jake wanted you to at least have a day to somewhat relax before you had to go in. After eating way too much Taco Bell and taking a hot shower together, you and Jake curled up in the same queen bed. He held you tightly, absent-mindedly drawing shapes up and down your bare spine, hoping to lull you to sleep. But your mind was way too active to let you close your eyes and get a good night’s sleep.

The morning rolled around quicker than you wanted it to. You watched the sunrise as your cheek was pressed to Jake’s chest, listening to the soft patter of his heart. When Jake woke up, he laid out your clothes for you, leggings and one of his t-shirts, before ordering a light breakfast to hopefully calm your nerves. He held your hand in his as you walked out of the hotel and to his truck. He continued to hold your hand the whole silent drive to the clinic, while you stared out the window.

Jake put the truck in park, parking in a small lot next to a brick building, “I will go check you in,” Jake said, breaking the silence. You turned your head to look at him, his green eyes filled with sorrow, “There are protestors. . .”

You looked back toward the front of the building and noticed the small group of people standing on the sidewalk in front of the building. Some of them held grotesque signs, while others held Bibles and seemed to be preaching. You also noticed the group of people who were wearing bright orange colored vests and holding umbrellas, who seemed to be dancing and smiling along to music.

“Stay right here. I’ll be back.”

You nodded your head, and Jake got out of the truck. You watched as he kept his head down, walking right past the protestors who were trying to reach out to him, paying them no mind. You turned your head back to the front, fiddling with your fingers as you waited for Jake to return back to the truck. It never occurred to you how frightening it could be, to wait like a sitting duck for your partner to come back and get you. But Jake wasn’t gone long, and when he returned, there was a woman wearing a bright orange vest that read “patient escort” and a large man next to her.

You unlocked the door as Jake approached, letting him open it for you. He gave you that smile that you loved so much, but you wished it would calm your nerves.

“Y/N?” the woman asked, and you nodded your head, “Hi, I’m Steph, I’m a patient escort. And this,” She pointed to the other man. He looked like he could’ve been a defensive football player in another life, “Is RJ, our security guard. Are you ready to go in?”

Your eyes glanced over to the protestors and then to Jake. Silently, you nodded your head and held your hand out to Jake. He took it without hesitation and held it close to his body, helping you out of the truck.

“Wait,” Jake paused, and reached into the back of the truck. He dug through his duffle bag before grabbing a hoodie, “Put this on. I don’t want them to even see your face.” You slid the oversized sweatshirt on, that smelled of sandalwood and honey. Jake pulled the hood up, concealing your identity the best he could, and then pulled you into his body.

“Ready?” Steph asked, and you both nodded. She undid her umbrella and gestured to RJ to lead the way to the front doors.

You tried your best to block out the sound of the protestors, but you couldn’t help it. They were so loud, louder than the words of the supportive clinic escorts, louder than the sweet nothing that Jake spoke to you, louder than the own voice in your head.

“You’re killing your baby!”

“Be the man! Don’t let her do this!”

“God will send you to hell!”

“This is murder!”

“Ignore them,” Steph said to you, as she punched in the code to the front door of the clinic, “They have nothing better to do than batter women who walk through our front doors,” She scoffed and shook her head, “Most of them don’t even come here for abortions. They come here for other reasons. It’s sickening, honestly.” You nodded your head, as the door buzzed open, “This is where I leave you. You’ll check in at the front and they will take it from there.”

Her smile was warm, which surprised you. You silently nodded your head, while Jake thanked them, before leading you inside the clinic. You were thankful that Jake took care of checking you in and the paperwork, as you zoned out, staring at a spot on the ground. How people could shout at women and call them heartless, while your heart was in shambles over this decision. This was the hardest choice of your life, and the protestors were acting like it was as easy as deciding what to eat for dinner.

Jake must’ve sensed your unease, as he looked over at you, “You okay?”

You nodded your head, “Feeling nauseous.”

“Do you need me to get you anything?” You shook your head, giving Jake a small smile. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to your cheek before going back to filling out the forms.

It didn’t take long for you to be called back to an exam room, Jake keeping close behind you like a strong wall. It gave you comfort, having the feel of his body on your back.

“My name is Margo, I’ll be your nurse,” A woman with bleach blonde hair said, smiling warmly at you, “Here is a gown that I want you to change into,” She handed you a dark blue examination gown and a blanket, “For privacy. I’ll step out and press that button when you’re ready for me to come in and take vitals.”

You nodded your head, and Margo left you to get dressed. You normally weren’t nervous to strip down in front of Jake, but this felt more intimate than usual. Nervously, you bit your lip and looked at him, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

“Do you want me to-” Jake gestured towards the door.

“No,” You shook your head, “But can you like. . . cover your eyes.”

Jake couldn’t help but chuckle as he placed his hands over his eyes, “It’s not like I haven’t seen your tits before, Ace. Oof!” Jake exclaimed as you threw your t-shirt at your head. You were thankful for his humor, breaking some of the tension a little bit. When you were ready, Jake pressed the button on the wall and then helped you settle back on the exam table, draping the blanket over your lower half.

Margo knocked on the door before sticking her head in, “Ready?” She asked and you simply nodded.

She took all your vitals, asking you some questions about your health along the way. She then took a vial of blood, before leaving you and Jake alone in the room again, while you waited for the doctor. Jake sat down in the chair next to the bed and gently grabbed your hand in both of his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Thank you,” You said, looking up at him.

“For what?” Jake furrowed his eyebrows.

“For coming with me.”

Jake huffed and placed another kiss on your knuckles, “There was no way in hell I was going to let you do this alone. I was there that night, I’m part of the reason why you’re in this situation. I’m not going to let you do this alone.” You felt tears well up in your eyes, and you cursed the damn hormones cursing through your body. Jake gently placed a kiss on your lips, as there was another knock on the door. This time a woman in a white lab coat stuck her head in, followed by Margo.

“Can I come in?” She asked softly and you nodded, sitting up on the exam table a bit more, “I’m Doctor Johnston. It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you too,” You said softly, “This is Jake, my. . .” You looked over at him, trying to decide what you should call him.

