#star lua asks

[lunarhorrors]

ive 100% asked this before but how do u think arg!usnship got together or starting getting closer atleast 🙂‍↕️

ooooo this is really interesting and So Much More Complicated (😭😭) given the newer context guqqie provided that it’s its Own universe, not strictly “c!sunshipduo if they stayed together” as we previously thought.

with this in mind, it’s hard to really theorize about. but i’ll try because of course i will.

i’d guess that it would go similarly to c!sunshipduo, in most ways. friends to lovers, with similar enough motivations - town’s knight/protector/adventurer/wanderer, alien wanting to go home - but with variations (bit of a copout, i know. but stay with me). i’d guess that it’s A Lot like c!sunshipduo but also au!sunshipduo (see: hera’s obsession with that Particular universe).

it’s hard to headcanon/theorize bc so much of the info is unknown (pun unintended) 😭😭 but maybe it’s just like. they’re in this new place together. arg!aimsey is suspicious, at first, but very quickly lets red (alien) flags slide because faun is enamored. arg!guq isn’t quite as jaded yet, but that darkness is lurking - perhaps she had a worse time at home, carries more trauma with her. but she’s still as ‘naïve’ as au & c!guqqie, and she befriends arg!aimsey and falls just as hard and forgets about whatever previous goals or motives she may have had because she is loved and maybe this can be home. maybe nothing else ever mattered. she’s disillusioned by her home planet and her family and their belief and teachings - they were wrong, and they also abandoned her. and arg!aimsey didn’t. arg!aimsey isn’t as bad as they said humans would be. (and arg!guqqie isn’t as bad as arg!aims was told aliens would be. but she isn’t an alien. definitely not. right?)

so they become friends, and they realize it’s More than that, and they are both so happy to be loved and so desperate to forge some other sense of home and belonging that they ignore all of the red flags and they get together and they try to be happy and, as happy couples do, they get married. because they are each other’s home. right?

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 6

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time's up.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 Additional 🚨: self-harm, suicidal thoughts

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 Thank you for your patience, I appreciate you all SO DAMN MUCH. See you in the end note 🧡 @frannyzooey you're a warrior and I'll go all gothic on you: I will keep loving you long after I'm dead, long after I'm gone, long after love ceases to exist. Thank you for your invaluable help 🧡

Word count: 14.5k

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 6: Never Let Me Go

Benny bends forward with a huff, and drops the bulky card box he’s carrying next to a pyramid of similar boxes, all labelled “LIVING-ROOM” in black Sharpie. It hits the hardwood floor with a loud thud that resonates in the empty room. 

“Fuck me, that’s heavy. Okay. I think that was the last one,” he pants, lifting his baseball cap and wiping his sweat-damp forehead on his shoulder.

“That went fast,” William observes. His brother whips around to face him with a scowl. 

“That’s because you took the bags labelled ‘clothes’ and you let me haul up all those fucking books! Fish, what the fuck do you have so many books for, man?” he adds, as Frankie steps into the room, two solid oak planks propped over his shoulder.

“To read,” Frankie answers absent-mindedly, setting down the wood against a wall.

Silence falls over the small square room as the two brothers exchange another wary glance. Frankie doesn’t notice. He hasn’t noticed much since morning, too focused on the task at hand, too caught up in his head. 

“What’s this for?” Will asks patiently, pointing at the wood. 

“Shelves. For the books. I left the old ones to Lupe.”

“You mean there’s more books over there?” Benny snarls. Will glowers at him, and the younger man pouts, adding in a softer tone, “You know you could save yourself some money and trouble and get shelves from Ikea or somethin’.” 

“Nah, I don’t like these things, they’re full of solvents. You’re just breathing toxic shit. Don’t want that for my kid.”

Don’t want that for Lee. 

Frankie straightens up and takes a quick look around him. The room is small, yes, but luminous. Clean, and well ventilated, which had been selling arguments. The house itself is no frill, a bit soulless even, but functional. There’s a separate dining-room he plans on converting into a playroom for Lua. Maybe a TV room or an office, when she’s older. The kitchen came equipped and is large enough for a table and four chairs. There are two bedrooms upstairs and, most importantly, a spacious basement where he can work wood. 

The front lawn is fine, but the backyard will require a lot of work, the previous owners seemingly having had no interest in tending to it. 

It’s good enough for his kid and him, but will it be good enough for you? 

He assumes you could afford two houses like this one with what you make in a year. He assumes you live downtown, in one of those lanky glass towers that cast their haughty shadow over the harbor. 

He assumes you hate it. 

And maybe you hate it enough to break your cage open and leave. Maybe someday soon, your Russian literature will sit next to his engineering books on those shelves he’s going to build for you. 

“You got more wood like this at the other house?” 

Will’s voice brings him back to the square room. To all the things that remain to be done. To the urgent necessity of furnishing the house so it’s habitable for a two-year-old. A tiny bed with tiny linens, rainbows, stars and suns. Rails to secure the stairs, a shower curtain, drapes and rugs. Safety outlet plug covers. 

And the question he has yet to ask you. 

“Yea, in the garage. But I can take care of it later.”

“No, let’s get to it, buddy. We can wrap up everything today so you don’t have to go back.”

Benny swipes the hem of his Kiss t-shirt over his face and nods, walking toward the front door. Will’s gaze follows his brother’s tall silhouette before it returns to Frankie, steely eyes of blue openly trained on his face. 

The allusion is not lost on Frankie. This house is a mere couple of blocks away from the one he shared with Lupe. He’s not keen on the idea. If it was up to him, if he moved through life alone, he would have already crossed three or four state lines, at the very least. Head north, and maybe west. Closer to his sister. 

But he’s not alone. He’s a father. Living nearby makes the everyday logistics of co-parenting that much easier. Daycare, then school. Family doctor, friends and sleepovers. Lua will be able to walk between her two parents’ homes. That’s not exactly a functioning family, but for now, it’s the best he can provide.  

“I’m doing what I can, here, you know?” Frankie murmurs, dipping his head under the brim of his hat.

“I know. I know you’re doing what’s best for them.”

Will runs a palm over his nape and winces, hand flying to his left flank. 

Frankie has noticed him clutching his side every so often. He can’t tell if it’s pain or remembrance. He’s never encountered anyone with the Millers' capacity to endure physical injuries. Only he knows first hand that guilt-tainted wounds are another deal entirely. 

“You okay there, man?” Frankie frowns.

“Oh yeah. Golden.”

“We can take a break. Finish after lunch. There’s beer in the fridge and–”

“Let’s get to it, Fish,” Will insists, patting Frankie’s arm as he walks past him.

Frankie firmly believes that no one over thirty should ever, under any circumstance, ask their friends to help them move. Which resulted in him calling the Millers on very short notice. He had decided early on to leave all shared belongings to Lupe, thus hadn’t anticipated there would be so many things left to move. It seems to him that, until three years ago, his entire life could fit in a single rucksack.  

When he saw the two brothers stepping out of Will’s truck this morning, it felt as if a formidable weight had been lifted off his chest. He’d woken at the crack of dawn, setting all the bags and boxes on the front lawn, to spare Lupe the ordeal of having his friends trampling all over her carpet. Not that she’d said anything. She’d gotten up shortly after him, preparing a large pot of coffee, placing a fresh box of donuts on the kitchen table.

“You’re a good man, Francisco,” she’d told him back in early April, when he’d asked her if he should move out, if she wanted him to. “And you’re always going to be the father of my child. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. We’re just not a good match, I guess. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he’d said, holding her gaze. “I just– I want you to know I’m sorry. And grateful. I’m grateful for you, Lupe.”

She hadn’t answered. Lupe was made of heavy silences and sharp thoughts. A perceptive gaze in a movie star's face. She’d pushed away from the kitchen counter, and reached out for his shoulder, giving him a strong squeeze. A gesture that meant, you’ll be alright.

He’ll be alright. That much he knows. When he wakes up every morning between sheets that bear your luminous scent, when your mug is drying on the dish rack next to his and when your clothes are hanging in the closet next to his clothes. Then he’ll be alright.

He cannot wait for you to meet his kid. It’s a childlike anticipation, a fantasy, really. The only thought that keeps him going. That enables him to ward off the crippling dread spreading black and murky inside of him. 

When you came back to him with that fresh wound on your forehead, a clock got set off in the back of his head. A distant ticking, at first, stifled by what you hadn’t yet extinguished of his rage and regrets. But every week since, the timer has been growing louder, pulsating faster in his temple like a swollen vein, ominous, threatening, he needs to get you out of there. Out of there, out of your cage, away from this man. 

This pain rooted in his chest whenever he thinks of you, that piercing ache has become a hindrance, he can’t keep a clear mind, that one obsessive thought obstructing everything else, he needs to get you out of there. Keep you by his side, where he can make sure you’re safe. 

Every Saturday morning, when he parts from you, reluctant and exhausted, the fear that you’ll get caught cheating clenches his hands into vengeful fists. 

Cheating is a filthy fucking word that feels all kinds of wrong to describe what you share and everything you mean to him. Bitterly, he remembers how he tried to scare you off, that first night at the motel. Everything he’s done to keep you at arm’s length, letting you believe he belonged to another woman. How he failed and fell hard, beyond the point of no return, how he was doomed to fail from the very first look you exchanged. 

How does he fix it, now? Does he step into the motel next Friday and flat-out ask you to move in with him? No preamble, no casual dating, none of that bullshit? Would you get scared? Would you trust him? Would you laugh in his face, reject what he’s offering? Does he get you into the truck and drive away with you into the sunset, like he’s dreamed of doing since the first time he took you for a ride, five months ago? 

Will you forgive him? You’ve trusted him so far. Can he push it a little further?  

How much more time can he afford to waste, before your safety is seriously at stake? 

He needs to get you out of there.

—

There’s a latch on the left side of the window frame, concealed in the sleek aluminum panel. It’s difficult to find, to say the least. Purposely, you suppose. 

The pads of your fingers run over the cool metal until you feel a tiny groove in the flat surface. With a satisfied hum, you slide a fingernail into the ridge and lever it up. It’s thin and sharp and it bites into the soft flesh of your thumb. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to open the windows?” Adrian’s voice comes in from behind you, and you whip around like a cartoon thief caught red-handed, catching your balance with the flat of your palm on the glass panel. “There’s no need for it. And It messes up the thermostat.”

His tone is reprimanding. It makes your toes curl.

He’s been gone the entire weekend. Since Friday morning, as far as you can tell. His bespoke, royal-blue suit looks slept in. It probably is. Somehow, even when you’d been buzzing with gin and numbed out on pills, you’ve always maintained enough clarity to notice these kinds of details. To pay attention to him. 

Tonight, you’re entirely sober. Like you’ve been for weeks. And you have no trouble seeing the white collar of his shirt smeared with lipstick, the faintest trace of a flaming red pigment. You nearly scoff at the cliché. The flap house motel, the lipstick stain. So much for 2010 Bay Citizen’s power couple.

There’s an unkept air to his general demeanor. The dip of his collarbone peeks out from his unbuttoned shirt, his pale skin is flushed. His hair tousled, fairer without the matting pomade he normally applies to sleek it back, loose strands falling on his forehead, casting a shadow over his brow. 

He looks different. A younger, rougher version of himself. He looks handsome. It strikes you, with a sense of guilt to the realisation, like something you’re supposed to know but forgot everything about. 

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“So you thought you’d open the window?” he asks flatly, breaking eye contact to take off his jacket and drape it over the Stark chair.

“I need fresh air. Real air. It’s too stuffy in here,” you mumble. You sound like a scolded teenager. You hate it. 

“Is that literal?” he snarls, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, sliding his undone tie off his neck. 

You sink your teeth into your cheek, strong enough to taste blood. You pivot toward the window. The soft pad of your thumb finds the latch and you swiftly lift it, ignoring the bite of the metal. The window frame cracks open. The dried out joints part with a crunching sound. 

It’s a mundane sequence of actions. Insignificant, inconsequential. Nothing like following a stranger to a dark, deserted parking lot behind a bar. But inside you, the wild creature stirs, awakened by what you’ve set in motion. You don’t know it yet. But it’s too late to back down. 

A briny evening draft rushes in, carrying the bustling city’s noises on its tail, distant traffic, siren’s wails, fracturing the seal of your glass cage. 

When you turn back to face him, a smirk is forming on Adrian’s thin lips, one that can only be interpreted as an expression of condescension for your poor attempt at rebellion. 

The notion riles you up. 

“Actually, it’s not stuffy, it’s suffocating. But you wouldn’t know, you haven’t been here in three days.”

The air stills between you. It’s tangible, ironically, despite the open window. His expression freezes mid-smirk, and your eyes quickly scan his face. That long ingrained apprehension in the back of your brain, desperately, frantically trying to set off all the alarms, but something within you won’t let it. Something new. Something brazen.

Adrian straightens up. For a fleeting second, his expression shifts, unclear, undecided, as though he’s still making up his mind on how to deal with you.

And then, his face settles. 

“Well, that’s rich, coming from the woman who’s been deserting her home every Friday night for over half a year.” His lips purse in disdain around the word woman. 

It’s rage. That something new and brazen inside you is rage. It’s white-hot, and it’s growing fast, too fast for you to even try to contain it. It fills up your brain, smothering your inner voice and muffling the blaring alarms, overpowering everything else. You can feel it swell inside your chest, powered by the wild creature between your lungs. It takes up so much space between your rib cage, you can barely breathe, and yet you embrace the sensation. It’s not discomfort. It’s strength.  

“Another thing you wouldn’t know, since you’re out all night playing poker.” In turn, you scoff at the word, at the lie, at the hypocrisy of this long-overdue squaring up.

His eyes narrow on your face before he delivers the next blow.

“Maybe I had you followed. Maybe I know exactly where, and with whom, you spend your Friday nights. Have you thought of that, babe?“

Blood rushes down to your feet as you break in an instant sweat. Prickling scalp, nape and armpits. The sheer idea is unbearable. This life, or whatever’s left of it, colliding, trespassing on your time with Frankie. At your back, the weak breeze wafts in, and your eyes clench off the vision of the fourteen-story void. 

The sound of Adrian’s delighted snigger jerks you out of the intrusive thought. Your eyes are wide open again. 

“I don’t think you care enough about the details of my whereabouts to spend money on a PI,” you start, lifting your chin as if your heart isn’t thumping in your throat. “In fact, I think it suits you just fine that I haven’t been on your ass about your whereabouts.”

