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5eraphim · 10 months

Note

Oof sorry for another one but can you do something where engi and you have your first date together at his house, but you have a tiny bit of an odd feeling about him. He's very sweet, but almost overly nice. He offers to make dinner for you and you say yes, but what you don't know is that he put aphrodisiacs in your food.

These prompts were so fire! So freaking fun to write for, thank you for these!!! I feel like ever since I've been writing short stories I've wanted to write a "you don't love me, you love how being loved make you feel" confrontation between reader and their yandere- very cathartic to finally get that scene out of my head and into a finished work!

Title: Birthday Cake

Rating: X (MINORS DNI, YOU KNOW THIS ISNT FOR YOU)

Content Warnings: MAJOR daddy kink, dub-con, spanking, aphrodisiacs, yandere, toxic relationship, forced intimacy, fingering, possessiveness

Word Count: 7k

MASTER LIST

TIP JAR

"In my dreams I am kissing your mouth and you're whispering 'where have you been?' I say, 'I've been lost but I'm here now. You're the only person who has wver been able to find me.'" unknown title, Sue Zhao

You should've known better than to give in to the kindness of strangers. Well, perhaps not strangers, but the excessive displays of affection from your teammate Engie had long since worn out their novelty. You'd only been a member of the team for a few months yet, ever since then, Engie'd taken a certain special liking to you, something which bothered you right away. It wasn't your style to accept being fussed over by anyone, but no matter how you tried to politely push him away, he never seemed to take the hint.

What really surprised you was his latest act of kindness, inviting you to his place to share a meal together. A birthday dinner, his treat. You knew you never told him your birthday or anyone else for that matter, and you couldn't even guess how he found out or how long he'd known, and honestly, you weren't sure you wanted to know. You initially tried to politely decline, planning to make up some lie about plans to call family after work to celebrate. But he was stubborn, absolutely refusing to take no for an answer.

Something about his forwardness bothered you, but still, there were worse ways to spend a birthday, and you agreed to meet up at his place later that night. Giving you a comfortable amount of time to get cleaned up and changed out of your work clothes before you found yourself at the address he provided you earlier. Knocking at the door, you tried to ignore your rising anxieties and let yourself believe Engie was your friend and you had no reason to be so skittish. Perhaps a little too friendly sometimes, but not someone who would ever hurt you.

Engie held the door open for you as you entered, leading you through the kitchen; the smell of well-seasoned food cooking on the stovetop and roasting in the oven overtook you before you entered. While you'd never actually stepped foot in Engie's home, it looked exactly how you'd imagined. A cozy rustic kitchen with a wood stove, gingham-printed curtains and tablecloth, and a grand wooden table in the center, modestly set for two. You could hear the lazy strumming of some folk song on the small radio on the dark wood of the kitchen counter over the crackling of the low fire burning in the furnace on the other side of the room. Engie lived alone, but you knew he regularly invited family over; the dinner table alone could easily sit 10, but something about the sight of the massive table set for only two made it look so lonely, and you couldn't help but imagine how empty it must look set for only one as Engie was no doubt used to.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Engie's eyes following you as you made your way inside, and you wondered when was the last time he'd had non-blood-related company over. While you were still a bit uncomfortable with his forwardness, you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he was just nervous, and you had no reason to feel uncomfortable around him. He was your friend, an ally, surely not one who would mean you any harm.

You sat at one of the seats set for dinner, watching as he prepared two plates. Before he even opened the oven, the smell of Texan comfort food hung heavy in the kitchen and dining room. He kept the dishes he'd made in the oven to keep warm until you showed up, and judging by the considerable pile of dirty bowls and utensils piled by the sink, you reckoned he must've spent hours cooking. Watching from the table, you heard Engie humming as he pulled out a few deep dish bowls, unlidding them before loading up the two plates. He piled on roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, and thick cuts of meat you couldn't quite identify coated in a rich dark sauce, which were just the first things you noticed him dishing.

He said to you from over his shoulder, "There's biscuits on the table for you if you need something to nibble while you're waiting." Like you were even that hungry. But if the biscuits were half as appetizing as what he was dishing out, you were certainly tempted. You pulled one from the cloth-covered basket in the center of the table and bit into the still-warm biscuit, watching him approaching with two full plates in hand.

"I made sweet tea fresh this morning; care for a glass?" Before you could say yes, he was already turning back around to fetch the pitcher from the fridge.

"You really pulled out all the stops tonight, huh?" You were joking, though simultaneously were genuinely overwhelmed by his generosity. He just chuckled, and you thought you heard him muttering something under his breath along the lines of, "Anything for you."

For a few minutes, you chatted politely, listening to the radio, enjoying the home-cooked meal, and feeling the stress of the day melting away as you genuinely enjoyed the taste of his cooking.