“Her friend,” Jake answered.

Doctor Johnston nodded, “Friends are good. We all need friends,” You gave her a grateful smile as she sat down on a stool next to you, “We got your blood test and urinalysis back, and you are in fact pregnant. We are going to do a pelvic ultrasound, so we can determine the size of the fetus.”

You swallowed and nodded your head, “Okay.”

Doctor Johnston gave you a tight-lipped smile as she stood up from her stool and grabbed some gloves, “I’m going to have you put your feet in the stirrups and slide all the way to the end. I will tell you everything I am doing and at any time you want me to stop, you tell me to stop. Alright?”

“Yes,” You nodded and did as she directed you to do. You held your breath staring at the ceiling. Jake squeezed your hand, giving you the silent boost of confidence you needed.

True to her word, Doctor Johnston walked you through the entire procedure. She had a calming voice and persona. You probably weren’t the first young woman in this situation she’s seen, and she certainly made you feel calmer than you were when you walked in.

“You’re measuring at about six weeks,” Doctor Johnston said to you, “Do you want to see-”

“No,” You shook your head. But then you looked over at Jake, wondering if maybe he had a different opinion.

“I don’t want to see either,” Jake shook his head, voice thick with emotion.

Doctor Johnston nodded, “I have to keep a copy of the ultrasound for our records and charts, but I completely respect your decision.” She gently pulled the transducer away from your body, setting it down in its place, “I will give you a chance to change back into your clothing and then we will talk in my office about everything. Any questions until then?”

You looked over at Jake, his green eyes locked on yours. He gave you a small smile and squeezed your hand again, before turning to look at the doctor, “No questions right now.”

Doctor Johnston looked between the two of you and nodded, leaving you to get dressed. Once you got dressed, Margo led the two of you down to Doctor Johnston’s office. The woman gave you a shy smile as you sat down in front of her, Jake still holding your hand. She laid out a couple of sheets of paper in front of the two of you.

“There are several different options for you here,” Doctor Johnston said, gesturing to the info sheets, “You are currently six weeks in gestation.”

You licked your lips, looking down at your feet, “I would like an abortion.”

It was silent for a moment as Doctor Johnston looked between the two of you, before speaking, “There are two different types of abortions we offer. We have the pill, which will induce a miscarriage. We will give you the first one and then you take the second one at home. It’s a more private way to do things. Or, we can do a D & C here in the office.”

You never thought of your different ways of doing this. You looked over at Jake, and he squeezed your hand, letting you know that he would be here for whatever you decide.

“I’ll. . . I’ll take the pill,” Your voice cracked, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to-”

“It’s okay,” Doctor Johnston said, handing you the tissue box, “No decision that has been made in this chair has been an easy one. And I’ve had hundreds of women in my office, all deciding different things for themselves. Every single one has been a hard, thought-out choice. You can cry, I’m not judging you. You can make jokes, and I still won’t judge you. Humans deal with this in their own way.”

You grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the tears on your lashes, “Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”

“You’re welcome,” Doctor Johnston said earnestly, “I am going to write the script right now for mifeprex. If you have any questions and I mean any at all, please do not hesitate to call me.” She slid you a card with her name and number on it. You both thanked Doctor Johnston as she left the office.

Margo came in not long after Doctor Johnston had left with two cups and a box in her hand. “The first pill you will take here in the office,” She handed you the two cups, one with a white pill and the other with water, “The second one will be taken between 6 to 48 hours after the first one. You will feel cramps, like a period, they may feel more intense and painful than normal. If it gets to a point where it is unbearable, please give us a call. The pills will make this pass like a miscarriage.”

You stared down at the white pill, knowing that this was going to change the course of your future forever. Jake’s eyes were on you as you rolled your lips together. You couldn’t help but think maybe this wasn’t the right choice. It wasn’t too late for you to change your mind. Maybe just maybe you could do this. But then, you thought about your future, and the things you wanted to accomplish.

You inhaled and exhaled slowly, before tipping the cup back and taking the pill. You swallowed it down with the water and set both cups down on the desk.

“You guys are good to go,” Margo said, giving you a sad smile, “If you need anything please let us know. Take care.”

You looked up from the ground at Jake, your eyes red with tears. His eyes were the same, holding sadness in them.

“Let’s go home,” Jake suggested and you nodded. You stood up, taking his hand as he led you out of the room. He never let your hand go as he drove back to the hotel.

Jake left you alone for a little bit, going to get some things from the local Walgreens to help you through it. You were thankful that he had left you alone for some time. Yes, you were happy he was by your side, but you needed some time alone. You need some time to process things on your own. So, as you crouched down in the hotel shower, hugging your knees to your chest, you sobbed. The dam had broken and the ugly cries fell from your lips as the day’s stress was washed down the drain.

You were out of the shower by the time Jake got back and was setting up what seemed to be a mini buffet of your favorite junk food.

“Wow. . . did you buy out the whole Walgreens?” You asked.

Jake smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck, “I didn’t know what you needed or wanted, so I just got your usuals plus some other stuff you pick up.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, “Thank you,” You said pushing your face into his chest.

“No problem,” Jake said, kissing the top of your head, “How do you feel?”

“I’m having some cramps, and I started spotting,” You mumbled.

Jake nodded his head, “I picked up some pads and those period underwear things? I don’t know google said those might be good.”

“Oh, I would pay to see macho man Jake Seresin in the feminine product aisle.”

“Sweetheart, I will always go buy your pads and tampons and those diva cup things. Though, I am kinda confused how they-”

You placed your hand over his mouth, “Please stop talking about diva cups like. . . ever.” You giggled and Jake smiled at that precious sound. He was happy that you were cracking jokes, knowing the emotional toll today took.

“Let’s get into the junk food. I saw they got Disney Plus and there’s a horde of Halloween movies we haven’t started yet.”

You followed Jake’s lead, grabbing a bag of chips and mini Snickers, and crawling in next to him on the bed. He turned the TV on going straight to Disney Plus and clicking on the first Halloween movie that showed up.