There’s the faintest hint of a wince altering his smug expression at your profanity, but the words keep pouring out of you. 

“Most of all, I think that if you really had me followed, you wouldn’t have missed the chance to ruin whatever you think this is for me. Like you do with everything I–” 

“Ruin whatever…? Oh, I’m the one ruining things?” he cuts in, lunging toward you in a movement so sudden you recoil against the open window frame. “When you’re the one who’s single-handedly destroyed our relationship with your fucking pills and your fucking depression? And now you’re having an affair with God knows who! I hope you haven’t been dumb enough to pick him among our circle of friends. And I fucking hope to God it is a man. Maybe you’re a degenerate, just like your sister.” 

You hit the mark. He doesn’t really care, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but his blatant lack of interest still hurts. After all those years, it still makes you bleed. The pain is washed over by anger, and the cruelty of his grossly redacted and biased narrative of your history. Doubt and guilt tighten your throat. 

He’s taken a step back. Hands on his hips, he’s seemingly waiting for you to counter. After a few dragging seconds, when he’s satisfied that he has silenced you for good, he faces away, and begins to unbutton his shirt. 

“I— You’re— you’re so fucking unfair,” you stutter, deflating, miserable.

“I’m going to shower. Make sure that window’s closed by the time I get out of the bathroom.”

“I’m leaving.”

The words rise from between the folds of your existence, overdue, evident, irreversible. They slip through your lips, and panic pervades your body at a molecular level. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Adrian retorts with an audible smirk, sliding his shirt off his lean frame, “the Grants are coming over for dinner. That’s the only reason I came home.”

Tim Grant is Adrian’s most valuable client after your father. He’s in politics, in some office or other, you know you should know. His wife Cheryl is a flawless, sculptural blond. A Stanford graduate who has mothered five children. She’s three years younger than you. 

You need to get out of here. 

You are rooted to the tiled floor, vaguely aware of the lingering taste of blood on your tongue, and your right hand pinching your thigh. 

“I’m leaving you,” you clarify. 

Adrian turns around and pauses. He looks at you. Looks at you for what feels like the first time in months. At last, you caught his attention.

The alarms are bellowing inside your skull. You have nowhere to go. Ava is over a thousand miles away, everyone you know is primarily Adrian’s friend, and there’s no way you’re going back to your parents. 

Beyond the window, the indigo dusk is shifting to blue. The breeze is soothing. It’s Sunday, April 26th, 6.52 pm. You’re standing on the threshold.

“You’re what?” he asks in a thin voice. 

“I’m leaving you.”

Something flashes across his face, something you’ve never seen before. This is uncharted territory, for the both of you. He scrunches his brow, narrowed eyes flickering between yours. Lifting both hands, palms outstretched toward you, he speaks in a slow voice, detaching each word. 

“Alright, okay, I get it. You’re angry. You can leave the window—”

“I don’t care about the window, Adrian, I am leaving you.”

“Lee, this is not the fucking time for this, the Grants will be here in half an hour and the catering–”

“I don’t give a shit about the Grants!” you burst out.

Adrian’s hands fall limply to his side, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline. He licks his lips, an attempt to regain some countenance. 

“Okay,” he concedes in a strained tone, “I guess we’re doing this. Where do you go every Friday? Who are you fucking?”

“Now, you care? Now, you want to know? When I’m halfway through the goddamn door? I gave you ten years of my life, Adrian! Ten years! I loved you! I gave you everything!”

“You loved me?” he yells back, pocking a finger to his chest. “You gave me everything? Are you fucking serious? You are never here, Lee. You’re checked out, 24/7. Is that what you call love? Let me laugh! You never ask me any question about work, you never once came golfing with me. You can’t even pretend to care!”

“You are so fucking unfair! Tell me, how does it feel, to treat me like you do?”

“I am not unfair, Lee, I am realistic! Yes, maybe you loved me, but as soon as shit got real between us, you fucking checked out! An eight-year-long engagement? Really? Is that your idea of giving me everything? I am the laughingstock of everyone at the firm! You want to know how it feels? How it feels when I see your face closing off every time I try talking to you? You don’t know how to love, Lee. You know nothing about love. Unrealistic expectations, that’s all you got. Dreams. Childish fantasies. You’re heartless. Remote. Fucking hollow. Completely unfit for reality.”

The walls ring out with his acid rant. He stands before you panting, unmasked, with his shaking frame and his unfiltered anger, with his truth and his raw pain openly displayed. With his hurt and his loss and regrets. It’s vertiginous, unbearable. Your body recoils into the glass panels, tears spilling down your face. 

He straightens up, and takes in a quivering breath, a pointed but vain effort to recompose his face.

“Now would you please be so kind as to clean up, and instruct the maid to set the dinner table before catering gets here?”

But his vulnerability lingers in his voice and your crying intensifies, your chest convulsing under the weight of your sobs, of his words, of all your mistakes, and you slump down onto the cold hard floor, weeping uncontrollably. 

“I’m– I’m sorry,” you blubber, “I’m so sorry, Adrian.”

He sniffles, taken aback. Standing awkwardly, he wipes his nose with the back of his hand and takes a tentative step closer.  

“Babe, come on. Don’t cry. I’m sorry. Go get cleaned up, we’ll talk about this later.” 

But you can’t stop crying, your life is folding in on you, all of your certitudes, your broken heart and your grievances exposed, ugly and distorted, through a drastically different lens.

“I’m so sorry, Adrian. I– I loved you wrong. I wasted– wasted your time,” you sob.

“Shh no, come on,” he coos, crouching down beside you, brushing the hair from your face in a gesture so gentle it only makes you cry harder, hot tears scalding your eyelids, “I’m sorry I lost it. I’m tired. Let’s not talk about this now.”

All you want is to reach out and wrap your arms around him. Hold him tight, stop shaking. Go back to the start, take away the pain you’ve caused. But there’s no going back, and your hands are clenched around your shins, pressing your knees into your chest.

“I’m not the one you need. I failed you. I’m not the woman you need and I tried to be and I led you on– and I wasted your years and— and mine, I’m so sorry, Adrian.”

“Babe, stop crying,” he pleads again, panic skirting his tone, “I’m sorry I lashed out. Fuck, I know I can be an asshole sometimes. We can work this out, we always work things out.”

His clear-blue eyes shine with unshed tears. Everything inside you hurts. Everything inside you bleeds.

“I should have done this sooner. I was so scared. I’m such a fucking coward, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t leave, Lee,” he rasps. “We can– Please. Stay.”

—

You stay, inexplicably. You stay to host the Grants. 

Adrian lets you use the shower first, guiding you to the en-suite bathroom, his arm wound around your waist. You keep crying under the hot stream of water, unable to control your sobbing, choking on the hot steam with every shaking gulp of air you take in. 

And perhaps it’s the only way you’ll ever get out of here. Dead, chocked up on grief. 

You let the water run while you step out of the cubicle. Adrian stores the double-edge blades for his razor above the sink, inside the cabinet behind the backlit mirror. The sharp metal slices a shallow cut in the pad of your ring finger when you grab one. You adjust your grip, splay your hand at the top of your thigh, and slash the blade through your tender flesh, underneath the old scar Frankie likes to tease with his thumb. 

Trembling hand, straight line. The pain is searing, your relief immediate. Back in the shower, the blood runs down your leg in crimson rivulets, and your crying finally ebbs. 

In the bedroom, you swallow an anxiolytic, then another. The tablets catch at your throat going down, burning your esophagus like shame and failure.

You’re no longer a person, not really, not anymore. You’re the sum of your pains and discomforts. You’re that cut on your thigh and those pills in your throat. You're the black mascara that coats your eyelashes and burns your eyelids, you’re the red lipstick that dries out your lips. Fragments of you, held together by the snug material of a dress that you hate, a gift from Adrian, the figment of someone else’s desire. 

When the doorbell rings, your hair is still wet.

The dinner is an awkward mess. Adrian looks shell shocked, powerless to summon his usual charming persona. His answers are monosyllabic, incoherent. To you, it’s a complete blur. You drink fast, and too much, hanging your dazed gaze on Cheryl’s double row of natural pearls. Every time you shift in your seat, a sharp pain stings your thigh. You smile through it. 

The poorly executed charade goes on for about an hour before the Grants make a hasty exit. 

Tethered by a thinning thread of lucidity, you go straight to your bedroom, Adrian on your heels. He watches you from the threshold as you heave your shabby college suitcase onto the bed, his pale face twisted, clouded eyes, pinched lips. You try to avert your gaze, you need to hurry, to gather your brains, gather your things. 

But your eyes flicker back up to him. One last look. One last tear. You stare at each other in silence for a brief moment, until a draft closes the bedroom window with a muted bang. Adrian slides his hands in his pockets, turns around, and walks away. A few seconds later, the front door opens and slams shuts behind him.

Your heart trips and plummets. Somewhere far away, long ago, a small voice implores you to run after him. To beg for his forgiveness. To mend your faded dreams. 

Completely unfit for reality. 

Nausea lurches in your stomach, and you lower your head to the empty suitcase stretched open across the bed. You need to get out of here. 

But what are you supposed to pack? The apartment is filled with reminders of what you’ve destroyed. Photo albums, art, trinkets and souvenirs, Christmas presents, birthday gifts. It’s like slicing through ten years of your life, ten years of yourself, of the person you’ve been and never again will be. Letting that woman die and disappear. What do you need to take and what do you choose to leave? 

Completely unfit for reality.

Fighting a sense of urgency, your vision getting more unfocused by the minute, you go through the nightstand and dresser. Prescription pills in rattling tubes, a little box of old Polaroids and Ava’s maternity hospital bracelet, your e-reader and random books, two chargers coiled on the floor like resting snakes… You throw everything indistinctly into the suitcase. It swallows your belongings like a chasm, like a crevice, like a monster with unhinged jaws. 

Staggering to the walk-in closet, you slide some clothes off their hangers and shelves, throwing them blinding behind you. With precarious balance, you rise on your tiptoe to retrieve a leather-bound edition of Anna Karenina hidden on the upper shelf. A gift from your Russian lit professor for your graduation, with an inscription etched in his distinguished cursive on the cover page. Something about you being a promising young woman. You haven’t looked at it in years.  

Completely unfit for reality. 

You pull out a travelling bag, and stuff the book inside it, along with some shoes, and in the bathroom, cosmetics and lotions. 

When you try to change out of the dress, blood has glued the fabric to your skin. You have to rip it off like a band-aid, like a life-threatening habit. The slit starts bleeding again. 

The suitcase’s tired wheels swivel with a loud squeak over the tiled floor of the corridor. The bag keeps sliding off your shoulder. It’s all too cumbersome for you to drag, heavy like your spinning head, swaying like your vision. 

In the living-room, the city’s night lights twinkle and dance behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. You search the room in the semi darkness for something else, something more. Your laptop perhaps, before you realize it’s in your office. Do you need a laptop? You probably do. 

Completely unfit for reality. 

You grab your I ❤️ NY bag and drop the apartment’s keys on the console by the door. Propelled by the creature in your chest, by decades of silence, by an obscure promise for peace, you leave. 

You are in no condition to drive, but you don’t need to be. Your drowsy body’s on autopilot, and the traffic on the 589 northbound is fluid. 

You pull up in front of the motel a mere 54 minutes later, and stagger over to the office, where the young clerk with his blond hair in a bun is hunched over his phone. 

The suitcase refuses to roll over the gravel. One of the wheels folds and breaks off. You have to walk back to the reception and ask the young man to help you carry everything to the room. Your voice is slurring. You rummage in your bag for some cash to give him, only to find him already gone when you triumphantly pull out a tenner from your wallet. 

You don’t fold the dirty bedspread. You don’t clean up your face or brush your teeth, you don’t undress. You kick off your sneakers, and slip under the sheets, Adrian’s words ringing out in your ears. The truth they carry deafening, inescapable. 

You’re unfit for life. For reality. You went out of your way to create a relationship with a stranger, exempt of responsibility, of commitment, of any kind of difficulty. So you could revel in the illusion of a bond, of something greater than you. So you could romanticize a hope, without having to materialize its promises.  

You cry yourself to sleep. 

—

Buried at the bottom of your bag, your iPhone chimes for a solid 14 minutes before you can crack open an eyelid. Your hangover is vicious. It’s a wildfire raging inside your brain. It’s your body thrown off a cliff. 

Cautiously, you sit up on the edge of the bed, brain sloshing inside your skull, nausea lapping up at your esophagus. The harsh denim of your jeans rubs over the slit on your thigh, abrading the cut. A brownish stain of dried blood smears the fabric, and you scoff, thinking you didn’t pack any band-aid. 

The prospect of dragging your body under the shower and putting on clean clothes feels like medieval torture, but presenting yourself at the office reeking of alcohol and in yesterday’s blood-stained jeans is not an option. Not a satisfaction you’ll grant your father, anyway, and the thought gives you strength. 

In the bathroom’s black-edged mirror, your reflection is haggard. Downright cadaverous.

You’re sick a first time, emptying the content of your stomach crouched over the chirped porcelain bowl of the toilet, and then a second time, in the parking lot, after gulping down a tepid coffee from the vending machine in the reception. With the tip of your shoe, you scuff the gravel over the small mess and get in your car, not in the least ready to face the morning traffic, your father, or the rest of your life. But proceeding anyway.  

When you step out of the elevator, your father’s senior secretary is waiting for you in the lobby. Adrian has made some phone calls. Kaytee ogles the scene from her desk, a petty glee lighting up her dull features. 

You follow the older woman to your father’s office, unfazed, obedient. Absent-mindedly watching her restricted gait, encased between her pencil skirt and 5 inches heels.

Richard is calm. An impassive look on his handsome face concealing all thoughts and emotions, the sleeves of his Armani shirt rolled-up to his elbow. He lets you speak first, he listens in silence. 

I’m resigning with immediate effect, the words come out of your mouth easy, and you, too, listen to them. 

You expect to be chastised. Scolded like a rebellious teenager. Sent back to your desk with a mention etched in red on your permanent record and a slap on your hands. You brace yourself for the usual words, his favorite weapons, designed and crafted to humiliate and defeat. 

Instead, he reasons. He bargains. Calling you a valuable partner. A genuine asset for the company, he says, with irreplaceable experience and unique expertise. 

Shadows shift across the glass surface of his desk. His cellphone buzzes, and remains unanswered as he keeps talking, his attention focused on you for longer than it’s ever been. What would your trajectory have been, if he’d paid attention to you from the beginning? If you’d heard his praises as a child? 