"You made this all yourself?"

"Sure did! But it's all mamma's old recipes. You oughtta be thankin' her... How'd I do?" He smiled and tried to look modest, but the look in his eyes said, "I know it's perfect."

"It's amazing; she must've taught you well." You saw a light blush coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he looked down with a big smile. You hadn't expected he would get so flustered over such a simple statement. Though now that you thought about it, Engie was a bit friendlier this evening than normal, which for him was saying something. Perhaps it was for the best you tried to leave now before he got too carried away. Pulling away from the table slightly, you pushed your plate forward.

"Well, this has been wonderful, but I've had enough. Thank you so much for all this; you're so sweet." To your surprise, Engie's smile faltered for just a moment.

"You didn't finish…" He didn't look mad, but his face didn't entirely mask his disappointment.

"It's been a long day, Engie, but I'm about ready to crawl into bed… You aren't upset, are you?"

He perked right up after you said, "Aw shucks, of course not! I understand! I'm not upset. I just hoped I'd get the chance to give you one last thing."

Engie stood from his chair before you could ask what he meant by this, pulling something from the fridge, hiding it close to his chest, and out of sight from you. While you didn't know exactly what he was hiding, you consoled yourself by acknowledging, at least, whatever it was; it must've been quite small. He fidgeted with the thing for a moment before shutting the door to the fridge.

Engie smiled sheepishly, turning around, holding on to a little teacup saucer holding a miniature cupcake so small it could fit in the palm of your hand. A single little yellow birthday candle flickering on top.

"Engie, I can't accept this-'' You forced a nervous laugh while you felt guilty for letting him spoil you with dinner earlier; the cupcake made you feel even worse.

"Sure I did; it's your birthday, ain't it?" He drew closer, depositing the little treat before you as the candle continued to burn, little trails of wax dripping down the sides. You were conflicted, feeling a combination of obligation to accept the gift he'd been saving for last and not wanting to take anything more from Engie after he'd done so much already. While you admittedly didn't eat too much of the dinner he prepared, just enough to show gratitude for his efforts and to keep him from noticing how you kept cutting up the food into tiny pieces, pushing them around on your plate. While you felt bad about wasting the food, you knew you'd be sick if you tried to force yourself to eat it all.

There was no way you could get away with doing that with this. But you had to admit, it was pretty cute, and you didn't have the heart to turn him down now that that cupcake was right under your nose. Closing your eyes briefly, you inhaled before blowing out the candle, wishing silently to yourself out of this charmingly claustrophobic kitchen as fast as possible. Pulling the candle from the top of the cupcake, you held it in your hand for a moment before taking a bite.

You could've sworn you felt an oddness in the cake's texture for a split second when you swallowed. The cake was denser than you expected but tasted just as appetizing as it looked; you finished the tiny cake in a few bites.

Engie smiled warmly, reaching over and squeezing your shoulder, "Happy birthday, buddy'."

You were about to say something when you felt a bizarre warm feeling in the pit of your stomach, not unpleasant, just a little tingly. You took a deep breath, repositioning yourself in your seat, feeling a bit hot under the collar out of nowhere. Clearing your throat, you thought maybe the cupcake went down wrong, and there was a perfectly valid reason you felt so heated out of nowhere, but internally you felt a twinge of panic.

If this were a sudden sickness, it was like nothing you'd felt before. You tried your hardest to keep composure, telling yourself this was all in your head, there's no way you were genuinely so suddenly weak out of nowhere, but your body wouldn't listen. Once again, you found yourself fidgeting in your seat, unable to find a comfortable position. So distracted by the warmth spreading from deep in your gut through the rest of your body you almost didn't notice how heavy your head felt or the dryness in your mouth. Placing both elbows on the table, you clasped your hands together, resting your head on top of your fingers to keep yourself from losing balance.

Fortunately, Engie didn't seem to mind, or maybe didn't even notice, how quiet you were as he cleaned up the kitchen, humming softly to himself along with the radio. You heard his footsteps close behind.

"I'll get this out of your way."

You cleared your throat again, nodding a silent "thank you" as he took the saucer away. While you knew there was something a little off about the taste of the cake, you couldn't put your finger on what.

Forcing yourself to take another steady breath, you scooted back in your chair a little bit to press your back harder against the back of the chair, rolling out your neck slightly as you started panting. Much to your dismay, however, this did nothing to extinguish the odd warm sensation in your gut, which felt like it was spreading so quickly to spite you. Thankfully, due to the room's low light, there was no way Engie could see the way your face had begun to heat up. You didn't know if you were blushing because of the new found warm feeling between your legs, the strain of trying to appear emotionless and unbothered, or the embarrassment of being caught in such a situation in the first place, or likely an unbearable combination of the three.