The time got past you and Jake, as you sat cuddled up on the queen bed in the hotel room until the alarm went off. The two of you looked at each other, your eyes starting to well up, as Jake got off of the bed, and walked over to where the small box of pills was sitting. He took one out, and grabbed your water bottle. You sat up in bed, and took the small white pill from his hand, and swallowed it back with a gulp of water.

Jake looked at you, and gave you a sad smile, “You good?”

And you gave him a watery one back, “I will be.”

taglist: @els-marvelvsp @sarahsmi13s @topgun-imagines @cassiemitchell @xoxabs88xox @seitmai @a-reader-and-a-writer @bradleybeachbabe @kmc1989 @senawashere @beautifulandvoid @ohtobeleah @rogersbarnesxx @oatmealisweird @dempy @devil-angel-winchester @gillybear17

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gaybananabread · 9 months

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@pocky-dragon Hello there! First of all I really enjoy your fics and headcannons and I was wondering if you have any headcannons/thoughts on Casey from rottmnt?

(I'm dumb and deleted the ask again-)

🏒Casey Jr Tkl Headcanons💚

~AN: Eergejehhesh my BOOOOOY! Pocky you have no idea how long I've been wanting to do something for this mans- Now that events are done, hopefully I can get back up and running! Thank you for requesting!~

Gen:

Things weren't totally serious, totally crazy all the time in his timeline

Before Raph and Donnie…moved on, everyone was fairly optimistic. I mean, sure, it was the apocalypse, but they had hope.

When Casey was little, all four brothers would take turns playing with him. While each one had very different interactions, they all universally loved doing one thing: tickling him.

After all the sadness, Big Leo still tried to keep things uplifting for the boy.

He rarely full-on tickled him, but a few light pokes or squeezes here and there were the perfect thing to put a smile on the teen’s face.

Big Mikey would abuse his powers and sneak up behind Casey, squeezing his sides or teasing his neck.

Occasionally, when the boy was really down in the dumps, holding his arms while Big Leo cheered him up with some tickles.

Lee:

Let's all be honest here: he's a lee. No matter how hard he tries, he always ends up getting his ass handed to him.

Not that he doesn't adore it, of course.

He sees it as a fun way to bond with his new family, even if they do tease the shell out of him.

Worst spots are his hips, belly button and armpits. He likes all of them, though his melt spot is his palms; the best snorty-giggles stem from there.

Bushiest boi, will turn red as fresh cherries if you tease him right~

While he loves tickles from the whole Hamato fam, his favorite lers would have to be Raph and Leo.

He never really got to know Big Raph, but young him is a giant, compassionate teddy bear. A teddy bear that also happens to have a night job as a professional tickle monster!

As for Leo, he'd always felt close to the blue-themed turtle. Besides the obvious connections to his Leo, the guy’s just fun to be around.

The jokes get him giggling, and he feels safe around Leo.

Reigning loser of every tickle fight ever.

He's won maybe twice. Once against a very sleepy Leo, and again with a partner.

Self-conscious about his laugh, but the fam works daily to try and help him jump that hurdle! -♡

Little pill bug: his first response to anything tickly, from pokes to full-on tickled, is curling up into a tiny ball.

Adorable to watch, and even cuter to hear his little squeal when you get to his spots anyway!

Ler:

Rarely happens, but he's still not bad!

Really giggly ler, likes to laugh with his lee.

Definitely gets flustered when someone asks to be tickled by him.

Again, rare, but it does occasionally happen.

He's afraid of hurting them, so only the gentlest of tickles and little scritches unless/until they ask for more.

When he does tickle someone, it's usually Leo, Mikey or April.

Leo is a sorta-undercover angst lord, and Casey likes to hear him laugh when he's bummed or overthinking things.

Mikey is just playful. He'll annoy Casey, mostly on purpose, and get what's coming to him. Other times, he'll be attempting to help the artsy turtle with his makeup and tickle him with the brushes. Intentional or not, I'll let you decide…

With April, it's almost always circumstantial. Dragged into a random tickle fight, Raph asking for backup, Donnie needing someone to do his dirty work.

April tickles him more than he ever gets her. Very few times does it happen, but he's capable of giving revenge tickles.

Doesn't usually tease, but he will compliment his lee's laugh and/or reactions.

“I love your laugh, it's so happy!” “Hey, don't be ashamed of the blush. Red's a good color on you!” “Was that a snort? No, don't hide it, that's adorable!”

It took a while to get to that point, but with self confidence and a whole family of support, he can finally start putting himself out there. Even if it is with something as goofy as tickling.

#rottmnt tickle #lee!casey #ticklish!casey #ler!casey #sfw tickling community #tickle headcanons #tickle #sfwtickles #rise of the tmnt tickle #tickle thoughts #rottmnt #tickle fluff

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cheapsweets · 7 months

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The unassailable Taerfleg

My response to this week’s BestiaryPosting challenge from @maniculum

For a change I focused initially on the anatomy and worked out the rest of the composition later, which is why the adult Taerfleg looks a little stiff. I also continued my trend of drawing baby animals so tiny you can barely make them out (when I was thinking about developing my own drawing style, this wasn't what I planned... 😅)

Jinhao shark fountain pen with a fine, hooded nib, with Monteverde Raven Noir ink, over initial pencil sketch.

As ever, reasoning under the cut…

The Taerfleg is covered in prickles. It bristles, when it is enclosed in its prickles and is protected by them on all sides against attack.

Okay, so first question, what are prickles? The most defined explanation refers to plants, where technically speaking, a 'prickle' is a spiny process, but whereas thorns are modified branches/stems, and spines are leaves or parts of leaves, a 'prickle' is an outgrowth of the epidermis or skin or the plant (so, technicaly, roses have prickles, not thorns... learned a thing today!).

While I don't imagine that the authors of the bestiary (or if we're being honest, the translators) are going to be particularly fussy in terms of these exacting biological definitions, it gives me a place to start - the spiky bits of this animal are related to its skin rather than say, spiky bones or osteoderms.

For as soon as it senses anything, it first bristles then, rolling itself into a ball, regains its courage behind its armour.