What did Adrian say? How did he sound?

After a while, it’s your turn to speak. At the first mention of your shares, Richard’s posture and demeanor switches instantly. Before long, you know you’re never getting this money Ava has instructed you to fight for. 

You don’t argue, you know better. You’ve witnessed firsthand his power of nuisance. His sense of entitlement and his twisted passion for meticulous revenge. But your father’s ire escalates, until he’s standing next to you, pulling you up your seat by your arm and manhandling you toward the double glass doors. 

You wonder how far he’ll go, if he’ll make this public, if he’ll risk the scandal. You soon find out. You’re a rag doll in his hold, as he drags you toward the elevator, seething and sputtering threats.

“You have dishonored me, the name I gave you, your family. You’ve been nothing but pointless ever since you were born. Don’t ever try to come back here. I don’t care if you’re starving.”

As you stumble inside the cabin of the mirror-lined elevator, you realize you never got to retrieve your laptop. You turn to face your father and, looking straight at him, you cover your ears. 

Before the doors close with a cheerful ding, you see his face distorted by wrath, turning a violent shade of purple. 

—

“What do you mean, the room is taken? Taken by whom?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I cannot disclose that kind of information.”

Raul’s affected attempt at hotelier’s etiquette has Frankie scoffing into the receiver. Or is it Joachim? No, you’d said his name was Raul.

“Wait, it’s taken now, but is it booked on Friday? I just need it on Friday. Why did you give them that room, anyway? I’m pretty sure you got plenty of vacancies.”

The real question is, why is he behaving like an ass to this poor man who’s only trying to do his job properly? Why is he getting so nervous over this? How does it matter if you’re not in room number 2, this week?

“I don’t know if the room will be available on Friday, sir. I am afraid the lady hasn’t specified a date for the end of her stay.” 

Frankie’s spine grows rigid. Like a bucket of ice is being poured over his head in slow motion. That ominous ticking fires in the back of his head, so rapid and loud it might fracture his skull open.

“What lady?” he rasps, his throat suddenly parched. “Who’s in there? Is it the– Is it the woman who comes in every week? With me?”

Raul doesn’t answer, and his silence tells Frankie everything he needs to know.

“Alright, thanks,” he snaps, hanging up and throwing the phone on the desk. 

An hour and a half later, he’s pulling up into the motel’s parking lot. Lupe has been gracious enough to agree to pick up Lua from day-care, even though Monday is his day, so he’s got the rest of the afternoon to sort this out. 

This is foolish, though. He, is foolish. Your car is not even here. He’s probably overreacting. 

The thing is, his gut instinct tells him he’s not. It’s a potent, familiar dread, one that sets all his senses on alert. One he’s sworn himself never to ignore again, after Tom’s death. It’s that vision he had on Christmas evening. Your lonely silhouette sitting by the window on the edge of the bed. It’s that pull in his chest. That ache in his flesh.

He gets out of the truck swiftly, with a quick glance at the reception office, and walks straight to room number 2. The place looks even shittier in the bright midday sun. The contours of the low building are pressed flat by the blinding light and the heat. The lime wall between room 2 and 3 is streaked with deep, long winding cracks. The paint on the porch’s poles is chipped, coming off the sun-baked wood in large, crispy flakes. The hanging lights are covered in rust, the base of the railing in mold. 

Once more, guilt squeezes his chest tight at the thought that he’s made you come here, week after week. That you docilely agreed to it, and never said a word. That you kept coming back. Back to this place. Back to him, too.

The door is locked. He rattles the doorknob harder, more to shake off his own frustration than to achieve anything else. The yellow curtains are drawn, and no matter how hard he squints, he can’t see jack shit beyond them. 

He’s probably overreacting. 

What if he picked the lock? Just to make sure you’re not in here?

“Jesus,” he sighs, running a palm over his face, “the fuck is wrong with me?”

He stands in front of the door a while longer, head hung, hands propped on his hips, so still he can feel the sweat beading on his nape. Eventually, he lifts his cap and combs his fingers through his hair, then turns around and steps down the porch. 

He’s halfway to his truck when your sedan appears at the end of the road.

—

On the drive back to the motel, you roll both front windows down, and let the warm breeze blow your hair in every direction.

Yesterday, the pain was all encompassing. So sharp and piercing, you wanted to cease existing. Now, thoughts and images come and go, carried by the draft from the opened window. Kaytee moving into your office, and your employment prospects, nonexistent in the Bay Area. Your forgotten laptop. The talk you need to have with Ava. Your financial situation. 

Everything seems distant, another woman’s problems. You are numb. Remote. Hollow. 

The tears will come back, though. When you ask yourself if this tragicomic public humiliation was your final interaction with your father. If the formal lunch you shared with your mother last Thursday was the last time you’ll ever see her, the last time you’ll hug her frail figure. When you realize you won’t see Agatha grow up. 

You will reject the pain. The sense of loss. Of isolation. But it’ll sweep you away anyway. 

The fact that you have voluntarily orphaned yourself. 

You will choke on your grief. 

“I need to start making plans,” you inform the empty cab with an even tone. 

Or you could simply hide away in the motel for the rest of your life. Waiting for Frankie, Friday after Friday. 

Frankie. 

A strangled gasp ricochets inside your throat. You push the thought of him away, bury it deep between the folds. 

Completely unfit for reality.

But when you turn into the parking lot, the red truck immediately pops into view, stationed in front of your room. Frankie’s standing a few yards away from it, eyes trained on you through the windshield. 

Your body tenses up, a lump grows inside your throat, your grip on the steering-wheel white-knuckled as you maneuver to park. 

When you kill the engine, Frankie walks up to your door. There’s a suspended beat, as he motions to grab the handle. But he seems to reconsider, taking a step back and waiting for you to get out. 

Raw nerves and flayed skin, you exit the car. 

“Are you okay?” he asks when you’re standing in front of him. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Lee, are you okay?” he repeats, detaching each word, his large hands coming to frame your face. 

Shaded by the brim of his hat, his dark eyes skip nervously over your features. You know what you look like, puffy eyes, ashen face, and you squirm nervously in his hold.

“I’m okay. I’m fine. I didn’t fall again,” you add with an empty chuckle, trying to pull away from his grip, evade his scrutiny. 

“Jesus fuck, Lee,” he sighs, shaking his head. 

Your spine grows stiff, but his hand is already cradling the back of your head, drawing you in. Hunched around you, he presses your rigid, reluctant form into his chest, into his heat, breathing you in. Face tucked into the curve of his neck, you stand awkwardly still between his arms, terrified of your body’s reaction should you let go and relent, should you lose yourself in the reassurance of his solid figure, of his soothing embrace, of his comforting scent. 

Eventually, you wrap your arms around his torso, skimming your hands over the soft, cottony fabric of his shirt. 

“Why are you here?” you ask again, your voice muffled against his collarbone. 

“I called to book the room,” he starts, talking into your hair, “and this Raul guy said it was taken. By a woman.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I don’t know. I just knew.”

Clenching your eyes shut, you ball his t-shirt in your fists. 

“Listen, Lee, I can help you. With whatever it is that’s going on. I can help you. Let me help you.”

“I know. I know you can. But I… I think I need to help me.”

Prove yourself, and that collective we, that you can make decisions, be resourceful, be resilient. Other than through silence and disappearance and pills. Stand on your own. Face reality. Deal with it.

You feel the working of this throat against your temple. His hands span your back, spreading warmth in their trail, finding purchase on your waist with a vice grip, as if to make sure you’re really here. 

“I understand.” The deep, velvety roundness of his voice envelops you. “Would you tell me if you needed my help?”

You nod, your cheek brushing the pebbled skin of his neck. 

“I promise.”

His heart beats strong and steady against your breasts. You lean into the slow, pulsating rhythm, into his life force. 

“I need to talk to you,” you start, and his hold on you tightens. “Can we go inside your truck?”

“Sure,” he answers, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move, and you grow anxious, afraid you’ll lose courage, and the momentum will fall to a halt. 

Completely unfit for reality. 

“Okay, let’s go,” he finally says, and you lead the way, walking in short strides toward the passenger side of the vehicle. 

Once you’re both seated, Frankie turns on the ignition. The AC immediately kicks in. In the harsh, unforgiving daylight, the dashboard is not black, but a faded shade of anthracite gray. 

When you turn to face him, he’s already looking at you, the dark pools of his eyes boring into you, searching. 

“I left,” you say in a flat tone, your voice as hollow as your chest feels. “I left Adrian. My fiancé. And I felt my father. The company, I mean. I quit.”

He registers the news, the crease in his brow deepening, lips slightly parting. 

“Okay,’ he nods. “How did it go?”

“It… I don’t know. It went? I’m not sure if they realize I’m never coming back. Adrian especially. Well, my father too, actually. Although he made it clear that he never wants to see me again. I don’t know. Maybe I’m mistaken. I really torched those bridges,” you shrug.

A myriad of fleeting expressions animate Frankie’s features, too fast for your overwrought brain to read into any of them, before they settle into the familiar frown.

He swallows hard, before he asks, “How are you feeling?”

In turn, you furrow your brow, searching the abyss inside your chest. 

“You know the movie, The Dragon Tattoo Girl? Or whatever it’s called? The one with the James Bond actor?”

He lifts a puzzled eyebrow, but nods for you to keep going.

“You know toward the end, when they’re in London and they go tell this woman that her brother is dead, the killer guy. Her abuser, basically. They go back to the car to monitor her computer activity, and she’s just… shopping online?”

“Yea?”

“That’s how I feel.”

He huffs, and you don't know how to interpret his reaction. 

“It doesn’t change anything. For you, I mean. My sister’s in New York, she got away some time ago and I–”

“Lee,” he cuts in, his hand flying to grab yours, but you recoil from his touch, “I told you, you can ask me for anything. Anything you want. Anything you need.”

His gaze pierces through you, soft sad eyes, cold hard stare, and you can’t withhold it any longer. You face away, turning to the brass number 2 hanging upside down on the wooden door. Behind it, there's a travel bag and a beat-up suitcase with a broken wheel that contain all of your belongings. 

You’re thirty-five years old. You only just broke free, and everything you want is in this cab. 

This man, his past, the burden of his sins. The strength and resilience weaved within the fabric of him, his tender touch, too, and the promise of his future. The sense of safety he provides you, unlike anything you’ve ever known in all your years. 

His solid body’s thrumming next to yours, steady vibrations caressing your skin. The air between you ripples as if it were liquid. It’s the only thing you can feel. The first thing you’ve felt since you woke up this morning. 

His words come back to you, from so many Fridays ago, pained and yearning, Are you real? You never questioned the realness of him. You gave yourself blindly to the reality of this. This inescapable and electrifying living thing between you. It’s not the reason behind your emancipation. But it has propelled you toward it.  

Was it all just a dream? 

“Do you sometimes think…” you trail off, hesitant. You’re still not looking at him. The heel of your palm comes to rest over your denim, over the thin wound that brings you relief. You press down on it. You wince. “I don’t know how to ask you this.”

His voice rumbles with tension. “Just shoot it straight.”  

“Do you sometimes think you’ve replaced cocaine with— with me? With this? Whatever this is?”

You risk a glance in his direction and watch him take the blow, eyes lowering to his hands. He releases a deep sigh, cocking his chin. 

“Aren’t you scared you’ve replaced an addiction with another?” you continue. “What if… what if I’ve traded my pills for you?”

His eyes flick up to yours. He stares at you in silence for a while. When he moves, it’s to take off his hat. He props it on the dashboard, assuring its balance, before his gaze returns to you, and you brace yourself, chewing on your cheek.

“Yea, it’s… It’s a valid question. Can’t say I haven’t thought about it. At the beginning, at least. But the answer’s no. I don’t think I’ve traded cocaine for you. I like the man I am when I’m with you. You make me want to be happy. You make me feel good. Coke never made me feel good. It was a means to escape… pretty much everything. I don’t want to escape anymore. I don’t need it. I don’t think I can ever unlearn what you taught me.”

Frankie pauses, letting his words settle over your tense, motionless body. You grit your teeth, your jaw aching. 

He breathes in deep. His voice drops to a murmur, low, but firm.

“I love you, Lee. I was never in love with drugs. I don’t think I was ever in love, not really. Not the way I’m in love with you.”

Your body shudders, tears rising like high water inside your throat, face flushing. All of your suppressed emotions come back rushing. Guilt and fear, remorse, rage and resentment. Hope and elation, too. They tumble inside you like boulders falling off a mountain, in a formidable landslide.

“You can’t love me,” you say in a choked up voice.

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t know if I can be loved. I don't know if I know how to love back.”

“That’s bullshit,” Frankie grunts. 

“It’s not,” you retort, aggressively brushing a rogue tear from your cheek with the flat of your palm, angered by the confidence of his statement. “You don’t know– I’m faulty, Frankie. I’m fucked up. Defective. I can’t handle reality.”

“How about you stop talking about yourself like you’re a machine? Nobody can handle a shitty reality they feel trapped in, Lee. Nobody. Just look at me,” he adds with a shrug.

His words open a floodgate, more tears spilling out of you, streaming down your face in scalding rivulets. 

“But what will happen when you don’t love me anymore?”

“That’s never gonna happen. I can promise you that much.”

“No, that’s bullshit!” you spit out. “Everything passes! Everything ends! Everything, and you know it!”

“Not this. This never ends.”

His assertive tone, his steady demeanor, your stupid, uncontrollable tears, everything sets off your temper. Yet, something throbs inside you, longing and want, stronger than your rage, pulling you toward his still, solid body. His gaze pins you down, not like a dead butterfly in a glass frame, but like a benevolent shadow stretching over you, seeping through your flesh to wrap around your heart and protect it, keep it safe. 

You push back against it, back into the door, the handle biting into your spine, covering your mess of a face with trembling hands. 

“I know what my track record looks like,” he says. “But I’m asking you to trust me. My love for you has no end.”

The seat bench creaks under his weight as he moves closer to you. 

“C’mere, baby.”

His hand circles your arm, pulling with gentle little tugs until you give in and let him tuck you into his side, his arms keeping you firmly pressed against him. His scent engulfs you, his quiet strength, the rumble of his voice felt through your chest as he hums quietly into the crown of your head, Don’t be scared, you got this, I got you. 