You couldn't stop fidgeting, unclasping your hands to grip the chair's armrests as you backed up a little harder into your seat. Under the table, your legs, already crossed, began to squeeze a little tighter together, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a sound of frustration as you felt the skin of your breasts and nipples tingle a little, becoming more sensitive on account of whatever the hell it was going on inside your body."No, no, not the body- just in your head. It's all in your head; just take a few deep breaths, hug him goodbye, and you'll be out in no time. you've got this." You could feel your hands white-knuckling your chair's armrests as your head dipped forwards, eyes shutting as you tried to maintain composure.

By now, your breathing had become rapid, and while you knew it was best to keep your head back to let in as much oxygen as you could, you no longer had that kind of inner strength. The best you could do now was pant as quietly as possible as that awful warmth intensified deep inside. You were scared, wondering what the hell had gotten into you, but to a lesser extent didn't care and wanted nothing but to grind your legs together even harder or slip a hand between your legs. To do something- anything, to satisfy the awful neediness between your legs. There was no denying it now; you were wet for sure.

This was agony. Your jeans felt a size too tight, the cotton denim like sandpaper against your legs, chafing your poor sensitive skin, to say nothing of the inseam of your jeans you were painfully aware of against your clit. Swallowing hard, had no idea you'd been salivating so notably. While the intensity of your arousal began to plateau, focusing on anything else like this was impossible.

Before now, you tried to keep your eyes open, spotting against random objects you could see in the room to try and keep yourself grounded, but by now, your eyes were fluttering and shut against your will, and the room seemed to spin when you tried to focus on anything. The feeling of Engie's hand suddenly touching your shoulder, his fingers barely making contact, caused you to jolt fully upright in alarm.

You had no idea how he got back to you so fast, nor how long he'd been standing over you like that, but you were rendered functionally speechless in surprise, looking up with him wide-eyed, your neck still bent forward slightly, unable to support the full weight of your head, forcing you to turn your face to make eye contact, feeling pathetic as he looked down at you from this position.

"Hey, did ya hear me? Are you feeling alright? You're looking a little, uh… warm." It was hard not to cringe hearing him speak like that. Engie could sense you were extremely uncomfortable, but you silently prayed he just thought you were feeling ill. Trying desperately to convince yourself he couldn't detect your sudden unexplainable arousal. He knew something was happening with you, and it was humiliating to hear him trying to be so polite about it.

You managed to lean away from his touch; you tried to force yourself to straighten back up in your chair and were about to answer when a spontaneous throb of arousal caused you to tense up and shrink into yourself. Engie had to grab both your shoulders to keep you steady and prevent your head from crashing forward into the table. Despite this, you tried to wriggle away again but couldn't manage to shake his hold on you.

You can hear him saying your name, his voice heavy with worry, only making you feel sicker. But your head felt too fuzzy to speak, no matter how hard you try to respond. Your mouth won't work, and you were forced to stay held in place until you manage to center yourself well enough to answer. Taking a shaky breath, you speak in a rasp,

"I'll be fine; I just need rest." You hardly sounded like yourself, so trembling and hoarse.

"Honey, c'mon now, you can tell me what's wrong." He tried to squeeze your shoulders a little to relax you, but you only whined slightly at the feeling of his strong fingers, feeling so supportive and stable against your limp, overheated body. You knew if his hands were enough to make your head spin like this, you needed to get out as fast as possible.

"Engie- I'm going home now." Even though your words were slurred, you managed to speak clearly enough to express that much, still fidgeting in your seat to try and break free from his hold on your shoulders. Your eyelids felt so heavy, your face so warm, all you wanted to do was change into your pajamas and get a little sleep. Wanting more than anything to get back in your own bed and get rid of the awful burning inside your body. But thinking like that was dangerous, and you didn't dare let your mind wander while you were already feeling so turned on.

"You can rest upstairs in my room, c'mon lemme help you up."

"No!" Your eyes shot open as you tried to lurch out of his grip like a cornered wild animal; you were already scared, and thinking about what would happen if he brought you up to his room only made things worse.

"Don't take me up there! Wanna go home- please, please, not upstairs- I don't want to!" It was humiliating to hear yourself begging like a child being sent to bed early, but you couldn't stop. You tried to use your grip on the armrests to pull yourself away from Engie, but he was too strong, and all you would do was tire yourself out fighting like this. You couldn't tell if you were actually crying or if you just felt like you were. Trying to fight against the wicked desire quickly sapped all your inner strength; it hurt to try and keep up like this; you just wanted it all to be over.