Okay, armour, and curling up into balls... What kind of (land) animals have armour? Tortoises and crocodiles do, but aren't so roly poly unfortunately. Armadillos, pangolins, and all sorts of lovely bugs like isopods and pill millipedes definitely fit the bill. We just need to work out what kind of creature this is though, since its never specified whether the Taerfleg is a beast, a serpent, or something else...

Given the above note that 'prickles' are processes of the skin, rather than bone, we can eliminate crocodilians and turtles, as well as things like armadillos, which leaves us with squamate reptiles (lizards and snakes), potentially with prickly scales. I mean, I suppose these prickles could be modified hairs on a mammal, but surely the author of the entry would be more specific if that was the case, right? 😏

Plus given I interpreted the previous entry very conventionally (well, as conventional as tiny subterranian birbs can be) it's nice to stretch and draw something a little different...

The Taerfleg has a certain kind of foresight: as it tears off a grape, it rolls backwards on it and so delivers it to its young. It is also called [redacted]. This animal, thinking ahead, protects itself with twin ventilation ducts, so that when it thinks that the north wind is about to blow, it blocks the northern one, and when it knows that the south wind is giving warning of mist in the air, it goes to the northern passage to avoid the vapours blown from the opposite direction, which will do it harm.

One of the things that prompted a lot of the other design decisions was trying to work out exactly how it removes the grapes from its spines when it delivers them! I wondered about long necks (for instance, some tortoises) or tails, but ended up giving it reasonably long limbs and a bit of flex. I wasn't sure how well the grapes would survive being transported this way, so they're looking a little shrivelled...

Also, have some baby Taerflegs, one of which is munching down on a grape, the other is practicing curling into a ball, since I had to put that in the picture somewhere!).

I also read this as it digging burrows, based on the ventilation ducts. I didn't want to just duplicate what I'd drawn last week (with the cross section of the burrow), so we have the northern ventilation shaft blocked with grass and straw (I'd considered if it might block the shaft with its body, but that didn't seem likely given that the vapours would 'do it harm', and I didn't think that a weird lizardy thing would appreciate the cold draft on its posterior...

Note from this challenge - I really need to work out how to draw the interior of caves or tunnels...

So, I've taken inspiration from a lot of different creatures here. Ironically, despite picking up a copy of Charles Knight's animal drawing at the suggestion of @silverhart-makes-art (thank you, it's rad and really interesting, though I'm still on the lookout for some of the other suggestions I received too!), not a lot of use for this particular drawing, but it will definitely be useful in future projects.

One of the main inspirations here are girdled lizards, particularly the Armadillo girdled lizard (which has the greatest scientific name ever, Ouroborus cataphractus) - a spiky lizard that curls itself into a ball. Incidentally, another member of this family is the genus Smaug.... 🐉

Initial armadillo-inspired plating was superceded by pill millipedes (as most armadillos can't make a full ball); I also used the three-banded armadillo as the basis for the anatomy, but made a lot of changes along the way, particularly after I decided to make it a reptile - tortoises were considered briefly, but mostly monitor lizards (in part at least because they get big enough that I could find some good reference photos online!).

Digging claws on the forelimbs are largely from echidnas, I wanted the spiky bits to at least partially reflect the prickles on roses, back facing so they don't get in the way when its crawling through tunnels or vinyards, and there was also a lot of inspiration from Scolosaurus in the general vibe and the head (what? Dinosaurs are cool!).

Overall, interesting challenge, learned some things, have a few new things to learn, mostly had fun :)

#Taerfleg #maniculum bestiaryposting #bestiaryposting #my art #art challenge

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jerrydevine · 1 year

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ok simon: stick bug for surrrreeeee thats a guy with stick limbs trying to fit in to human society

charlie heartstopper definitely is a roly poly pill bug etc etc regionalisms. like hes curling up in a ball when provoked <3

nick nelson my BEST friend: orchid mantis.. everyone thinks he looks beautiful and wants him for his beautiful eyes and swag :)

alec: BLACK widow. thats just the truth

magnus: blanchard's ghost butterfly.. now this i got an image look at this beautiful princess.. and yeah its endemic to indonesia just like magnus..

izzy is gonna be a RED widow spider like yeah shes related to alec and shes 2 times larger than same species males. she is eating those freaks <33

eddie dating amber: ladybugggggggg omg hes so ladybug its unbelievable... all the little beetles make fun of him for not being soooo coooool but hes the bestest little bug in that school aside from amber..

amber dating amber: CICADA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! no commentary if you watched that movie you would get it

#ok yeah any other characters you want me to bugify just tell me in the replies and ill go crazyyyy with it xoxo kisses btw #talk

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wormfood420 · 7 months

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I just wanted to share that my cat (Kibbi) has had a very eventful day. A plumber was here and my partner and I were both in class and at work respectively so she had to be locked in the bedroom with all her things most of the day. Then I gave her drugs mid day because after my last class we were taking her to the vet for a possible UTI. At the vet they put, and I can’t stress this enough, the silliest thing on her. A hamster ball like contraption that’s velcroed around her little head so she couldn’t bite them through 3 pills of Gabapentin while they try to take a urine sample, an ultrasound, and give her a shot. (She absolutely tried to bite and scratch them through the 3 pills of gab)

These are the only pictures I could get but the vet took one she promised she’d email to me so I’ll update you when I have that.

Afterwards we found a BED BUG in her carrier case!!! Freaked out tore the apartment apart looking for evidence of any and couldn’t find any, we’re still gonna get new pillows anyways cause that’s the only thing we felt suspicious about. We dried all the bedding and stuffed animals and her beds on HIGH HEAT for two hours (well over enough time), anyways poor baby is so tired from her long day so when she curled up in the warm warm comforter in the cart I used to bring it up and down, I just let her stay. She’s been there for two hours and my partner and I are cuddling for warmth

I think this is the most content I’ve ever seen her. Well deserved after such a tough day. She also took bites out of my burrito while we were cleaning everything and got a minnow with dinner so I’d say she’s feeling better.