Surrendering, you allow yourself to cry, weeping loudly into his shirt, full-body sobs quaking your frame. You might break apart in a million scattered pieces, should he let go of you, but you’re not scared, you got this, he got you, resolute, unyielding, and you weep until the tears run dry, until your rib cage is too sore to heave, until the convulsing of your throat is reduced to a silent tremor.

Releasing his hold, he guides you over his lap to sit you between his legs, and you burrow into him like a small child, eyes drifting close, finally resting. 

—

Around the truck, the sky has gradually changed. The crushing, white-hot afternoon light slowly gave way to a fuzzy, faded coral atmosphere. 

Frankie’s lost track of the time. His arm is numb, his shoulder sore, but he’s not moving. He won’t risk disturbing you. Your breathing comes in deep and regular, you might be sleeping. 

From orange to pink to indigo, the day dies out into the night. 

It’s almost dark when you quietly call his name, and he can hear the toll grief has taken on you in the rasping of your voice. 

“Is it okay for you to be here?” you ask. “Are you going to leave?”

The questions send chills down his spine. Now is the time to tell you. Now or never. It’s been years since he’s known such a fear. 

“No, it’s fine.” He marks a pause, then takes a leap. “What did you mean, earlier, when you said it doesn’t change anything for me?”

Releasing his shirt, your fingers splay over his chest, and with an apparent effort, you push away so you can look at him. In the dim dusk light, he can hardly distinguish your expression. 

“I meant just that. I didn’t leave Adrian on your account. I’m not expecting you to do the same for me. I’m not going to ask you to divorce your wife and abandon your child.”

He runs a palm over his face, sighing heavily.

“I’m not married, Lee. I never married Lua’s mother, and we split up a little over a year ago. Right after that… after that bullshit mission I told you about.” 

Your silence is unbearable. His heart thumps painfully in his throat.

“We kept living together. Until a week ago. Lua’s still young, it was more convenient. I owed them that much.”

You’re still silent, your mind probably working over the implications, measuring the extent of his betrayal, when he’s asked you mere moments ago to put all your faith in him. 

“Why did you never tell me?”

Sweat prickles over this nape. 

“It was easier at first. I could keep you– keep you at a distance. I was scared.” 

“Scared of me?” 

Your eyes glimmer in the darkness of the cab, boring intently into his. He’s reminded of that very first night at the bar, when they bore into his back. When he swiveled on his stool and your gazes met for the first time. When your lives collided. He thinks about how much your eyes have come into focus, since. 

“Scared of what you made me feel,” he breathes.

“What did I make you feel?” 

“Like I’m worthy of you. What I saw on your face when you looked at me… I didn’t want it, but I also didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t want to risk changing anything. I’m sorry, Lee. I’m so fucking sorry.” 

He straightens up imperceptibly, moving to touch you, but you lean back into the steering wheel.

“What did you see on my face?”

The words come out of him in a husky murmur.

“You were burning inside. Burning with life. And you wanted me.” 

Everything stands still.

Slowly, your hand goes up to his cheek. It rests there, light and soft. A cool and soothing touch. Like it’s always been. Your thumb strokes his scruff, and he leans into your palm, exhaling painfully.

“I still want you, Frankie,” you whisper, leaning forward, your lips meeting his lips. 

—

You step out of the truck feeling drained, acutely aware of every aching bone and tissue in your body. Frankie by your side, watching over your balance, you walk back to your car to get the room’s key. The brown diamond-shaped keychain fits in your palm with a homely feeling. 

The room has been made. The artificial perfume of the industrial detergent blends with the musty scent woven into the curtains and rug.

Frankie swallows you in his embrace as soon as the door closes behind you. His mouth slanted over yours, his face pressed into your face, his kisses are deep, needy, desperate, and so are yours. His arms wound up tight around your waist, you cling onto his broad frame. 

With infinite care, with measured movements, he starts undressing you. You’re docile, pliant like a sleepy child, giving in to the solace of his touch, relenting to the safety of his devotion. 

Kneeling at your feet, he slowly slides down your jeans, revealing the mess on your thigh. Clumps of rusty-colored blood are caked around the flushed, raised skin. The sight stops him. Your heart cowers, your breathing suspended as he stares at your self-inflicted wound. 

His left palm skims your leg upward, until the small cut is framed between his thumb and index. When he looks up, you can’t tell if the tears gleaming in his eyes are anger or sadness. You cup his face, so many words stuck inside your chest. So many fears, so many regrets. 

Soon, you’re crushed under his weight, spread around his breadth, ankles locked over the small of his back as he fucks his love into you, his hands hooked over your shoulders. His skin rubbing against yours, long, languid, thorough strokes splitting you open. The painful ecstasy only he can give you, when he buries himself deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours. Healing all of your wounds. 

He’s breathing you, his heart thumping inside your rib cage, I love you, Lee, I love you, but your words still won’t come out, so you nod, and he knows. Your nails sink into his back, and you pray that he knows. 

For the first time ever, you sleep in his arms throughout the night. His chest to your back, a thin shin of sweat between your two bodies. His steady breathing fanning the hair on your nape. You wake up together, on a Tuesday morning. 

Stirring out of sleep, he pulls you flush against him. His plush lips trace a wet path of open-mouth kisses along your neck, exploring the expanse of your skin, drawing ephemeral patterns, warm and unhurried. Softly humming, he tastes you, licking your sweat, inhaling your scent, nuzzling the edge of your jaw and nibbling your earlobe, his cock hardening against your cheeks, his calloused hands kneading the soft swell of your belly. 

His mouth rounds over the slope of your shoulder, and he sucks in sharply. You jerk between his restraining hold, his tongue peaking out to ease the blooming bruise. 

You lift a sleep-heavy eyelids and the morning light hits your iris. Dust particles suspended in the golden sunbeams, the musty smell from the sun-warm curtains carried in the air. His teeth sink in sharp at the base of your neck, a low growl rumbling from his chest, primal and possessive, and it dawns on you. What he’s doing. 

The realization thrums along your nerve-endings, courses through your veins, it blooms wild and spreading inside your chest. He is yours. He was always yours. He was never running away from something, not really. He was running to you. 

He chose you, remote and aloof. A bottomless well of craved affection, lonely scars, lost ideals, and he filled you. Imprinted on you his want and his need, his trust and reverence, in all the ways you let him. 

You summoned him. He found you. He appeared. 

You push back into him, granting him access to the line of your throat, and his bite sinks in deeper. Your fingers card through his hair, heart bursting, body like a fever, arousal pooling slick and sticky between your hips. 

He fucks you slow. Shallow thrusts, the fat head of his cock teasing your entrance, inching further inside your heat with each dragging stroke. His arm banded across your chest and his hand between your folds, he commands your pleasure, flooding all your senses, until you cry out his name, until he comes with you, until your bodies are spent. 

You shower together, and drive to a nearby diner for breakfast. Sitting in a red pleather booth, you drink strong filter coffee and devour thick, buttery pancakes, Frankie’s spend trickling down your panties as you watch him shovel scrambled eggs inside his mouth with a ravenous appetite, his face beaming with a dimpled grin. 

Your smile is so wide, your cheeks hurt.

On the way back, he stops by a CVS to get plasters, gauze and an antiseptic ointment. In the room, kneeled between your thighs, he lets you twirl his curls around your fingers while he dresses your small wound in silence, cautious and meticulous, deft and experienced. 

You know you should talk, know you should start making plans, but he carries his heart in his hand, and his touch is soothing, and your want is restless. High after high, your body tenses and breaks, as he fucks your cunt, your ass, your face, fills you up with his come, greedy teeth sunk into your flesh. 

After making a few calls, he stays another night, and when he leaves for work on Wednesday morning, you spend several minutes observing your reflection in the bathroom’s black-edged mirror. You look good, if not rested, your skin gleaming with a flattering post-orgasm glow. 

You detail the bite marks adorning your skin. They’re everywhere. He hasn’t been gentle. He hasn’t been careful. Some of them still a little sore when you poke a finger into the bruised, tender flesh. The mild pain draws a buzzing, electrical line from your heart to your core. You smile at your reflection. Stop me, you challenge the woman in the mirror. She smirks back at you. She’s so beautiful, so confident, your breath hitches. 

Eventually, your current situation resurfaces. Calling Ava sits at the top of your mental checklist. You wait for a couple of hours, until her lunch break, to dial her number. The first ringtones send you into a brief panic. Above the desk, the woman in the mirror is looking at you. You anchor yourself to her image. 

When Ava picks up, you tell her what happened in terse words: you broke up with Adrian, then quit. You’re currently staying in an out-of-town motel. 

She hollers into the receiver, and you wince with an uncertain smile, holding the phone away from your ear. There are a few cheerful curses as she expresses her pride and surprise, but she quickly gets back on track. 

“So when are you coming here? You’re coming here, right? Richard is gonna make sure you never work again over there. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I know,” you concede ruefully. 

That’s the part of the conversation you should have planned ahead. But you’re still riding high on the fuck-drunk euphoria of the last two days. She questions you for more details, demanding an elaborate report of the events that you’re not too keen on remembering, nor submitting to her judgment. She left without a word, without a goodbye, unnoticed, unacknowledged. You had to confront not one, but two of them.

It occurs to you that you don’t have to tell. Nothing forces you to. Maybe, for the first time ever, you can curate your own experience. Refuse to give in to peer pressure, however benevolent. Define your own story. Be its main character, and its sole narrator. 

“What would I do in New York, anyway? Crash your couch? And then?”

“I told you, Polly has a job for you.”

“No, you said Polly could help me find something. Now she has a job for me? What kind of job?” you frown. “At her practice?”

“No, no. Something in a publishing company one of her clients owns. I don’t know, nothing fancy apparently, but enough to get you started.”

“And what, they’re holding a position for a woman without any qualification and zero experience in their field?”

“If Polly says it’s a sure thing, then it’s a sure thing. Call her. She only mentioned it in passing, we never actually thought you’d fucking leave, Lee! And our couch is very comfortable, I’ll have you know.”

This goddamn collective we. 

When you hang up, nothing is decided. Frankie won’t be back until Friday evening. You're going to be on your own to stew over the crossroads for the next two days. 

Lost in the liminal sequence. 

Ava is right. You could never find a decent job in Tampa. You can’t stay here. You don’t even want to stay. You hate this city, you hate this fucking state. It has been your life-long dream to break-free and get away. The idea of staying inside your father’s radius of influence, within reach of Adrian, gives you the wrong kind of chills. 

But New York? Do you really want to live there? The city has always mildly scared you, with its buoyant history and its mythical aura. Too big, too noisy, too stressful. Completely anonymous. It would be so easy for you to drown in there. Forever disappear.  

The truth is, there isn’t any place you can see yourself living in, because you don’t want to live anywhere without Frankie. 

Only right now, the sheer thought of being despondent on another man rises bile in your stomach. You will never be that woman, ever again. 

“Here is fine,” you sigh with a pout, looking at the one-dollar store painting of the Appalachian. “Why can’t I just stay here forever?”

Completely unfit for reality. 

Adrian’s words seem to find you everywhere. They followed you all the way here, in your hiding place, plucking at the safety blanket Frankie’s care has swaddled you in. You shudder in the warm, quiet room. 

Well, fuck Adrian. Fuck your past. Fuck his words and their condemning truth. 

Step by step. That’s how you’ll proceed. You need to secure your financial situation. You need a new laptop. You need to buy underwear to replace the ones you forgot to pack. And you need food.  

You get dressed and drive to an Apple Store in town, where the price tags on the MacBooks make your eyes bulge. You’ve truly been living inside a despicably privileged bubble. Guilt makes your skin grow tight. 

After running a quick search on your phone, you find a second-hand electronic store, where you purchase a refurbished laptop for a quarter of its original price. You feel stupid for feeling so smart. After all, you’re only experiencing most people’s life. The thought helps you follow through with the rest of your errands, starting with the bank.  

When you come back to the motel with your shopping bags and some takeaway Thai, however, the problem of your immediate future remains unsolved. 

Deliberately stalling, you start fiddling with the computer. The motel doesn’t have Wi-Fi, but you manage to tether the laptop to your phone. The small victory alleviates your anxious sadness. You settle over the bed, back propped against the pillows, and watch brainless social media content as you eat. A warm breeze wafts in through the cracked-open window. This is good, you think. The life-altering decisions can wait. 

Over the next couple of days, you gravitate within a few miles radius of the motel, only going out to buy food and take short walks in the surrounding area. Exploring its vicinity in broad daylight anchors the motel in a reality you are not ready to confront. The fact that it’s always felt like an isolated island is what brought you a sense of safety in the first place. 

But being on your own is exhilarating. You can sleep in late without having to put up with the nagging beeping of an alarm-clock that’s not even yours. Choose to shower, or not, skip a meal or eat pancakes for dinner. You can watch Parks and Recreation bloopers all night long and never tune in to a financial show ever again. You can sleep with the window opened and listen to Disintegration fifty times in a row. Your newfound freedom is in every little detail. 

When Frankie comes back on Friday evening, carrying a six-pack and a takeaway bag, he finds you bare-faced in your sleeping t-shirt, sitting cross-legged on the dirty carpet, watching SNL Digital Shorts on your good-as-new computer. 

He sets the beer and the bag on the desk. An appetizing aroma fills the room. Freshly made burritos from his favorite place. 

Silently patting the space next to you, you invite him to join, but he faces away, hiding his soft smile from you. He takes off his hat, then toes off his boots, and your heart somersaults at how far you’ve come since your early rituals. 

Walking over to you, he crouches at your side to inspect the bandage on your leg, that you changed every day, per his instructions. Seemingly satisfied with your handiwork, he pivots to sit down, his knees protesting with a resounding POP that makes him grunt, and you're overcome by a powerful wave of fondness. Oblivious to the food and the videos on the screen, you unfold your legs and climb over his lap in a straddle. 

“Evening, baby,” he greets you with a round chuckle, soft as velvet, as you lean in for a greedy kiss, prompting him to open with a swipe of your tongue over his plush lips. 

He responds in kind, voracious mouth slanting over yours, tongue licking inside you. Your arms wrap around him, fingers burrowing into the plane of his strong back, the heady scent of him, leather and musk, filling your brain with static and your belly with want. His warm hands slide under your shirt, calloused palms roaming the expanse of your naked chest. He swallows your wanton moans, thumbs playing over your peaked nipples and you take, back arching into his chest, nails digging, hips rolling. 