"Hey, easy now, I've gotcha. I'm not gonna hurt ya-" Engie spoke to you like he was trying to calm a spooked mare. He let go of one of your shoulders to turn the chair you were sitting in away from the table so you were facing him before returning the hand to your shoulder. You were too embarrassed to look him in the eye, keeping your line of sight straight ahead on the wall behind him. Feel sick listening to him patronizing you like you were his little pet, not another grown adult, much less his own comrade.

"Then let go!" You meant to sound immature, but the meat you could manage was another childish pout.

"I ain't lettin' go. You're not looking too good there, honey; if I let ya go, you're gonna hurt yourself. I ain't about to let that happen." Despite having to physically wrangle you like this, Engie sounded as calm as ever. You whined as your muscles went limp, as you finally gave in and let him hold you upright.

"Engie, I don't wanna- Please, just take me home…." Surely he could feel how you continued to tremble under his hold, maybe even picking up on how your skin was practically hot to the touch, but you didn't care.

"Listen, I know you don't feel well, and you're lookin' even worse. My room is right upstairs; I want you to sleep in my bed until you're feeling better." Despite his syrupy-sweet voice, you still felt too disturbed to let your guard down.

"Don't make me go to your bed…" To your surprise, you could hear Engie laughing gently about this before feeling him help you up. You wrapped your arms around his forearms to help brace your weight a little while you struggled to find your footing before wrapping one of your arms around his neck, leaning entirely against him to support yourself. Your face was now painfully close to his, all while he merely regarded you with his easygoing smile.

"Aw honey, I wasn't gonna make us share the bed!" He winked before continuing, "Temptin' offer though it may be." Feeling your body pressed close against him like this was doing nothing to help your situation, you grit your teeth, forcing your face to turn from his to the stairs across the room. Without another word, he helped you make your way to the stairs.

A part of you wondered if he was going so slowly up the stairs to prolong your misery as long as he could; at least, that's what it felt like to you. You used one arm to grab his arm around your shoulders while the other white-knuckled the handrail; not once did his arms budge from either around your waist or from your shoulders, the side of his body crushingly tight up against yours. While the feeling of helplessness and discombobulation was wretched, you hated yourself for clinging so tightly against Engie, letting him lead you upstairs to his bedroom, despite your trepidation.

When the two of you finally made it to the top of the staircase, you were about to step foot on the second floor when you felt Engie mumble something into your ear as you bit down on your lower lip to keep from moaning at the feeling of his lips grazing against your ear, breath fanning over the side of your face, and tickling your neck without warning.

"Almost there now, honey. You're doing so good, just a little longer." You nodded, feeling as though your knees were about to give out at any second.

By the time you reached the doorway of Engie's bedroom, you didn't wait for him to get the door first. You turned the knob yourself and pushed open the door, too blinded by the idea of finally getting to lay down to worry about waiting to be invited in first. Engie helped push the door open wider as the two of you staggered inside. You refused to stop moving until you were in bed, and with almost drunken, unsteady steps, you finally found your respite, crashing into the soft flannel sheets the moment your shin connected with the edge of the bed.

Finally lying down, you lay, sprawled out on your back for a moment, giving yourself time to catch your breath. At last, you were lying down and in bed; nothing in the world mattered right now except for the cozy cotton sheets that provided you with a little nook to curl up inside of.

For just a moment, you felt better, the burning wasn't gone, but at least now it was a bit less uncomfortable.

"Usually, I'd make the bed before the company shows up, but you look pretty cozy down there. Are you feeling any better, darlin'?" You didn't answer; rolling onto your side, away from the side of the bed where he stood, you buried your head in the pillows, twisting the sheets and blankets in your hands, pulling them closer. Not exactly to cover yourself with, but just to have something soft and comfortable to grip onto, something much better than the hardwood of your chair's armrest. But it was more than that. Something about being in his bed like this felt so perfect like you were exactly where you needed to be in the universe. You were hyper-aware of Engie's scent trapped in the bedding, shamelessly nestling your face directly into it, wanting to feel it all over you. No matter how embarrassing it was to be watched in a state like this for a moment, you allowed yourself to indulge. Writhing into the blankets, using them to wick the sweat from your forehead and neck, nestling your head into the nook where the pillows met the bed.

You thought you could hear him chuckling from above, but you weren't sure, but the idea of him getting so much enjoyment watching you nestling into his bed made you self-conscious, making you whine in irritation, the sound almost entirely drowned out by the pillow. Still, the shame wasn't enough to keep you from wrapping both legs around the top blanket of the bed, spooning the fabric, feeling blissful but frustratingly unsatisfying on account of your jeans keeping the blankets from rubbing up against your bare skin. Despite the bed's softness, you somehow couldn't manage to get comfortable and couldn't stop from kicking and thrashing like a fish out of water. The smell of Engie flooding your senses was the only thing going through your mind, but it still didn't feel like enough. You could feel the bed dipping as Engie sat on the side of the bed, his hand against your shoulder, making you shiver and your nails dig into the blankets.