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one-winged-dreams · 2 years

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I feel personally fucking attacked by that post that Bee reblogged on her FF blog, like

just put me in the ground

#like for real #end my existence #i want to curl up in a ball like a pill bug #just kick me off a cliff #/lh #written in the stars #shake the mountains while we dance

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wandanatsbaby · 3 years

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Sickly

Warnings: puking, sick, panic attack, Wanda using her powers to make you take pills

Pairing: Mommy's! Wandanat x Little!reader.

Part 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You woke up the next morning feeling sick to your stomach. Your mommies were worried and quickly had Bruce do a check up oñ you. He said that you just had a stomach bug that should last about a week.

They brought you soup and crackers and cuddled with you.

_____________________

Whining, you opened your eyes and immediately ran to the bathroom. You Puked into the toilet and cried for your mommies.

"Oh babygirl are you ok?" Wanda was quick to lift your hair and order Nat to get you some crackers and ginger ale.

"Mommy my belly hurts." You cried as you curled into a ball.

"It's alright baby. It's gonna be alright. I know it hurts. Mama's bringing you some stuff." Standing up she goes to the medicine cabinet and grabs some Pepto. "Here sweetheart, I need you to take this." She brought the medicine to your lips but you turned away, you hated the taste of it.

"No. It nasty." With a sigh Wanda used her magic to hold you still and make you take it.

Once you had took it she let you go and you glared at her.

"Want mama. Where mama?" Rolling her eyes she went to lift you off the floor but you scooted away from her and started crying. She knows you hate it when she uses her magic on you. You were experimented on alot as a kid with other that had magic.so it brought back bad memories. So when. You were in this state and she had to; it wasn't uncommon for you to start crying for Nat. You felt safer with her cause she didn't have magic. Wanda knew you loved her but I hurt sometimes. Seeing you so afraid of her because of her magic.

"Mama! Mama! Want mama!" At this point you were screaming and crying historically. Wanda tried to calm you but she knew only Nat could. Luckily Nat had ran into the room after being informed by F.R.I.D.A.Y that you were crying for her. When she saw the state you were ein she sent a questioning look to Wanda and quickly picked you up.

"She wouldn't take the medicine. I had to use my magic to hold her down." Nat nodded. There were times you liked Wanda's magic but never when it was used to force you to do things.

"Shh baby. It's okay. Mama's here." Starting to calm down she carried you to bed and layed down with you while Wanda sat in the arm chair by the window staring guilty at you. She hated when she caused you to be like this.

After about a half hour you had fully calmed down and started craving Wanda again.

"Mommy?" You looked over to her but she didn't look like she was paying attention so you turned to Nat.

"Mama. Want Mommy and crackers." As you said that Wanda seemed to snap out of whatever faze she was in. Smiling slightly she grabbed the crackers and ginger ale from the table and walked over to you. She was careful as she settled beside you not wanting to startle you.

As soon as she was settled you grabbed the crackers and started eating them. As you were eating them you got a sharp pain in your stomach again.

"Mommy! Mama! Hurts again." Frowning they hugged you.

"Lay down baby. Let mama rub your tummy." Wanda spoke softly. Laying down Nat began to rub your stomach and it stopped hurting.

Wanda hummed you to sleep.

This went on for a couple days but you eventually got better.

#natasha romanoff #black widow #mcu #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x y/n #marvel imagine #lgbtq #wanda marvel #wanda x natasha #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat x reader #wandanat

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abugeatbugworld · 2 years

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I can't find the original post I made, but I finally finished the short story based on a headcanon I had about Flik's parents dying in a rainstorm. Brace yourself for some little Flik/Atta wholesomeness (with baby Dot thrown in there of course) <3

Atta would never forget the night Flik’s parents died.

It was a late summer night, right on the cusp of fall, and it was raining. She was holed up in her bedroom, trying in vain to concentrate on the harvest lessons she’d been neglecting all summer while raindrops pounded like bombs against the anthill. Mister Soil was prone to giving pop quizzes on the first day of school, and the last thing Atta wanted to do was start off the new school year with a failing grade in the subject she was expected to excel in as the future queen.

A soft knock startled Atta from her studies. She looked up to see her mother enter the room.

The first thing Atta noticed was that the crown on her head was soaking wet. The second was that she had a look in her eyes that made Atta want to go back to her studies.

“Darling,” her mom whispered. “Something terrible has happened.”

Atta struggled to keep up with her mother’s brisk pace as they made their way through the dimly lit corridor towards the medical wing. She clutched her petal blanket to her chest, her mind racing with fragments of the news she’d just been told.

Accident. Rain. One of the young boys in the colony. Parents. Orphan.

Other ants passed by on either side of them. Some were wet, like her mom. Some were crying. Some were wide-eyed and tight-lipped, staring straight ahead like they were in a trance.

Atta hated the way the air in the anthill felt, charged with tension so thick she could swallow it. Tears pricked at her own eyes, betraying the emotion she wasn’t allowed to show. She waited until no other ants were in sight before brushing them away and straightening her leaf crown.

Queens have to be strong for their colony.

This was one of the few lessons she hadn’t learned from Professor Cornelius or Mister Soil, but from her own mother. Atta had never seen her mom shed a tear, not even the day her older sister — Atta’s aunt — passed away. Atta was barely more than a toddler at the time, around the same age her sister Dot was now, but even then she had somewhat understood the gravity of the colony’s grief, as well as what this unexpected death meant for her mother.

It meant that she was in charge of the colony now. They were all looking to her to lead them, and she couldn’t do that well if she was too busy being sad about her sister.

Atta knew her mom expected the same of her. The Queen had other duties she needed to attend to, like taking a headcount to make sure all the other ants had made it safely inside when the storm started, so she put her daughter in charge of comforting the newly orphaned boy. She needed to put on a brave face and assure him that everything was going to be okay, that the colony was going to take care of him.

But she didn’t want to do any of that. The thought of having to come up with words to say to someone who had just lost both his parents made Atta feel sick to her stomach. All she wanted was to crawl back into bed and cry herself to sleep.

Atta recognized the boy the moment she and her mother stepped foot into the medical wing. He was sitting on the daisy bed in the middle of the room, his knees drawn to his chest as though he was trying to curl himself into a ball like a pill bug. His skin — normally a bright, shiny blue — appeared almost white under the fluorescent glow of the mushroom lamps.