His touch gets rougher, his hands a kneading grasp over your soft breasts, over the dip of your waist, the swell of your ass, desire pooling hot at your center as his tongue licks and twirls inside your mouth. Chasing the contact of his growing bulge, you bear down over his harsh denim, and his breathing comes in shorter, fingertips teasing the elastic band of your cotton panties. You exhale heavily through your nose, slick soaking his jeans through the soft fabric. 

His lips curve into a grin, thick fingers sliding under your panty-line. He presses into the dip underneath your hips to part your leaking folds with an explicit sound. You push harder into him, into the wall of his chest, forcing him to lean back, your need coiled like a wound spring, angling his face with a harsh tug on his curls to catch his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck, okay,” he growls, straightening up with a cinch. 

His fingers clutch the swell of your ass and in one swift motion, the room around you swivels, you’re on your back, legs bracketing his waist. 

As he unbuckles his belt, your gaze follows the rippling of his lean muscles along his forearms to the shifting bulk of his biceps, lingering on the round of his shoulders and his corded neck, up to his gorgeous face. Tousled hair, kiss-swollen lips, cherry-red, curved in a boyish grin. Black, lust-blown pupils that watch you watch him. 

A clear laughter rises from your chest and bubbles in your throat, its music beautiful to your ears, almost alien, long forgotten. 

His grin widens, dimpling his face, and he tugs off his shirt, throwing it at random in the room behind him. Your laughter dies in your throat; it steals your breath away, it always does, the sight of his naked chest, towering over you, gleaming golden in the soft hues from the bedside lamps. The dips and planes, the pattern of his freckles, the scars you could trace with eyes closed. The stories they tell, your precious secrets, your treasured knowledge.

A flat press of his palms over your knees, and he spreads your legs open, exposing the wet patch on your underwear to his gaze, and his smile falls, his expression turning wilder, dark and hungry. 

“Fucking soaking wet,” he husks, chucking down his jeans, pulling out his stiff length from his boxer briefs, and you squirm over the rough rug with a pleading whimper. Spiting in his hand, he starts stroking himself, eyes trained on your core, deft fingers loosely circling his cock in a slow up-and-down motion. Saliva pools in your mouth, you clench around nothing. 

“What’s that t-shirt?” he asks, bending closer to you, slotting his cock between your folds over the slick-drenched fabric of your panties.

“Oh god,” you gasp. “That– what?” 

“That t-shirt you’re wearing.”

You can feel the throbbing weight of his sex, feel its heat as it rubs back and forth over your swollen clit, and your mind scrambles.

“From– from college.”

“You’re gonna keep it on,” he tells you, his left hand finding your breast and giving it a tight squeeze through the worn-out material. “You look so young, it’s like I’m fucking you in your dorm.”

The fat head of his cock nudges at your entrance, pushing the soaked fabric in, and your mouth falls open, hips arching into him.

“Like I knew you back then. Like I’ve always known you,” he rasps after a thick swallow. “Like a second chance. You know?”

“I know,” you mouthe with a short nod. 

Hooking the tip of his finger, he slides your panties aside, just enough to line himself up, slowly inching inside your heat with a strained groan. 

“Shit, baby, you’re tight.”

The stretch is impossible, the size of him blinding, and you hiss and squirm, but his hold on your waist is bruising, keeping you in place as he thrusts inside you inch by inch, thick cock catching at your entrance. 

There’s the working of his throat as he gathers saliva in his mouth, and he locks eyes with you, making sure you’re watching, before he lets it slide along his tongue straight onto your cunt. The rough carpet scraps your ass as you writhe against his restraint, against the terrifying notion that he always knows just what it is that you want, that he always makes sure you get it. 

“You wanted it, now you gotta take it. You’re gonna take it like a good girl.”

“Yes, Frankie,” you breathe out, nodding again, surrendering, bucking your hips into him.

“Oh yea, good girl, that’s it,” he coos. “Gonna stretch that pretty little cunt on my cock, until you come all over it,” he says, moving inside you, “until you beg me to stop–”

“I’ll never beg you to stop,” you breathe out, brows furrowed, sweat beading at your temples as you take his first shallow, labored strokes.

“Wanna bet?” he asks, drawing your legs over his lap with a sudden tug, deepening his thrusts at a blinding angle. 

You thrash your head, back arching off the carpet, a guttural sound vibrating in your throat as he starts fucking into you at a steady pace, his cock dragging along your walls, leaving you no choice but to accommodate his girth. 

With a small grunt, he thrusts in deeper, the round head of his cock grinding against your center and your fingers scrabble frantically, flying to his chest and clawing at the meat of his muscles.

“That perfect fucking cunt,” he says, eyes trained on where he disappears into you, “you feel so fucking good, Lee. You’re so beautiful. Say it.”

“I’m beautiful,” you say in a warped voice.

“You’re fucking perfect. Say it, Lee,” he husks, drilling inside you faster, with undiluted strength, clutching your waist and sliding you over his cock so you meet him thrust for thrust. 

“Oh god, Frankie,” you beg, after all, taking hold of his wrists, a desperate attempt to slow down his merciless pace. 

Leaning forward, he covers you with his broad frame, crushing you into the rug, spine undulating as he thoroughly wrecks you, unrelenting, his speed escalating.

The heady musk of his scent fills your nostrils, so thick you can taste it. His hot breath scalds the shell of your ear, brutal shockwaves radiating from your center with each of his strokes, each of his words.

“Be a good girl, and say it,” he pants, “say you’re perfect.”

—

You’re mine, Lee Abbott. 

Celadon green, and a pale shade of yellow. He knows your scent will haunt him long after you’ve left him. You’re a part of him now. He made you so. You’ll forever be woven into his flesh, into his very soul. 

You’re mine. Lee Abbott.

He never speaks those words out loud. He’ll sooner die than compromise or be a hindrance to your newfound independence. 

But god, you’re his. Your entire body bears the mark of his desperate plea. Bite marks on the swell of your hips, the round of your ass, the curve of your neck. Heart shaped flecks of crimson, blossoming underneath the surface of your thin skin along the line of your throat, your collarbone, and the weight of your tits.

Every night, he covers you in his sweat and his spit, before he fills you up with his come. 

I love you, he said instead, that first night, and you never replied. In a few days, you’ll be gone, and it might very well kill him, but he will let you go. 

And maybe, from the start, he was more yours than you ever were his. A part of him knew it. The part that tried resisting your pull. The part that compelled him to run away from you that very first night.

Two weeks. Two weeks, and you’ll go north. Live with your sister in New York. Start over. 

There was this talk, over cold burritos and warm beer. He ate with reluctance, desirous to keep your taste on his tongue. Forever preserve the flavor of your orgasm that he lapped from your folds.

That talk that tore his bleeding heart right out of his chest, when you hinted you might have to leave town. You couldn’t explain, you said. Couldn’t make sense of it. You said, I just want to stay here in this room, with you. I don’t want anything to change. 

But it made sense to him. You had to leave, put physical distance between yourself and those who’d wounded you continuously throughout the years, so you could rebuild your life, rebuild yourself. And you needed to be on your own to do this the right way. Once more, he reveled in your courage. He admired your strength. 

He hadn’t measured the extent of his hatred for this man until you pronounced his name. Adrian. Your fiancé. This shit stain. Ever since you broke free, he’s had violent dreams about him. A faceless, lanky silhouette, he beats him to a pulp until his knuckles burst over the man’s skull. He wakes up feeling blood spilling warm and gooey between his fingers.

The local newspapers continue to allude to your departure from your father’s company. Short, carefully redacted articles downplaying the event with meticulously curated talking points. Typical PR damage control bullshit. 

He looks them up, and never mentions them, of course, but every so often, when he arrives from work, he finds you hunched over your laptop, brow furrowed, bloodshot eyes. Quickly shutting the computer close as soon as he approaches. You’re preparing the after, you say. Scouting for jobs, apartments, and once more, he chooses to believe you. 

But then, you cry at night. Silently heaving next to him, your face buried into the pillow to muffle the sound of your heavy sobbing. He pulls you into him, into his chest, wrapping his body around your shaking frame. Chin tucked over the crown of your head. Humming into your hair. You seem so frail, so vulnerable in his hold, and he wishes to absorb your loss, annihilate the pain, rip it from you and make it disappear. 

I got you, Lee. Don’t be afraid, you’ll get through this. 

Can you hear him, then? Do you believe his words of reassurance? You fall asleep with your hands clutching his shoulders, exhausted, the wrong kind of spent. 

You need to go. And he’ll let you leave. Your needs are his needs. They dictate his life. He’ll be right here, waiting for you on the other side.

He said, This never ends, and he meant every word.

But the fucking pain. 

Constantly ripping through his chest, it’s in everything he does, tainting your last days together. In every look at your gorgeous face, in every kiss, every stroke, every embrace. It’s there when he marvels at the graceful ways in which you move, at your recovering appetite, at your patience with him when you let him dress your wound that’s long healed. 

It’s in the blissful domestic routine you two have so naturally fallen into. It’s in his every thought, at work, with his kid, with you. When he comes to you at night, in this shithole that feels more like home than his new house does.  

And whenever he opens his mouth, he fears he’ll betray himself. The words are always there, in the back of his throat, ready to pour out of him. I want you to meet my daughter. I want you to move in with me. I’ll provide for you. You can be whoever you want. Stay. Stay with me. 

You’re mine, Lee.  

Two weeks isn’t enough. Two lifetimes wouldn’t be. 

—

The small cantina is crammed, swarming with boisterous kids and their harassed parents. A continuous clamor hangs over you like a lead lid, you don’t think you’d be able to hear your own voice if you were able to speak. 

Frankie’s head is dipped, his face half concealed behind the brim of his trucker hat, his broad frame hunched over his tray. He hasn’t touched much of his food, and you have yet to start on yours. When you left the motel, a quick lunch had sounded like a good idea. A welcome distraction from the impending separation. 

Now, it feels like moving through a bad dream, like running away in slow motion from an ineluctable disaster.

Inside your palm lingers the ghost sensation of the room’s keychain. You balled your fist around it before checking out at the reception. You raked your brain for an excuse to keep it, and found none. 

Two weeks ago, you’d thought leaving was the right thing to do. He said he understood your decision. He said, I’ll wait for you. 

And when you booked the flight, the date, however close, seemed surreal. Somewhere in the distant future, intangible. As the day drew near, you did what you do best. You refused to acknowledge the reality of it, eluding the prospect, reasoning with yourself that you were merely preserving your last moments with Frankie. 

Now, the take-off only a couple of hours away, your luggage stored in the truck’s tailgate, you can’t shake the feeling that this is a terrible mistake. You don’t care about rebuilding your life. You don’t give a damn about having a job, about emancipating, about being an independent woman. You want to build a home with him. You want to become his wife, to raise his daughter. You want to be his forever. 

You’re going to be sick, is what’s going to happen. 

“Should we go?”

You meet his shadowed eyes, fighting the tears that fill up yours, and nod in agreement. 

Outside the cantina, the heat hits you like a brick wall. Thoughts rush to your head, about the New York winters, the harsh, icy winds, the snow. The clothes you’ll have to buy. Wool sweaters, boots, a coat. Familiarize yourself with the subway. Those dark, underground tunnels. The ramifications of what this new life entails are overwhelming. 

You look up at Frankie and there is no cold hard stare. Only his soft sad eyes, and the gentle caress of their mahogany light, and the pleading arch of his brow. You’re hanging off a cliff, suspended over the abyss, grasping at the dirt, like the wild creature in your rib cage, trying to claw its way out and back to him, where it belongs. Where you belong. 

Nothing makes sense anymore.

“Okay, I’ll call a cab,” you say into your bag, looking for your phone, heart thumping in your throat, tears prickling your nose.

Frankie sighs, a constrained, pained rasp of a breath. He props his hands on his hips, cocking his leg to the side, and the heel of his boot scuffs over the asphalt. 

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you to the airport?”

The swelling lump in the back of your throat won’t let you talk, so you shake your head no. 

“I can drive you all the way there, if you want. New York, I mean. We could… we could make a detour. Through the Appalachian. See that ugly painting in the real.”

His attempt at a cocky smile fails to reach his eyes. 

A first tear spills out from the corner of your eyes. A fat, angry droplet that rolls down your cheek to hang on the edge of your jaw. 

“Hey now, don’t cry. C’mere.”  

Your bag falls to the floor when you crash into the solid warmth of his chest. Winding his strong arms around you, he cups the back of your head in a gentle, careful cradle, lifting you up in his hold.

His cap falls to the ground when you thread your fingers through his hair. You burrow into his neck, into him. You want to live inside his body, meld with his bloodstream, wrap around his heart, become his heartbeat. 

He breathes you in, the plush press of his lips a warm caress on your temple, and more tears flow out of you.

“I wish you could come with me.”

“I know, baby. I wish I could come with you.”

“I would—” you start with a sob, “I would love her like a mother. I could. I know I could.”

“I know you would. Of course, you would. Hey, look at me,” he says, putting you down and pulling away just a notch, cupping your wet face with both hands. “This is not over. It can never be over. It’s just the beginning. The beginning of something different.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you tilt your head to the side, his calloused palm grazing your cheek, to place a kiss on the inside of his wrist. Over the small tattoo you never got a chance to ask him about. You inhale him there, musk, leather, safety. You let your head rest between his hands, the same way you placed your life between his lips, many months ago.

“Frankie, I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“Why… That very first night, in the bar. Why did you turn around? What made you look at me?”

His face falls. The crease in his brow deepens as he visibly ponders over his answer. The sun backlights his curls with a golden halo. When he speaks, his voice is a low rasp, a round aching husk. 

“I’d been searching for you for a long time.”

He thumbs away a stray tear from the apple of your cheek; he scratches his throat. 

“Call me when you get to the airport, okay? And when you board. And when you land. Okay?”

A wistful smile lifts the corner of your lips. Looking at him through hanging tears, you say, “I just realized we’ve never ever talked on the phone.”

Frankie breathes in deep, his smile mirroring yours. So beautiful, so strong. So soft. Yours.  

“See, baby? We got so many things to look forward to. It’s just the beginning.” 