"Can't get comfy down there? You need me to grab you something to drink?" With a snicker, he continued, "Need daddy to read you a bedtime story?"

You frowned, looking up at him over your shoulder, "Don't talk to me like that."

"Aw c'mon, you know I'm only-" He tried to laugh it off, but for some reason, you found yourself more agitated than usual at his ribbing.

"You know what I mean!"

"Pardon?" He lifted his hand from your shoulder as you rolled from your belly to your side to look at him. Something about the awful heat coursing through you made you more brazen than usual, and you could not stop yourself from acting confrontational.

"I hate when you act like that- When you look at me like you know better than me! You're not responsible for me. I don't need you to take care of me!" His brow creased as he looked at you, hurt, confused, and completely taken aback by your sudden attitude. Your breathing was ragged, and it was hard to keep your voice from rising. You didn't know where this anger was coming from, but it felt as though you were finally telling him how much you hated when he babied you. The suddenness and intensity confused you, but the catharsis was there all the same. Telling him how you really felt. For so long, you'd been forced to be professional and mild-mannered around your comrade while he would condescend and coddle you; to finally bear your emotions like this felt damn good.

Engie tried his best to force a small smile to mask the hurt you could still see in his eyes, "I don't do this because you're weak; I never said you were weak-"

You laughed bitterly, "Right, it's because you're just such a nice guy; how could I forget?"

Engie spoke slowly, "I only do this because I care about you; I only want what's best. You know that."

"You don't love me. You love how being needed makes you feel!" By now, you were certain you were crying and weren't even really talking to Engie; now, you were talking to him. In your heart, you weren't really mad at him, but you hated how weak you felt when he prioritized you over the rest of the team. You slackened a little, pulling the blanket up to bury your head in it, sobbing. After a moment, you felt his hand putting the top of your head.

"Of course I love you-"

"No, you don't! You just want to protect the weak, isn't that right? That must be why you're always focused on me, right? I'm nothing but the weakest of the team to you! I'm nothing but a charity case; all you care about is making yourself feel better." You were helpless to stop all the awful insecurities you tried so hard to hide from the rest of the world from surfacing now. Engie huffed a little, moving his hand from your hair to your chin, forcing you to turn and look at him.

"So I'm the selfish one, is that it? I spend all this time with you, cook for you, let you sleep in my own bed, and that makes me the selfish one?" You had to bite back a moan at the feeling of his fingers gripping your face so tightly.

"You slipped me something, didn't you?" It was a surprise to hear your voice so level after screaming and crying. Engie looked more surprised than offended by your words but didn't say anything to his defense.

"I bet you did this, didn't you! Fucking hell, you'd do anything to be the hero- to just come to everyone's rescue. You don't care about me; I bet you don't even like any of the rest of us!"

His eyes narrowed. "Don't say that."

"That's the only reason I'm here, isn't it? You wanted to get me all alone, slip me God knows what so you could take me here and wait till it knocked out to start touching yourself over my unconscious body. You've been planning this, haven't you!" Despite your harsh words, Engie didn't look offended. Nothing worked, no matter how you tried to anger or convince him to kick you out. He merely sighed, face softening as his fingers gently caressed the side of your face.

"Let it out, sweetheart; you've had a long day. Just get it out of your system; you'll be alright." You didn't say anything in return, and for a moment, you wondered, "Would it really be so bad to let him have his way?" Your eyes drift shut as you feel Engie's fingers brush away your tears, smoothing back your hair. No matter how you tried to deny it, letting, him treat you like his little girl felt good. Why had you fought him back for so long? Now that you weren't fighting back, his touch no longer felt smothering but soothing. And you felt in that moment that he was the only thing in the world that could satisfy your desire.

"I'm gonna get you a change of clothes, just lay back." The bed creaked a little as he lifted himself from the mattress.

You spoke in a broken, pitifully small voice, "I shouldn't have said that."

"I know you didn't mean it." He was in the same room but sounded so far away you wanted him back in bed.

"It was still wrong to say.." As he returned to his perch by your side, you twisted in bed, laying on your side.

He smiled, "I forgive you." You wanted to say you didn't deserve it, but at the moment, you couldn't find the words; all you could manage to do was stare at him with puppy eyes.

"Do you want me to help you out of your clothes?"

At first, you were about to question why he was acting so brazen, but then you realized at some point during your fight you'd started to wriggle in bed nervously, mindlessly pawing at your bottoms, trying to pull them off while your fingers were too numb and awkward to work the buttons or the zipper. Time felt like it slowed down for a moment; the two of your eyes locked as you understood the weight of his question. You nodded.