On second thought, it probably wasn’t just the lamps making him look so pale.

Atta’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. Of all the ants in the colony this could happen to, it had to be him? He was the one she was going to be stuck trying to comfort?

Oblivious to Atta’s discomfort, Atta’s mom made a beeline for the boy. He didn’t even look up as she approached. She turned and motioned for Atta to follow, which she reluctantly did, dragging her blanket behind her.

Her mother stopped in front of the boy, then knelt so they were at eye level. Or, at least, they would have been, if his eyes weren’t still locked on his toes.

“My dear,” she said, her voice as soft as if she were speaking to an antling. “I am so very sorry for what happened to your parents tonight. Your mother was one of the sweetest ants I ever met, and your father had a brilliant mind and was one of our best harvesters. Our colony isn’t going to be the same without them.”

The boy broke his silence with a sniffle. “Th-thank you, your majesty.”

“Of course,” Atta’s mom replied, then turned to Atta with a meaningful look. “I believe you may know my daughter here from school. I have some things I need to take care of tonight, so she’s going to keep you company in my place. Is that alright with you?”

He nodded silently. Atta thought it was a silly thing to ask. What was he going to do, say no to the queen?

“Okay,” her mother said, gently patting his knees before standing up. “Thank you for understanding, dear. I know she’ll be a good friend to you.”

She gave Atta a wink, then left the room. Flik’s face instantly fell again.

Atta felt her heart rate quicken as soon as her mother was gone. She wound her blanket into a ball around her hands, trying and failing to come up with something to say to her classmate that would magically erase all the bad from this night. What would she want someone to say to her if her mother…

Atta couldn’t even let herself think about the end of that sentence. If something ever happened to her mom, all she would want would be to curl up in her bed and be left alone for the rest of her life.

Oh. That was an idea. She may not have had the words she needed, but she did have something she could give to Flik.

Atta unraveled the blanket from around her hands and took a step forward, holding it at arm’s length. “Here you go.”

Flik lifted his head at the sound of Atta’s voice, hurriedly scrubbing at his eyes. Even if there hadn’t been tears lingering in the corners, the red rims gave it away.

He took the blanket dangling from her fingers and hugged it to his chest with a sniffle.

“Um…thank you, Princess,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Atta cringed at the formality. “Please don’t call me that.” At his wounded look, she hastily clarified. “I mean, you don’t have to call me Princess. Atta is fine. That’s my name.”

She cleared her throat and clasped her hands together, hoping he wouldn’t notice the nervous twitch of her wings. Goodness, why was she so bad at this? Weren’t future queens supposed to naturally be good at comforting their subjects?

To her shock, the boy cracked a watery smile. “Oh, okay. In that case, my name’s Flik.” He draped the blanket around his shoulders, then stuck out a hand for her to shake.

I know your name, Atta thought. And after tonight, so will everyone else.

She silently took Flik’s hand and gave it a firm yet gentle squeeze, grateful for a chance to finally put her etiquette lessons to use. Mister Cornelius had drilled the importance of a proper handshake into her brain since before she could walk.

He squeezed back, and for the briefest moment they were looking into each other’s eyes. Atta suddenly found herself giggling at nothing in particular. Flik’s smile widened.

Amusement immediately morphed into embarrassment and Atta snatched her hand away, clenching it behind her back. Flik’s grin faltered as the present reality came crashing back with the arrival of Doctor Flora.

“Flik dearie, how are you holding up?” she asked, one hand clutching a lilac bud and the other splayed over her heart.

Atta thought this was a pretty dumb question to ask someone who had just lost both his parents in a rainstorm, especially coming from a therapist. She held her tongue and pretended not to notice Flik’s eyes darting back and forth in between the two of them, as though silently pleading with Atta for help.

“Um, I’m doing okay, Doctor Flora. Thank you for checking on me,” he stuttered.

“Do you need anything? Maybe some hot nectar or a seed loaf? I’m not sure how long you’ll be in here, so I want you to be comfortable.”

Flik shook his head. “I’m, uh…I’m not very hungry. Plus—” Here he lifted his arms so the blanket stretched like a tent above his head. “The princess brought me this blanket, which was really nice of her. So I’m good. But thanks anyway!”

Doctor Flora turned in the middle of Atta emphatically mouthing her name to Flik. “Oh, Atta dear! I didn’t even see you there. Bless your heart, visiting your friend after something so tragic.”

Atta didn’t have the heart to tell Doctor Flora that her mom had dragged her out of bed and forced her to come here, or that this was the first time she and Flik had spoken to each other even though they’d been in Mr. Soil’s drama class together all year. She really didn’t have the heart to tell her that neither she nor anyone else in their class had ever considered the strange boy a “friend.”

Especially when said boy was staring at Atta with those big, dopey blue eyes, wrapped up in her blanket like a caterpillar in its cocoon.

So instead she smiled at Dr. Flora until she left the room, then turned back to her new…friend.

Flik was slumped over now, his eyes downcast and his feet aimlessly kicking the air. Atta felt the tension building between them and hated it, hated the awkwardness that always came with silence, hated her own inability to think of the right thing to say or do or…

“Hey…you have a little sister, right?”

Atta’s head snapped up. She hadn’t even realized she’d been staring at the floor. “Oh, uh, yeah. Her name’s Dot.”

Flik grinned. “I know. I watch her in the nursery sometimes.”

“You work in the nursery?” Atta had never heard of a boy ant helping out with the pupae unless it was for some type of punishment. Flik didn’t strike her as the getting-in-trouble type, unless of course it was the result of one of his zany ideas gone wrong.

The light in Flik’s eyes flickered at her question. “Well, yeah,” he said softly. “I used to do it with my mom.”

Oh.

Atta was one insensitive remark away from taking her foot and shoving it into her mouth. She felt the tension mounting again, the silence growing thicker and thicker in that tiny room until she blurted out the only question she could think of.

“Do you want to see Dot?”