*****

Thank you so much for reading and for your patience 🧡 I hope you liked it. Remember, there's still an epilogue. It will be shorter, so it shouldn't take me too long to birth it, if my brain cooperates 🤞🏻

[jaxxybloger]

GUYS!!! I LOVED EPISODE 5 AND I SAW SO MUCH THAT I STILL HAVE TO PROCESS! We had:

•Crumbs from funnybunny (ship)

•Clues about Jax's possible past

•A mannequin at the end (his name is Mr. Football)

•Jax maid

•Jax's fear

•A little about Ragatha's feelings

•Jax's opinion on Pomni in a position of power

•The fact that Jax is a carnivore

•Caine's fear and insecurity

•Caine getting angry with Zooble

•Lua almost asked Caine out on a date

•Jax doesn't have a tail

AND SOME MORE THINGS that......I really won't remember now.

So...what did you think of EP 5?

(Tagging some people just because)

@cloroxcasser0le

@squeakyangeltoy

@sol-stars

[marilynmydarlinggirl]

—————————————————————————————————————

🎀 Welcome to my tumblr 🎀.

{ Hello ! My name is Deja, but you can also call me Orabella ! I use female pronouns ! }

—————————————————————————————————————

What I like ?

These are most of the things I love to see and use !

• ~ Victoria Secret.

• ~ The color pink.

• ~ Anything shiny !

• ~ Islander culture. { since I’m a Pacific Islander. }

• ~ Hibiscus flowers.

• ~ Vanilla scents.

• ~ Being mysterious and elusive.

• ~ the 60s era without the problematic events, so just the style.

• ~ Old Hollywood stars { Jane Russell, Brigitte Bardot, etc. }

• ~ Everything vintage !

• ~ Weird Al Yankovic.

—————————————————————————————————————

What is not allowed ?

Of course, even the craziest of blogs have their boundaries and limits, and so this is mine !

• ~ Adultery, of course, I’ll post about some NSFW stuff, but I don’t want getting DMs by people about it because that’s very uncomfortable to me, I’ll only let you message me if we have interests together or at least interacted twice.

• ~ Hatred, if you don’t like my blog, then you can just go.

• ~ WEIRD AL HATE, I will not tolerate any of that.

But also besides that, anyone is welcome here ! Just as long as nothing happens and no one makes me feel uncomfortable.

{ Wait, lowkey, those are the only things that’s not allowed, lmao. }

—————————————————————————————————————

What are my interests ?

Having interests is how to get along with people and have mutuals, so if you know one of these, you can moot me right away ! If we’re already mutuals, then I’m glad to have you on my side !

• Weird Al Yankovic.

• ~ Creepypasta.

• ~ Slashers.

• ~ The Eltingville Club.

• ~ Ride The Cyclone.

• ~ Kubs Scoutz.

• ~ Obey Me ! { But we don’t talk about that. 🤫 }

• ~ Good Pizza, Great Pizza.

• ~ SuperJail.

• ~ Studio Ghibli

• ~ Fantastic Mr. Fox.

• ~ Good Coffee, Great Coffee.

—————————————————————————————————————

Who do I listen to ?

Being a thought daughter, I’ll be listening to anything, just as long as it sounds good. So here is my top favorite artists !

• ~ Chappell Roan.

• ~ Laufey.

• ~ Marilyn Monroe.

• ~ The Beatles. { Still getting to know them so please don’t spam me lore I don’t want spoilers/j. }

• ~ Elvis Presley.

• ~ Frank Sinatra.

• ~ Weird Al Yankovic.

• ~ Ray Charles.

• ~ Elton John.

• ~ Kimya Dawson.

• ~ Mommy Long Legs.

• ~ Lana Del Rey.

• ~ Sabrina Carpenter.

{But if you want to know what specific songs I listen to the most, there’s These Days by Nico, Thérèse by Maya Hawke, I’d Like To Walk Around In Your Mind by Vashti Bunyan, The Adults Are Talking from The Strokes, and O Sol e a Lua from Pequeno Cidadão, and especially the one and only Weird Al Yankovic, my top 5 !!.}

—————————————————————————————————————

You can drop into my Asks to question about these things or other questions or other topics, or just let your heart out, I really don’t care. 💗

{ I’m sure there’s more but I’ll update this if I know… again. }

—————————————————————————————————————

[caxde]

You said I can send requests and I'm gonna take you up on that offer, my friend.

I'm still in my SoftDad!Eddie brain rot. I'm rolling with the "Dada's Princess" here and imagining little Lua making a flower crown for Princess. Or them making them together to both be "Dada's Princess". Because I knowwwww just the sight of it would make Eddie just melt into a puddle.

Also, love your writing and your beautiful mind for creating such a cute story so far!

💜

Omg thank you soo much <33 i love getting request so this is ideal i ran with the flower crowns idea hope you like it <33 feel free to request anything you like!

bright eyes universe drabble ~1.6k girl!dad eddie

Spring was in full bloom. 

You had a day off, and you decided to sleep in, letting the sun rays that sneak in through your window slowly wake you up. It was recomforting, the mundane feeling of it all. 

So you enjoyed a hot long shower, singing every song that played on the tape that Eddie had gifted you as a thank you to watching over Lua. It had a little of them both, Bowie and The Smiths had been Lua’s idea -that much was clear- Metallica and Iron Maiden had to be his, but the Led Zeppelin and Fleetwood Mac -you thought- Eddie had chosen because he had heard you singing them when you didn’t even notice you were doing so. A level of attention you were just realising now, in that moment as the hot water hitted your sore back. 

A slow morning called for a hot tea, like the ones you used to make for yourself before you had any real responsibilities. 

Your hair still somehow wet, brushed away from your face, and that gow that a much needed shower left on your face, you felt clean, soft from once. You grabbed the first clean top that was on your folded laundry pile, a baby blue colour that complimented your skin, some washed up dark jeans to cover your legs. 

You walked to your porch, wanting to let your hair dry while you just drank your cup. 

Little did you know, a little surprised waited in your door. 

A letter was hanging on your door, with a small yet thick piece of duct tape. 

Lilac drawings of misshaped stars and hearts decorated the page. 

It read: 

“Duchess Lua of the mighty Hawkins Trailer Park would like to invite Princess to her court outing this afternoon. We shall have a refreshing picnic by the lake, please, confirm your assistance with Eddie the Once Banished. 

Sincerely your dearest friend, Duchess Lua Munson.” 

It made you giggle, and blush at the same time. You could tell Eddie had put some thought into it, and the drawings Lua had made to the best of her ability made you want to keep this letter forever. 

Which you did, you folded neatly, letting it rest on your bedside table, before you found a place in your wall to hang it on. 

You walked back up. The cup let out a clicking sound when the little spoon made contact with it, once you set it down into the floor. 

You sat on the little steps, writing on your little pad that was pressed against your thighs, a response that was just as grandiose as the ask had been. 

It read: 

“Princess is more than happy to accept her Duchess Lua Munson invitation, and would like to know at what time she’s expected to arrive at her delightful trailer for the outing. Princess would like to inform Lady Munson that she’s excited to see her, and will make a treat for the picnic.” 

You decided to leave a little red kiss as your signature. A little present that Eddie will cherish for a longer time that you had thought. 

A stupid thought crossed your brain -more than a thought, an image- the two letters resting side by side, the paper now turning yellow, framed on a wall that the both of you share, Lua’s older now, maybe not the only daughter. 

You had to shake your head, so you wouldn’t get too caught into the dream, snap back into reality. 

-

Maybe it was stupid, or a bit childish but you were excited nonetheless. You switched your jeans for a flowy white sundress, the skirt reached your knees, the fabric had a faded small flower print all over. It was girly, but it was also spring, and for once, you didn’t care. 

Your hair was free of any ponytails, or buns or anything like that, and it felt good to let it fall down, being so used to pushing it away from your face when you were working. 

Eddie was a bit lost in you, not really focusing on what he should. 

Lua was holding your hand, and you both were walking in front of him. He was holding the bags with the food and everything you had prepared -with the added things he already had- and he let himself be lost onto the fantasy. 

Lua was telling you about the book he had just started reading for her as a bedtime story, and you kept asking questions, and she yapped in her mumbling voice as much and as excitedly as she could. He saw himself in her in those moments, when her tongue moved faster than her brain and she’d choke on her own words. Her free hand swanged in the air, and when she got caught on a word, she touched it, as a way to comfort herself. Eddie was starting to struggle to not tell you right there how he was feeling. How he was starting to get those scary big feelings. How he could actually see a life with you in it. 

Eddie didn’t want to scare you. 

So when you got close enough to the Lover’s Lake, and while you and Lua looked around for some spring flowers, he set the cloth down, the little sandwiches he had made on one side, chips for Lua, and a bit of cheese that you liked on the left side. The sponge cake you baked, and the rest of your -half eaten- chocolate bar on the right side. He got the drinks, begging you not to spend more things. 

He got a thermos of your favourite tea -he had finally learned how to make it and was eager to see your reaction- water and chocolate milk for Lua, and soda for him. Though deep down he knew he’d end up drinking your tea. 

He opened his arms as soon as he saw Lua running to him, her arms opened, her fist holding tightly to the wildflowers she had picked, you followed her closely, your laughter filling the air in his lungs. 

You kept laughing, everytime Eddie found something new to do, just so he could hear you. And in consequence, Lua chuckled along. From afar, it already looked out of a picture book, but what he couldn’t quite understand is how it felt like it too. 

“Dada?” Lua asked, once she had finished her piece of cake, spinning around so she could look at him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Can you braid?” She pointed at her hair, a question he had to avoid a bit too often. 

“Bug, I’m rubbish at it, you know it.” He tried to plead with her, once again his voice gave in, breaking a bit. He had a tendency to do that when he had to tell her no, as if it would soften the blow. 

“Please?” She asked again, her eyebrows raising just like he did when he was asking for something he deeply wanted. You had seen that look when he didn’t want you to leave, or he wanted another kiss. With a soft giggle, you looked at the little scene, hoping to not intrude too much. 

“I can, if uh… if that’s okay.” Lua cheered and sat on your lap before you even knew if it was okay or not. 

You knew it was, Eddie had that thank you look on his face. 

He decided to do what he actually had learned, way back when he wasn’t living here, back when his mother lived. He knotted some of the wildflowers together, concertraing enough on it that his tongue covered his top lip, hearing his mother's voice singing low one to the top and knot over and over in his head. 

For once it wasn’t a painful memory. 

Rather a joyful one. 

Now it was his two little princesses and his mother’s voice. 

He placed it on top of your head, a kiss on your temple following it shortly after. 

“What’d you do?” You asked, touching your head with care. 

“Your crown, you needed one.” He points out, Lua’s eyes widened as she saw it. 

“No braid but yes crown?” She asked, not really believing the ability his dad had been hiding from her. 

“You know what we can do?” You asked her, trying to distract them both from the way your blood rushed to your cheeks. “Look.” You whispered it to her, as if it were a secret you both shared. 

You started grabbing the wildflowers that were scattered around the cloth, placing the stems in between the knots of her braids, small flowers blooming from her hair. As soon as Lua realised what you did, her hand touching it with as much care as she could gather she started screeching from laughter, a type of laugh that not only warmed you, but Eddie as well. 

She kind of jumped, though it felt more like a push, to your arms, screaming thank you repetitively, her excitement evident in her tone and gesture. 

Eddie just looked at the both of you, his little dream -much similar to yours, even if you didn’t know- nearing the reality right in front of him. 

You whispered to him, still holding Lua close to you “You’re full of surprises, huh?” 

“Anything for my girls.” The sincerity in which he said it made you blush, the widest smile on your face as you shook your head at him. 

“Idiot” You mouthed, no actual sound coming from you, careful that she wouldn’t hear a bad word. 

He inched closer to you, leaving a kiss on the highest point of your cheek, right next to your ear. 

“Hopefully yours.” He whispered. 

A promise he intended to keep.

-

requests! are open

@took-me-hours-to-steal-those @edens-vices-art @micheledawn1975 @peachystenbrough @mewchiili @bylermaxmayfield @yujyujj @honeymoonmunsonn @paleidiot @ali-r3n @sunshineandwitchery @supernaturalstilinski @womencriedpower @saramelaniemoon @cultish-corner @babyloutattoo89 @witchwolflea @serenadingtigers @readergf @guineveresghost @saramelaniemoon @angel-upon

[p8rasite]

PAGTINGIN ˳ A KIM JIWOONG SMAU !

DIRECTOR’S CUT.. it’s official! kim jiwoong has finally landed a main role; the breakthrough of his career. but while he and his co-star get along splendidly, is there a possibility that their reel feelings can become real? or shall we say, can their perspectives be shifted—their pagtingin of each other?

CAST.. actor! kim jiwoong x actor! mc ft. zb1’s hyung line, stray kids’s minho, ateez’s lua & pandora’s aster.

AND, ACTION.. slice of life, fluff, possible angst, attempted comedy (warnings will be included per chapter).

TAP THE MIC.. no. one. say. anything. honestly i’m terrified. my history with smaus is.. appalling, but i want to give it a go again. and jiwoong makes the perfect sacrifice so ❤️ !!

FANBASE.. @stealanity @rickyschicky @i520u @taerrrrrae @justemalove @mins-fins @zerobaseonefics @hikarii02 @jinkiseason @binchanluvrr + send an ASK if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

MENTIONS.. ep i. pagtingin + ep ii. pt thoughts + ep iii. pt updates (this layout from here on out is inspired by heeracha)

PROFILES.. twitter for dummies jiwoong 𖦹 caffeine rush ride

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. ONE : the one with Sung Hanbin of Tourism

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. TWO : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. THREE : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. FOUR : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. FIVE : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. SIX : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. SEVEN : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. EIGHT : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. NINE : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. TEN : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EP. ELEVEN : untitled

⠀  ❥  . .  EPILOGUE : untitled

P8RASITE, 2023. do not steal because i can and will bite. 

[trans-luis-serra-navarro]

HI AGAIN ITS ME HIIII!!

so as you might tell I LOVE to add a song or a lyric or whatever to like all of my art. all of my art usually comes from a song I love or a lyric I love. SO. that led me to asking you what songs make you think of Luis / serrenedy the most or inspire you to make art or fics of Luis / serrenedy.

TYSM SORRY I HAD TO ASK IM JUST OBSESSED WITH ANALYZING CHARACTERS AND SONGS <3

HELLO I AM SO SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO GET TO THIS ASK I PROMISE I WASN’T IGNORING IT!! I sat down to make this post and then I remembered that I have an ENTIRE album FILLED with songs that remind me of Luis/Serennedy, and it’d probably be a liiiiiiiittle difficult to name them all obviously, so I nailed it down to my top 15 for each!!! I hope that’s OK!!

Songs under cut!!