"I need to hear you say it." Engie's soft voice is as assuring and gentle as ever, yet unmistakably firm. While you were putting up a fight for a while there, you both knew who was really in charge here. Forcing yourself to keep eye contact, you managed a "yes, I would." Engie's sweet smile betrayed his dirty mind.

"Roll back over onto your stomach." You didn't understand why he wanted this, but you immediately complied. You bit down on a pillow to muffle the sounds you made when you felt Engie's fingers find your jean's button, undoing it and pulling the zipper all the way down just as easily, while you couldn't help but whine and twitch at the feeling of his fingers brushing against your bare underbelly, and the sensation of his fingers over your clothed pubic mound for just a second as he undid the zipper. You took a deep breath after the zipper was undone, feeling the most relief you'd felt all night. He gave you a moment to breathe deeply before his hands made their way to the waistband of your jeans and, with a few tugs, pulled them past your hips as you kicked your legs to try and help him remove the awful denim from your body. Your thighs spread wider, blessedly now unrestricted against Engie's blankets while he looked down at the beautiful sight. You couldn't help but sigh audibly into the pillow; at long last, you were free.

"Shirt too?" You mumbled, but Engie understood what you wanted, grabbing the bottom hem of your top as he pushed it up and over your head with your bra while you slid your arms through the sleeves. Leaving you stripped down to nothing but your underwear. The feeling of his sheets, his smell now directly below your skin, felt heavenly, your tits perking up a little, still tingling from earlier as you rubbed yourself over the bed, breathing heavily in through your nose and out through your mouth. While Engie was more than excited to finally get a chance to get his hands on you, he wasn't about to rush you here.

You were entirely right to call him out for planning this, and despite a few snags along the way, the evening was shaping up exactly how he hoped it would. And while he expected your hesitation and your near-certain anger when you realized he was responsible for your current situation, Engie had every confidence that in just a bit of time, you would be thanking him for all this. All he had to do was wait, and for you, he'd wait forever if he must.

He trailed his feeling hand down the curve of your ass as you felt the rubber glove brushing against the swell of your hip. His fingers playfully drummed along the flesh of your ass while you shivered and bit down a little harder on the pillow in your mouth.

"I forgive you, and I love you- but you outta know how to watch that mouth of yours."

" 'M sorry, it won't happen again." You babbled, half talking to him, half speaking into the pillow. You weren't strong enough to look him in the eye, but you were just horny enough to tell him whatever he needed to hear.

"Oh, I'm sure it won't. But someone ought to teach you a lesson." You felt his ungloved fingers squeezing against the flesh of your ass, assuring you of exactly where his attention was. Knowing you had his full attention elicited another stir of excitement inside you.

"Mhm?" He spoke softly, but you could pick up on the dark edge of his words even in such an inebriated state.

"Maybe this is my fault. I've been spoiling you all this time, and I haven't even laid a hand on you." Using his gloved hand, he gave a little testing pat against your rear, not hard at all, but enough to make a sharp smacking sound fill the room. You sighed at the feeling; he was right; he was being too soft, and you needed more. Needed his attention now more than ever before.

You were about to say something, anything to urge him on, but he literally beat you to it, his glove slapping against your ass again, a little bit harder this time, forcing you to bite down onto his pillow to muffle your little shriek of surprise. The residual soreness didn't have time to set in fully before you felt another blow, followed by another and another and another. Not harder or softer, he set a steady rhythm for the two of you. You could feel the blood rushing to the sore area and couldn't imagine how red you must've looked.

It felt good to be used like this. To feel held accountable for taking advantage of "the nice guy" for so long. Now he wasn't going easy on you, and it was exactly what you needed. By accident, his hand struck a little closer to your cunt than he intended; maybe he didn't aim right, or perhaps you accidentally spread your legs too wide. You didn't know. In response to this feeling, you spread your legs even wider.

"Maybe I ought to bring you off the battlefield and back home with me. Set ya to work on the old Conagher farm. I know it'll do ya real good to get outta the city, give ya a 'lil perspective. You'd fit right in; I can see it now." He was mostly rambling to himself than actually speaking to you, but you followed along all the same. In any other situation, you'd never let him get away with implying he could so easily take you home and "tame you," but given how horny you already felt, you were ready to tell him everything he wanted to hear if it meant you would finally get some satisfaction.

"I'll go anywhere with you! Please, Engie, please keep going; I fucking need it! I-I need you so bad, Daddy!" You peeked your head over your shoulder and felt your heartthrob at the sight of his face softened with love and eyes twinkling like little stars. Good Lord, would you give anything to cum on that beautiful face of his. You weren't aware of the wet spot of drool he could see from where you were biting down on the pillow and the mess of spit around your lips.