Atta’s little sister didn’t take well to strangers. Heck, she didn’t take well to anyone who wasn’t her mom or Aphie, and that included Atta. Flik may have remembered her, but Atta still expected her sister to act shy at first. She’d probably hide behind the pupacare worker or start crying until her mom showed up. For all Atta knew, this little visit might end up making Flik feel worse than he already did.

But it was still better than sitting in that quiet hospital room.

“Just…don’t be offended if Dot takes a while to warm up to you,” Atta was saying to Flik as the two of them walked down the mushroom-lit tunnel of the anthill’s nursery wing. Harried-looking mothers passed by, clutching wailing babies the size of pebbles to their chests. A couple of them cast sympathetic glances toward Flik, which made Atta cringe. Word sure spread fast underground.

She was relieved when they finally reached the royal chamber, pausing to take a breath before pushing aside the oak leaf that concealed the entrance.

“So like I said, if she’s rude to you at first don’t take it personal—”

“Fwik!”

Atta was nearly knocked over by the tiny purple blur that shot across the room, ignoring the distressed cries of the nursery worker behind her. She looked back in astonishment to see her sister at Flik’s feet, standing on tiptoe and reaching her stubby fingers as high as they could go.

“Fwik, up!” she demanded in a voice belonging to someone who was clearly used to getting what she wanted.

Flik complied immediately, scooping Dot into his arms and eliciting a happy shriek from her as he lifted her above his head and spun her around the room.

“Long time no see, Princess!” he said, wearing the biggest grin Atta had ever seen on him. She watched as he slowly lowered Dot until they were at eye level. She giggled and reached out to give his right antenna a gentle tug. Atta suddenly had the oddest feeling that she was the one out of place in this scenario.

“Gee whiz, you’re growing up on me, kid,” Flik said with a shake of his head. “Next thing I know you’ll be flying around like your big sister.”

At this he turned to Atta, who was still standing in the entryway. Dot turned, too, crinkling her nose at the sight of her older sister.

“Adda mean,” she stated matter-of-factly, then swiveled her head to rest her cheek on Flik’s shoulder.

Flik’s jaw dropped, his expression a mixture of sympathy and amusement. Atta’s cheeks burned.

“I am not!” she cried, her face growing warmer when she realized she was arguing with a three-year-old in front of Flik.

A muffled are, too sounded from over Flik’s shoulder. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

Atta rolled her eyes and kicked at a rattle laying by her feet. “Yeah, well, you just get cranky when you’re tired and take it out on me,” she muttered. She could’ve sworn she heard a raspberry in response but chose to preserve what little dignity was left and ignore it.

By now Flik had recovered enough to keep a mostly straight face. “I’m sure you’re a great big sister,” he whispered, cupping one hand over Dot’s antennae to keep her from hearing and making any more rebuttals.

Atta shrugged off the compliment, but her cheeks grew warm again. And not in a bad way.

“And that’s how the shy little caterpillar became a big, beautiful butterfly.”

Atta had no way to tell the time, but judging by the heaviness of her eyelids it had to be at least midnight. She was starting to wish she hadn’t given the nurse permission to retire for the night. Flik had just finished reading Dot’s favorite book, The Story of the Hungry Caterpillar, for the fourth time in a row. Even he was beginning to look beat, although Atta was sure he’d go all night long if it kept Dot happy. She’d watched him indulge in a yawn four different times when her sister wasn’t looking.

After the embarrassing debate over Atta’s meanness, Flik had set Dot down and let her lead him all around the nursery. He responded to each and every toy she showed him like it was a priceless treasure, insisting on holding it so he could examine it from every angle. He didn’t hesitate when she invited him to jump with her on the giant mushroom in the middle of the room. He’d even tried to get Atta to join them, an invitation she firmly declined. She preferred to watch their antics from the safety of Dot’s hollowed out acorn bed.

It wasn’t until Dot tried to do a backflip off the mushroom and Flik caught her by the foot less than a centimeter from the ground, triggering a minor fit from the nurse, that they finally settled down to read. Even after watching the two of them play together for over an hour, it still came as a shock to Atta when Flik sat down and Dot promptly crawled into his lap, snuggling against his chest and sticking a thumb in her mouth as he began to read.

By the middle of the third readthrough, Atta had quietly climbed down from the bed and made her way over to the corner of the room where Flik and Dot were sitting. Neither of them acknowledged her presence as she slid down the wall beside them, folding her legs in front of her and clasping her hands over her knees so she resembled a roly poly. Atta would have assumed Flik didn’t realize she was there if it wasn’t for the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips as he turned the page.

She would have been content to remain a silent observer if it wasn’t for the next book he picked up from the stack.

“Are you trying to give my sister nightmares?” Atta demanded, motioning to the terrifying illustration on the cover of The Ant and the Grasshopper. It showed a monstrous-looking grasshopper looming over an ant less than half its size, who cowered in its shadow. “She’ll learn enough about that stuff in school.”

Shivering, she drew her legs closer to her chest. “She’ll probably learn from experience, too.”

Before Flik could reply, Dot turned her head to give Atta a glare way too intense for a toddler. She removed her thumb from her mouth. “Adda, shhhhh! Fwik weeding!”

Atta scowled right back and crossed her arms over her chest. “You wanna have bad dreams like the last time I read you that book? Be my guest.”

Flik looked helplessly back and forth between the two of them. Dot pointed an accusing finger at her. “Adda scared, too,” she said, crossing her own arms so the sisters were a mirror image of each other.

A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Dot wasn’t wrong. Atta’s worst fear — besides losing the crown her mother had given her on her tenth birthday — was coming face-to-face with a grasshopper. Her little sister wasn’t the only one who had nightmares about it.

Flik finally broke the tension. “Hey Dot, let’s read The Spotted Ladybug instead,” he said with a little more enthusiasm than necessary, reaching over to grab a new book from the stack beside them. “That’s my favorite.”

Atta watched as he carefully set The Grasshopper and the Ant down on the other side of his legs. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d placed it just out of her view on purpose.

Three books later, Dot was finally starting to nod off in Flik’s arms. By the time they got to the last page her little body had slumped over itself, the curls of her antennae grazing Flik’s toes.