Serennedy

1. King Of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1 & In The Aeroplane Over The Sea- Neutral Milk Hotel

2. Treehouse- Alex G

3. First Love/Late Spring- Mitski

4. O Sol E Lua- Pequeno Cidadão

5. Mary On A Cross- Ghost

6. Country Motion Sickness- Mae Valerio

7. Ready Now- Dodie

8. Love Me Like There’s No Tomorrow- Freddy Mercury

9. Christmas Kids- R.O.A.R

10. Fernando- ABBA

11. Devil Town- Cavetown

12. My Love Mine All Mine- Mitski

13. Everybody Wants To Rule The World- Tears For Fears

14. Sarah- Alex G

15. No Children- The Mountain Goats

Luis

1. Hotel California- Eagles

2. The Milk Carton- Madilyn Mei

3. Burning Pile- Mother Mother

4. Plastic Jesus- Tia Blake

5. This Year- The Mountain Goats

6. Starman- David Bowie

7. Ramblings Of A Lunatic- Bears In Trees

8. Isle Unto Thyself- Miracle Musical

9. American Pie- Don McLean

9. The Pantaloon- Twenty One Pilots

10. Dragons & Demons- The Herbs

11. Twin Size Mattress- The Front Bottoms

12. Class Of 2013- Mitski

13. Dancing Queen- ABBA

14. Video Killed The Radio Star- The Buggles

15. Saint Bernard- Lincoln

Honorable Leon Mention:

1. Welcome To The Black Parade- My Chemical Romance

2. You’re Gonna Go Far Kid- The Offspring

3. Wasted Summers- JuJu<3

4. It’s Called Freefall- Rainbow Kitten Surprise

5. Vanilla Twilight- Owl City

[atolua]

𖥻  LINE & SINKER ˒ 𝐞𝐭𝐚. summer of 2023

EDITION .. even taylor swift kinnies can take a step back from creating art

FEATURING .. han jisung

CW(S) .. mentions of breakups (HYPOTHETICAL OKAY), accidental injury & feeling single af why am i doing this to myself

MONA SAYS .. comeback szn is upon us.

“what would you do if we broke up?”

yes, han’s doe eyes have resembled saucers before, but he hasn’t almost rolled away before. so it’s fortunate that lua has chaos instincts, or else his makeup artists would be covering up the bruise and pulling their own hair simultaneously. (no they wouldn’t, but he has a habit of exaggerating his girlfriend’s “heroic” acts.)

once his head’s settled back on its rightful place—lua’s lap—the rose haired woman laughs endearingly. “is the question that intimidating to you?”

“what? no, not at all.” he initially blows a raspberry.. only to take back what he said at least ten seconds later. “okay, it’s a little- no, scratch that, i just didn’t expect you to ask that.”

“then i’ll give you a heads up next time. maybe a word like.. americano, does that sound good to you?”

han’s not ashamed to giggle like a human bean in love. because he is one, and his girlfriend’s humor is one thing that is (and must be) loved.

“americano.” lua starts again from the top. she lets a minute simmer, and the giddy male’s smile bloom some more before continuing, “what would you do if we broke up?”

he hums while thinking about it. given how it’s a situation he hasn’t really thought about before (because you’d have to be the biggest dumbass to break up with a shining star like zhang yuehua), he’s slow to answer the question. in the meantime, he decides to ask for her opinion—a sneaky tactic that’d grant him a peek in her beautiful mind.

“i’d probably have the honor of being the subject of one of your songs.” she speaks on the spot. “and then i’ll read stays’ and atinys’ theories about it in order to distract myself from the pain.”

for the second time in less than half an hour, han laughs again. he looks up at lua with those twinkling syrup-tinted irises of his, and shuts down her assumption. “i’ll probably be too busy to even consider composing a song.”

“busy with what?” 

it’s a no brainer that she chooses to bite the bait..

“coming up with a list of plans on how to get my home back.”

..so he can reel her into this love of his even deeper.

❑ TAGLIST  ..  @stealanity @ateezivy @cixrosie @alixnsuperstxr @lost-leopard-beanie @fairiepoems — send an ask / dm to be added !

[writingpages]

this is enough

Summary: yusei had a massive problem, and he tries to enlist his friends to help.

Rating: G

Ships: Yusei Fudo/Aki Izayoi

Notes: written for @ygoadvent.

read on ao3 / support me on kofi / join my discord (18+)

What would she want for Christmas?

Yusei had little experience with buying gifts. Normally he'd make gifts - usually through welding or some delicate paper stars... perhaps even a simple game he'd programmed. This wasn't like before, though. He'd had a relationship before, sure, but it wasn't like this. This was something that filled him and made him feel oh so alive. He didn't dread coming home - he hadn't known that was possible before. So whatever he got Aki for Christmas had to be perfect, like she was. Perhaps it had been a mistake, however, to ask Jack to subtly ask for her wishlist. Really - that was on him. He'd known Jack for most of his life. "She insisted she didn't need anything," Jack had said, looking almost angry about it. "No matter what I said! I don't know why you don't just ask her directly. Why do I have to be your messenger?"

Really, he should've expected as much. Aki had said similar whenever he asked what she wanted - she didn't need anything. Sometimes it was complete with a 'I'm just happy you didn't die in the Ark Cradle; I don't need anything else' which didn't really help with his guilt about that. The look on all his friends' faces when he'd come back home alive had been enough to last him a lifetime. "Jack, what exactly did you say to her?"

"I said that people are going to want to buy her gifts for the holidays and she should just make it easier for the rest of us," Jack said, rolling his eyes as if this was the obvious thing to do. He crossed his arms, huffing. "She had the nerve to say all of us being in one place for the holidays would make her happy. Can you believe her?"

Yusei  just sighed. "Did Carly manage any better?"

"No," Jack replied, and then he smirked. "But I at least know what Carly wants for Christmas."

With that, Jack left before Yusei could show him a different kind of "deck the halls" leaving him to settle for throwing his wrench at the wall.

"I tried, man," Crow said over the phone. "All she would say is that if we're all home for the holidays, she'd be happy. How do you think I felt? I'm stuck here in Austria for this tournament. It's not enough that I hear it from the kids and Sherry, I gotta hear it from Aki too?"

Currently, Sherry was watching over the orphanage, and she was overwhelmed by it. Normally she had Crow around, but well, when Crow was offered this chance, he had to take it. At the time, Sherry had expressed her sincere support but Yusei got the feeling that sometimes she deeply regretted not taking Martha's offer to take over. Yusei decided to not mention any of this to Crow. "Sorry, she just misses you," Yusei said, glancing behind him at the door in case Aki walked in. "We all do. Are you at least winning?"

"Yeah, absolutely," Crow said with a laugh. "These Austrian Duelists don't have shit on me, you know. Tell Aki to not worry - I'll try to be home for the holidays. Hey! I guess that covers a gift for her! Ah, shit, I need to go. Later!"

The line went dead, and Yusei frowned. He wasn't sure how he felt about Crow finding a gift for Aki before he did.

"I think you're taking this too seriously, Yusei," Luka said from the bench, tilting her head and kicking her feet. She'd tossed her book bag on the floor, and was mainly just watching him fix Lua's Duel Board from  yet another wreck. No matter how many times Yusei had told Lua to be careful, he kept managing to get into some pretty bad accidents. Yusei dreaded the day that Lua was old enough for a proper Duel Runner - he could only imagine the injuries. "I'm sure Aki will like whatever you get her."

"You don't know what she wants either, do you?"

Luka let out a frustrated sigh, flopping backwards. "She said that I shouldn't worry about what to get any of you guys! What am I supposed to do with that?" She sat back up, staring intensely at Yusei. "Are you going to tell me what you want for Christmas?"

Yusei grinned, shaking his head. "I don't need you to get me anything, Luka," he said, checking the balance on the board. Was there a way he could ensure that Lua could at least get into fewer accidents? Besides just outright taking the Duel Board away from him, anyway. "All I need from the two of you is to not get hurt."

"Ugh, you're worse than Aki," she groaned, rolling her eyes. "She told me to not tell you this, but she would give me her wish list in exchange for yours." She got up, storming over to him with a glare. "So are you going to hand it over or am I just not going to be able to get you Aki's wish list?"

So she was playing the same game he was. It snapped into place - why no one else seemed to be able to get her wish list out of her. The problem with this, however, is that Yusei genuinely had nothing he wanted for Christmas besides seeing Aki happy and knowing his friends were safe and sound. He frowned at this, staring at the Duel Board but not really focused on it anymore. "I don't have anything I want," he admitted. "I just want my friends to be happy."

Luka stomped her foot. "You and Aki were made for each other," she yelled before storming off.

He supposed that was fair. That just left one problem: what was he going to get Aki for Christmas?

[lunarhorrors]

You asked us on Twitter but I don’t believe you ever told us What do YOU think Hera thinks about au!sunshipduo being happy

okok so. we don’t know where hera and au!guq end up - their arc together, how their relationship ends - Yet bc guqqie is still working on their finale, so this is going to be my hypothetical headcanon.

i think that hera would be furious. furious and jealous and full of grief, a grief that presents itself as anger. but i think that she would also find it funny, in a bitter, self-deprecating sort of way. of course her experiment didn’t work. of course there is an outlier, one universe where things worked out and of course it isn’t hers, but a clone of herself.

i think she would also still hold on to a bit of righteous denial, assuming that she is unable to see their complete future - she’d laugh, bitter and hollow and condescending, and send them a wedding gift. wish them good luck. and she would sit back and wait for things to go wrong.

if she was able to witness everything working out, she would be wrecked. maybe she’d have a midlife immortal crisis and start tormenting other random people to try and feel better, make some more clones and run some more experiments, but her heart wouldn’t be in it anymore. she’d be angry, and jealous, and bitter, and depressed. she might try and see au!sunshipduo as an outlier in her experiment, a variable she hadn’t considered. she might try to brush it off and be scientific about it before continuing to observe and torment other universes. but she wouldn’t be able to completely remove herself from it and remain scientifically objective. nephele and icarus would always leave a bad taste in her mouth. evidence of failure. evidence that says she could have been happy, in another life.

but i’m not sure! maybe we’ll find out :)

[lichofhams]

Sol, the Umbral Valkyr and Lua, the Umbral Khora are done!

The embodiment of the alignment that Tenno choose, the love between these two is eternal!

The Tale of Sol:

The sun is often seen as what brings life to the origin system. To some it is the light that many look toward to brighten their day, while others see it as as source of heat that can both help or harm. Thus is the nature of Sol, the Champion of Romula, The One Armed Lioness and who Tenno pay tribute to when one aligns with the Sun.

Though she did not always have a name, as names hold power. She was hailed as the relentless warrior in Romula’s Gladitorial Arena. Her ferocity caught the attention of an Orokin Prince and his loyal maid, who paid a large sum for ownership of The One Armed Lioness as he wanted a new pet. But the Lioness cannot be tamed, lashing out at her new master whenever he told her to sit or heed his command. In turn, he would strike at her with his whip, the Mazzo (Bouquet) and have her locked in her cell whenever she disobeyed.

The Lioness’s nights were miserable, cold and confined but they weren’t solely gloom, as the prince’s maid was responsible for feeding her. Mistrustful at first, the Lioness bit the hand that fed her but she’d eventually ease up. The two would bond over their struggles during while everyone was sleep, sharing their stories with one another. Infatuated by the Lioness, the maid enjoyed every second with her. But the maid unintentionally doomed when she gave her a name, Solaris, her beloved star in the sky.

When their master found out, he was seething with anger at his maid’s disloyalty. He wanted to punish her, but he couldn’t lay a finger on her. Thus he opted to teach her a lesson…by taking away that which she loved most. The prince employees an Orokin Executioner to find the most sadistic way for Sol to suffer, and the maid was forced to watch as her lover was mutilated by the Helminth strain.

“Do you still love this beast, dearest? “ he asked, before dragging her away.

Sol was changed that day, screaming like she had in the arena all her life. But her fighting spirit and love for the maid could never be calmed, breaking free every time her captors restrained he. Eventually her rebellious nature was deemed so dangerous that they had to ship her to an Orokin Scientist on Jupiter by the alias “V”. And there she stays, restrained as she always was and waiting for the day she’d be reunited with the night to her day.

The Tale of Lua:

The moon is often said to be the reflection of the sun, the dark side in the night sky in the absence of light. Cold and eerie as it is, it is also peaceful as it hides both dangers and those from danger. Thus its he nature of Lua the Maiden, the Black Kavat, and who Tenno pay tribute to the one aligns with the Moon.

Born as an orphan on Malva, she was adopted by royalty at a young age because of her beauty. “My dear, you are as beautiful as the moon in the pitch black of night. I will name you Lua” her master said, showering her with favouritism but she to love him, and only him. The Orokin Prince was a spoiled child, often bring back pets from his travels, but he never cared about taking care of them. Thus it was Lua’s responsibility to feed them, but she’d grow attached to each critter she had to babysit. And whenever she showed affection to these pets, this would upset the prince who would “take them away” from her whenever she loved them more than him. With each pet taken, she’d grow more and more melancholy. Fearful that she’d never be able to love something without it being taken away.

By the 8th pet, she swore she wouldn’t love another again. But during the end of one Venusian winter, her master brought back another pet…a human. Surely she wouldn’t fall for this one. Whenever this one was locked up, Lua brought food to the human every night. Though she couldn’t bare to see the other shivering and chained this way. Thus she tried to take care of her, giving her some comfort but remembering to not show affection. Though the two would share their sorrows during the cover of night, speaking about their lives and how they both grew up trapped in someway. Lua sympathised with the other, and felt genuine affection from another for once in her life. This led to her greatest mistake…as she named the human Solaris, a beacon of Venusian hope.

When her master found out, Lua could only watch as her beloved was tortured, her head locked in place by her master to witness every second of it. It broke her as she was pulled away by her master, she had lost too many. That night she finally snapped, poisoning her former Orokin master. The crime and punishment was high for assassination of Orokin blood, thus she was put to the same chair that Sol was in. But Lua would break free with the help of her dead master’s whip, the Mazzo when she heard news that Sol was still alive.

Thus her journey continues to Jupiter, where she will free Sol once more. Happy Star Days, Tenno.

[lovely-peace]

Star point of view

Summary : After the holidays Sirius is worried about his best friend, but also about Sunny, which doesn't talk to Moony anymore. So he confronts Remus about what happened and is shocked about what he hears.