He used his thick fingers to brush against the soaked fabric covering your sex; the feeling of at last getting a bit of friction between your legs made your head roll forward, crushing your face into the pillow, mindlessly rocking your hips against his fingers.

"You're gonna be good for me from now on? No more attitude?" He was moving too slow, intentionally shying his fingers away whenever you tried to get closer, mocking your neediness. While you were reduced to a wet, mindless mess sobbing incoherently, "Yes, I will! I promise I'll be good; I promise I'll be good! Please, Daddy, please, Daddy- I need it so bad, please!"

His fingers paused, directly over exactly where you needed them, his glove gripping the curve of your hip, keeping you from grinding against him, forcing you to remain painfully in place, the strain of staying in this position its own hell on Earth. "You promise you'll behave?"

Without missing a beat, you kept, "I promise!"

You can hear his proud smile without looking back at his face. "All right, darlin', if you promise." He sounded just like a proud father; no wonder he stepped into the role so well.

He continued to grope at your ass with his gloved hand, pushing your underwear to the side as he finally slipped his fingers inside. By now, you were practically too weak to keep grinding against him, but fortunately, you wouldn't last much longer. You felt like you were on edge for hours, and feeling Engie's fingers working their magic inside your body was that last little push you needed to send you over the edge. His thumb worked in sync with his fingers, a thick coating of your slick messily seeping from inside, helping him to go even faster.

You wished you didn't have to be on your stomach, Engie sitting off to the side, so far away. You wanted to wrap your arms around him, feel his naked flesh against your body, but inhaling his smell and grinding against his sheets would have to do for now. You spread your thighs wider as you felt yourself clenching against his fingers, your climax so close it hurt. Back arching as you mindlessly pushed yourself even harder against his fingers, the intensity building until you finally came. Seeing all white as relief washed over your entire body, the tension easing up as pleasant little after-shocks began to set in. The awful burning desire inside satisfied as you went limp, settling heavily into his bed with a heavy sigh.

By now, the sheets were dampened by your sweat, though you were too tired to care much, feeling no real discomfort while laying in a little puddle of your own sweat. While Engie's handiwork had mercifully taken care of the burning inside, you could tell your head wasn't quite clear yet. The loopy, needy feeling now morphed into comfortable drowsiness, making your afterglow feel all the sweeter. You winced a little while Engie withdrew his fingers and the vague sensation of your wetness sloppily trailing his hand. You could hear him wiping the slick off onto the bedsheets before petting the top of your head gently.

"Feelin' better now?" Your tongue felt too heavy in your mouth to formulate any words, but you nodded, making a quiet sound of affirmation while your head remained buried in the pillows.

"And what do we say when someone does something nice for us?" He sounded easygoing, but you knew he wanted a real answer out of you. Turning your head to rest a cheek on the pillow, you sleepily half-opened one eye to try and focus on him.

"Thank you, Daddy." It was a dull mumble of an answer, but it appeased him well enough. He ruffled your hair before you could hear the sound of Engie undressing, letting his button-up shirt and stiff work pants join your jeans on the floor. By the time he nestled up in bed with you, wrapping your limp body up with his strong arms, you were already more than half-asleep. Maybe the excessive fatigue was a side-effect of whatever slipped earlier. For a moment, you wondered if you would wake up with a hangover or not, but the thought left your head almost as quickly as it came. Even without the mystery drug in your system, it was certainly possible that your brain was better off trying to shut down and try not to think too hard about what just happened and even less about what the morning might bring.

Within your final moments of coherency, you could feel your body pulled against Engie's bare chest until you were close enough to rest your cheek against his flesh. He tucked your head under his chin as he muttered to himself.

"I wasn't lying' when I said I love you, honey. I love you more than anything else; I'd never lie about that."

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roosterbruiser · 1 year

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𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟖

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You have a nightmare. Home feels like a layered word right now. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.3K ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 ��𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

You’re in your childhood home back in Nebraska.

Chicken shit coats your throat and nostrils thickly; it’s been waiting for you to come home. The lights above you, strung up beside sticky fly traps and cobwebs, are buzzing. It’s cold in here. Maybe because there’s still a foot of snow on the ground--or maybe because you’re stark naked.

The kitchen table is set with an old gingham tablecloth--one that has been constantly darned and sewn and patched in its sad life. There’s chipped china at every burlap placemat, the plates smothered with oily peas and thin gravy and chewy steak. The silverware isn’t very silver anymore and the cloth napkins are so worn that they’re translucent.

The table itself is an antique--older than you and your brother--and it creaks and groans with every movement, even if it’s only your brother reaching for the salt or your father cutting his steak. It’s hard and solid beneath your naked body, splintering the soft skin of your rear and the delicate flesh of your thighs.