Atta smothered a yawn, then rose to retrieve her blanket from where Flik had dropped it on the other side of the room when Dot nearly tackled him. She returned and held it out to him without a word.

He smiled up at her as he took it.

“See, I told you you were a good big sister,” Flik whispered smugly as he began wrapping Dot in the blanket, moving with slug-like slowness so as not to wake her.

“Shut up,” Atta whispered back, even though she was smiling too. She watched in fascination as Flik bundled her sister up like a newborn antling. Clearly he’d spent a lot of time watching the kids in here. He was even holding Dot like a baby, with one hand tucked under her head and the other curled around the lower half of her makeshift cocoon.

Not for the first time that night, Atta felt a twinge of something like envy.

“How do you do that?” she asked, so quietly she wasn’t sure if he would hear.

Flik blinked. “Do what?”

“Get along with my sister so well. She doesn’t like anyone, especially me.”

Flik gazed down at the sleeping girl in his arms. “Oh. I dunno, I guess I just try to treat her like I treat anyone. I mean, like I would want anyone to treat me. I mean…” He scratched the back of his head. “Um…does that make sense?”

Atta nodded, staring down at her toes and trying to ignore the chill she felt. It probably wouldn’t look good to take the blanket back after she had so generously given it to her little sister.

Flik suddenly spoke again.

“I think sometimes we forget that kids just want us to pay attention to them, you know?” he said. Atta was surprised by the intensity in his voice. “That’s all they want. And it’s easy to push them aside because they’re small, but they just want to know that they’re important and their ideas matter. You know?”

Flik’s voice squeaked on the last word. He quickly brushed a hand over his eyes, his face turned away from her. Dot’s brow furrowed, as though even asleep she could sense the shift.

Atta knew what was coming. She should have felt panicked. This was the moment she’d been dreading the most, the moment her queenliness would be put to the test.

But somehow, impossibly, she wasn’t scared at all. She knew exactly what to do.

Atta slid to the ground so she was sitting beside Flik, then reached across the space between them and caught his wrist mid-scrub. She guided it gently to the ground, then pressed her other hand firmly over his.

“It’s okay, Flik,” she said softly. “We’re in a nursery. You can cry here.”

And so he did. One big, fat tear after another slid down Flik’s cheeks, landing like tiny drops of dew on Dot’s blanket. Atta sat quietly beside him, her thumb tracing circles over his hand, as his hiccups turned to gasps and his gasps grew into sobs that shook his whole body. By some sheer miracle Dot didn’t even stir.

“I’m—sorry,” Flik choked out after several minutes. He craned his neck so he could use the hand cradling Dot’s head to wipe his eyes and nose. “It’s just, I guess it just hit me that I’m never gonna see them again. My dad…my–my mom…they’re gone.”

Another sob burst from his throat and he clamped a hand over his mouth. Atta squeezed his fingers.

“No, Flik. Please don’t apologize for that. Ever.” It was hard to speak through the lump in her own throat. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost my mom. Or Dot. Even though she’s a brat.”

Flik laughed weakly and hugged Atta’s sister to his chest. The corners of Dot’s mouth curved upward in the tiniest smile.

Atta cleared her throat before continuing. “The point is…they’re my whole world. And I would be lost without them. And…and I know this wasn’t your choice, but I just want you to know that I think you’re really brave. And that we’re here for you. Me, Mom, Dot.”

Pause.

“Also…I’m sorry. About your parents, but…for other things, too.”

Atta was painfully aware of Flik’s baffled gaze on her as heat rushed to her face, but she took a deep breath and pushed through. “I just mean…you know, I haven’t been the nicest to you in school. I should have tried to talk to you more. So I’m sorry for all the time we weren’t friends, and I’d really like to start now. Especially since my sister’s obsessed with you, so I know we’ll be seeing a lot of each other anyway.”

Flik laughed for real this time, one of those belly laughs that rocked his whole body forward. Warmth spread from Atta’s cheeks all the way to the tips of her feet. She lowered her gaze and blinked back tears.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be friends with me, either,” she whispered, beginning to push herself up from the ground so Flik wouldn’t see her cry. She had no right to cry in front of a boy who’d just been orphaned, especially when he had every right to hate her.

A warm hand latched onto hers. She looked down to see Flik staring up at her, a pleading expression in his teary eyes.

“Wait! I’m sorry, that’s not why I was laughing,” he said. “I don’t know why I laughed. It’s been a weird night.”

He glanced down at Dot and took a quivery breath, then looked back up at Atta with a timid smile. For some reason it made her heart feel like it was floating.

“But I would really like it if we could be friends, Atta. I would like it a lot.”

After several hours of making funeral arrangements and comforting grieving subjects, the Queen wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed with her pet aphid and sleep the sadness of this night away. But first she needed to find her daughter.

Doctor Flora had informed her that Atta and Flik left the medical wing together shortly after the Queen dropped her off. She mentioned overhearing them talk about going to the nursery, which the Queen thought was odd. Usually Atta actively avoided the nursery unless she was on pupa-sitting duty.

There was a small part of her that felt guilty for leaving her introverted, anxiety-prone eldest child in a situation she knew would make her uncomfortable, but the Queen also knew this was a necessary lesson for the future leader of the colony to learn. She could only hope Atta hadn’t been too scarred by the experience.

The Queen reached the nursery wing and paused, bracing herself for all the adolescent ways her daughter might retaliate when she saw her. Snarky remarks, eye rolls, the cold shoulder. The last one seemed the most likely, as Atta was rarely outwardly disrespectful but had mastered the art of loud silences.

She sighed and pushed aside the leaf hanging over the entryway, then took one step into the room and froze.

On the far side of the room were three young ants. The smallest one was curled up in the lap of the boy, her thumb in her mouth and her head resting on his chest. Beside the boy sat her older sister, her cheek resting on the boy’s shoulder. One of her hands was curled around one of his. The boy’s head was resting on hers, and one of his arms was wrapped protectively around the little one.

All three were sound asleep.

All three were smiling.

#a bug's life #pixar #disney pixar #pixar fanfic #disney fanfiction #atta #flik #dot #personal

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