Warnings: Remus being an idiot but we love him, intense emotions, dramatic sryy, of course Angst

After I wrote the last part, I wanted to do something different with this series and I hope you enjoy :'))

Tell me please if you like to see different perspectives!

Masterlist part 1 part 2 part 3 part 5 part 6

Sirius pov

I was friends with remus since we went to first year. And yet I only got to know him through James.

Moony was always friends with little Sunny before we were a group and that's how we met them too. I love them both.

They are my family.

But they are so terribly stupid.

Sunny has always taken care of Moony. I used to think that was because they knew each other for so long and they wanted to help him because they were friends.

It wasn't until much later that I saw the tender look in their eyes when they visited him in the hospital wing. I don't blame Moony for not noticing. I mean, even I didn't see it until much too late.

But I do blame him for never talking to them about his feelings. He always loved sunny.

Why didn't he say anything?

I have been asking myself this question for years and only a few days ago I found the answer. When we were in the café.

He is afraid, not them. He's afraid that they don't love him the way he loves them. And that's so idiotic, because they really have always loved him. But he kind of blew it. Because in the meantime, I'm not sure if they still love him....

When we stood on the platform in the station, the train was not yet visible. This year I came here with James.

Because I was now a Potter.

I was so glad to be out of this house that I didn't realize until later how terrible Moony felt. He had withdrawn more and more since sunny gave him the cold shoulder.

And honestly? I couldn't blame him. But what I did hold against him was that he didn't tell us anything.

What had happened to Sunny?

It didn't happen overnight, especially with the love friendship they had. I was confused and angry.

Because they were both acting so stupid. And don't get me wrong, that whole thing is their business. I just don't want to see them so exhausted and hurt.

In the end, all of this was preventable if they would just be honest with each other.

When Remus met us, he looked terrible. He had huge bags under his eyes and looked like he was going to fall over at any moment.

"Hey." was all he needed to get out.

"You look terrible," I said a little too honestly.

At that, he looked at me irritably.

"Thanks, pads, that's what I really wanted to hear. I didn't even know that!"

James sighed and looked at him with a furrowed brow.

"Remus you should talk to them sometime. This can't go on."

Remus shook his head expressionlessly.

"They're avoiding me like I'm the worst person in the world. Believe me they don't want to talk to me, I learned that this summer."

He laughed bitterly.

"Moony what happened? Why are they avoiding you like this?" I finally voiced the thoughts that were solidifying in my mind.

He hesitated before answering. Then he looked away into the crowd and finally answered.

"I fucked up. So really."

At that, James laughed.

"We already knew that. The question is how?"

"I was stupid and insecure. I let it guide me-" but then he stopped. It looked like he saw something specific in the crowd. Or someone in particular.

"What's wrong?" I asked, following his gaze.

But then I saw a certain sun, which was staring ahead, as if they were trying to block out our moon.

How could someone have such a crush on someone else? No, it was more than crushes, I had learned that this summer.

"Talk to them. It's now or never. They can't run away here. If you want an explanation, you have to confront them, too." I advised him.

"Okay." he just said and walked towards them with heavy steps.

The chaos that followed I don't think I need to explain….

~~~

"YOU. HAVE. WHAT." I said stunned as he walked into our cabin.

He winced and sat down dejectedly at the window.

"i don't know what was wrong with me…. I suddenly had this urge to have them as close as possible and then I kissed them on the forehead - it just kind of happened!" he said quickly and without stopping.

I was just about to continue scolding him, when James spoke.

"What happened, moony? Explain it to us, please. "

And so he steered our conversation in that previous direction.

I have never been so upset about Moony in my life. Otherwise, it's always the other way around.

"So let me sum this up…. You always told them that you didn't know how you felt when they told you that they loved you, but then you treated them like everything was the same and now because they don't talk to you anymore you kissed them in front of everybody. Remus that's fucked up."

He said nothing and just looked out the window. He didn't even defend himself and my anger decreased.

I fucking felt sorry for him. I didn't know what he was supposed to do either.

James shook his head.

"Moony, you know you love them. You proved it again a few minutes ago. Then why don't you tell them?"

Suddenly I remembered Sunny's violent reaction to my insinuation that Remus loved them. Oh man he had really fucked up.

But when I saw remus' eyes in the reflection, I saw his tears. Remus was crying. Remus-I-never-show-anyone-what's-going-on-with-me-Lupin was crying.

I didn't say anything more, instead I just put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

James and I exchanged worried glances. I knew we were thinking the same thing.

What the hell is going to have to happen to bring the two of them back together?

And the moon cried bitter and burning tears of love and sorrow at the same time as the sun, while the star just watched helplessly.

Taglist : @juleshadalittlelamb @fluffybunnyu @tendous-pretty-hair @helloitsmeeeeeee @valencia-rou

[ravinaaa]

🗒️ 🥬 🌱 ◞ ask game

hello lovely lady, ty sm for the ask <3 im going to be answering for my streamer dr :) (oh, we're so back)

🗒 JOURNAL PROMPT. . . when do you feel the most whole? I'm a professional photographer, it's what I studied in college and what my " actual " job consists of. that being, photographing wedding receptions, birthday parties, festivals and concerts. any special occasions that need to be remembered by those who were there, and need to be seen by those who couldn't be. my job is one of a kind, and my absolute favorite thing in the world (aside from my other job, of course.)

list three things you find comfort in and why me and my friends hang out ALOT, but my favorite part is always the end of the night. girls are carrying their shoes to taxis, most drinks are halfway gone and lukewarm, and my lovely boyfriend is bringing the car around.¹ might sound weird, but I never really imagined I'd find so much confidence and comfort in streaming itself, I'm actually quite a shy person, but there's something about being loud and stupid in front of a huge virtual crowd that brings me solace.² mypetsmypetsmypets, I would die for those little babies, it's crazy. I have four cats & a blue lovebird, along with my boyfriend's pets who are obviously also my children, in total I think that might be like 8/9 animals (woah). they're absolutely one of the best parts about this dr and I can't wait to crush them with love and cuddles.³

what's a city you really want to visit? GREECE!! praying extra hard to aphrodite and the stars and anyone else who's listening that my proposal/wedding takes place there. take me to Greece, babe, and I'll love you forever.

tell us a compliment you love receiving I have a pretty strong RJ accent, we pronounce our Ss like Xs and talk with our mouths halfway closed, so tell me you like it PLEASEEE it makes me so happy

🥬 SIMPLE PLEASURES. . . I try to visit my family as much as possible. my parents have been left with an empty nest for quite a while now, and moved to a smaller house a couple of years ago, real close to the beach. the sand, the sun, the drinks, the noise, the people. they're all so different from where I live now that it feels like a whole different world whenever I'm there.

🌱 TEA LEAVES. . . If lua antonelli were to ever turn into a moodboard make sure to include...books, the beach, cameras, handwritten notes and kittys

[hsslilly-blog]

hello lais! i was wondering if you could help me with something HSS related and i thought i'd ask because you've archived HSS yourself - do you know if there's any way to see how pairing up the main story characters up via the dating function affects in-story dialogue (if at all?) like... it's something i've read about before on the fandom wiki etc claiming there are slight variations if certain characters are officially dating but not somethng i've been able to test? like e.g. the storyline kind of nudges you certain ways like with autumn/julian/wes love triangle, but what if i paired autumn up with say... nishan, to get really weird. or maybe from back in the day when it was still being updated, i feel like i once saw a post about someone seeing specific dialogue because they'd paired julian and ezra. i guess i'm asking... is it like, actually a thing or not :') and is there a way of opening the game code i guess in order to check?

hey!

yes! it’s a thing! from the top of my head i can remember scripting for the mc and most of the main characters (and some all stars, by the end of the game/main plotline), wes/autumn, autumn/julian, sakura/nishan, mia/koh, mia/katherine, wes/ezra, ezra/payton, autumn/koh and kallie/koh. the game nudges towards sakura/wes around level 21, but it’s not something ever scripted (if you have them paired up).

and yes, you can check this by checking the actual text from the quests. you just need to download the .apk in a computer, transform it into a .rar file (by changing the name; make sure to have file extensions toggled on) and then you extract the files. the main quests are all stored in a folder called “assets” and they’re all named following the pattern prim_[#quest]_{namequest].lua. you can also find all of the other assets for the game in this folder, as well as the side, premium, seasonal, etc. quests.

the quests are simple .lua files. you can open them in any text editor that reads the .lua extension (here's a good one, free; browser). once they’re open, navigating them is pretty simple since they are mostly written dialogue with a tag indicating the name of the character and if statements to check some things:

here, co, hss.U is the MC, co, hss.A is Autumn and co, hss.N is Nishan. some other characters have their full names written (wes is "WES"). you may notice a number at the end of most of the sentences. those are the expressions! 1 is happy, 2 is sad, 3 is anger, 4 is shock and 5 is that cute one with the hearts.

now... to check the scripting for the pairings you have to read through the quests. but it's easy to spot. it's always an if statement. here's an example of a scripting between mia and katherine, from 24.4 - katherine's first day:

the game just checks if two characters are dating in your game and adds/switches to the "special" scripted dialogue. if they aren't, the game skips it. it's pretty simple, but it's very neat. you can also just search the tag "(hss.getDatingPartnerReferenceName".

that's it, basically. i'm happy to help if you have any more questions or need any help with it.

[triple-moon-rp]

Harsh Wake Up Call

Starring Lua

TW: Implied Suicide/Suicidal Idealization, Meltdown

—

On the outskirts of Pentagram City, lies a blissfully unconscious new sinner, unaware of the world around her. Until her eyes made of obsidian with ruby pupils faced the red sky open once more. Lua blinks once, twice, as awareness comes back to her. Lightning begins to crackle around her as her marred pale face turns completely black, obscuring the scowl on her face. Dark clouds and the sound of thunder surround her body. Her fingernails immediately find her scalp, digging in, and she wails.

“WHY?! Why am I AWAKE?!?! I should be DEAD! Why am I not DEAD?!?”

The sound of her screaming and repeating the same question is drowned out by the massive thunderstorm she created unconsciously. It lasts for about five minutes, dying down as she tries to calm herself after feeling dizzy. Her hands move to her face, pressing down, her knees press into her chest as she rocks back and forward while sitting on the dusty ground.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. Everything is fine, everything is fine,” she chants until her breathing becomes more regulated.

When her hands pull away from her face, it slowly turns back to white like watching a timelapse of the moon going into its full moon phase. Exhaustion permeates her small body as she tries to finish grounding herself to reality.

“I can feel… dirt, my skin, and hair… I smell… rain and… sulfur? I see… red sky? Mountains?” she laughs hollowly as she takes in her surroundings for the first time and stands, “Have I… Has it really been so long that I’ve forgotten what outside of my house looks like? No… There’s no destroyed debris, and I know I felt the roof collapse on me during that storm… Where…? Where am I?”

Her head turns towards the bustling city. Looks like a 10 minute walk from where she’s standing. Fuck, if this is a wizard of Oz bullshit situation, she’s going to punch someone. Not that she can throw a punch to save her life. Might as well start walking. No point in sitting around and waiting to possibly wake up.

The walk was probably the most exercise she’s gotten in a while, but she manages to keep pushing on. The moment she observes the forms of the Pentagram City’s denizens, her confusion compounds. If this was just a lucid dream, normally the moment she realizes, she’s able to wake up rather easily or control it in some way. However, the pain building in her calves tells her otherwise. That’s the only thing that feels real to her. There’s nothing human about the people walking around her. Some of them even look like the nightmare fuel she’d sketch back in highschool.

As much as she hated it, she needed to ask someone. Unfortunately, most ignored her and kept walking before she could utter a second syllable. Fifth try’s the charm, apparently. A sort of anthropomorphic lizard dressed in tattered clothes laying in the gutter answers her question.

“What’d ya think, toots?” he scoffs at her, earning a quiet rumble from Lua.

“If I had an idea, I wouldn’t be askin’... I dunno, could be the Goblin King’s Domain for all I know!”

He hiccups mid snicker, “I reckon you can call it that. Didja really miss the big ol’ neon sign sayin’ “Welcome to Hell”?”

There was a neon sign? If there was, she doesn’t recall seeing it. “Wait, you mean like, Hell from the New Testament or is it Hel from Norse mythology? So I am dead?” She supposes it makes sense if this isn’t some near-death dream she’s having.

He frog blinks and simply shrugs before resuming his drinking and self-pity.

“... Welp, thanks anyway,” she walks away once it became clear she wasn’t going to get any more useful information out of the drunkard.

There’s still so many questions she wants answers to, and her brain asking all of them at once isn’t helping. But the most significant one she needs to focus on is what is she going to do now? She wasn’t planning on there being an afterlife and she knows nothing about this place. Being forced to start completely over but with absolutely nothing and in an equally hostile, if not more, place? Just thinking about it feels overwhelming. Where does she even start? Where does she go? Should she make another attempt?

Lost in thought, mumbling to herself, she doesn’t even notice electrocuting some sinner trying to pickpocket her, let alone her new reflection in a passing window. It isn’t until she bumps into a pole that she’s knocked out of her little world. How embarrassing… but a flier pinned to that post catches her eye thanks to it. 

Hazbin Hotel… blah blah… Redemption… blah blah… Free room and board? Now that got her attention. Free is always affordable! Still, it could be a trick. How does she know this isn’t some weird cult about “salvation” or a lure to harvest organs from poor unfortunate souls? Better question: what does she really have to lose now? It seems as good of a starting place as any to find somewhere to sleep that isn’t the streets. She’ll just have to make sure to ask any and all questions about their goals and purpose, be firm on where she stands, and get the fuck out of there before it’s too late if it turns out sketchy. Now she just has to find the place… which may or may not require her to ask for assistance from the locals again… Uggghhhhhhhhhhhhh… Today’s going to be a long day.

[onyxcrimsonblur]

“This is earth in my time.” She waved a hand in a flourish. “The walls beyond Cetus. Vast plains enclosed to seal off a large enemy. Don’t worry, you won’t see them unless I bring one in. This place can hold any enemy I’ve ever scanned for Simaris but I normally would just use these spaces for peace and tranquility.”

“This is -- Gods, I have no words.” He walked forward and she followed as he explored asking questions about flora and fauna, and just basking in the changes between then and now. They ended up sitting atop a fallen sentient's bones just watching the sun set beyond the horizon, the stars appearing as the sky darkened. Then she watched his throat bob as Lua came into view.

“Is that the moon?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to it?”

-Captura chapter 1

Rated - 18+

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63153499