All around you, in their usual spots, your family is eating dinner. You can hear every little human sound: chewing, sighing, sniffing, smacking, swallowing. You can’t move, though nothing is actually holding you against the table.

They are eating their dinner, their oily peas and thin gravy and chewy steak, with their not-so-silverware as they watch you. Their eyes are glassy, far-away. No one’s face reads any obvious emotion: no one looks horrified, resentful, furious, disgusted, morose. They’re all just watching you like this happens every night.

They can see you lying here. But none of them have acknowledged your presence--and you haven’t said a word to any of them. You’re just lying here under the buzzing light, counting the flies on the flytrap.

What is strange about all of this is that you thought that you would feel ashamed. The only time you were ever caught by your brother, when he pulled you out of the truck and got you sent to California, you felt the heat of shame for a few moments. Shame that something so private as sex had been shown to your family. But then that shame suddenly snapped and dissipated because of Dennis fucking Goldman. Now you can be naked in front of your family at dinnertime and it doesn’t matter.

“Good thing she can’t get herself in trouble,” your brother says suddenly.

You know that he’s talking about getting pregnant.

Your lips are paralyzed, congealed with faux sealant.

“Doctor told us when she was fourteen,” your mama adds, sighing. She’s chewing still, her eyes untrained but lingering on your form. “Knew something was wrong earlier, of course. Hadn’t gotten her menses yet. Girls in my family always get it young. I was ten myself. Happened in church--I was wearing all white.”

Swallowing hard, you try to drown her out. You try to just listen to the humming lightbulb. But you can’t.

“She doesn’t ovulate,” your mama continues, shaking her head. A steady stream of gravy flows down her chin--she doesn’t move to clean it. “No eggs wanna take that chance.”

Quit it, mama you want to hiss. You don’t move.

“We weren’t heartbroken,” your mama continues, glancing at your daddy. “Were we?”

“No. No we were not,” your daddy answers. He sits back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest. “Apples don’t ever fall far from the tree.”

Your brother snickers.

“She’d leave all her apples on the ground. Rotten, maggot-infested. Nasty things,” your brother says. He’s chewing with his mouth wide open--there’s mashed peas in his back molars. “God knew what he was doing.”

“Amen,” your daddy says.

“Pass the peas, ma,” your brother says.

You wake up suddenly.

The waterbed is sloshing beneath your form as you sit up straight, gasping for a breath of the cool breeze floating in through your open window. Your lungs feel stunted, like you can’t fill them up all the way. And when you press your palm to your chest, all the heat of your skin makes your hand sizzle.

“Fuck,” you whisper, blinking through the darkness.

It’s late, past three in the morning. You should be sleeping still, should be getting all the shut-eye you can get for the shoot in a few hours.

Instead, though, you throw your covers off and plant your feet firmly on the shag carpet, blinking at the dark. Your thighs are quivering, your lip wobbling.

Fucking Hell.

This is the first time you’ve dreamed of home since you left it. And you hope--sincerely and truthfully--that it is the last time you ever dream about it. It’s a strange thing really, because you knew you were home: the flyraps, the big kitchen table, the chipped china, the chicken shit. But it didn’t feel like home anymore--it just felt like a place you used to live.

In the middle of this dark almost-morning, you blink at the painting on the wall and wonder, for the first time, if there exists a home for you. It prickles the skin on your thighs to think about it--a place you exist and keep existing that feels like yours. Home.

You don’t turn any lights on as you walk, barefoot in your nighty, across the quiet house and to the telephone in the foyer. Rooster doesn’t sleep well usually--you don’t want to disturb him, not over something as trivial as a nightmare. A part of you, one that is stunted in its growth, wants to slink into his bed and snuggle into his chest and selfishly wake him up so he can comfort you.

Instead, you dial the number. It’s something you’ll never forget--you know that. Does anybody ever forget their home phone number?

A part of you still feels like you’re dreaming--like everything is fuzzy and warm and confusing. Nothing quite feels real yet, especially since the sun has not risen and your eyes are still puffy with exhaustion. Even the phone against your ear, all the heavy and hard plastic that purrs as it rings the ugly rotary phone on the kitchen counter in Nebraska, feels more like a toy than anything else.

It’s five in the morning in Nebraska, which means that your family is up. Your mama starts the coffee at four-thirty and has breakfast ready by the time your daddy walks out of the bedroom in his overalls and mucking boots at five-fifteen. Right now, your mama is probably frying bacon and dropping biscuits in a cast iron pan, her hair pulled back into a bun and her face void of any color. It’s still winter there. It always snows in March in Nebraska.

You don’t even really know what you’re doing. What are you doing?

The line rings and rings, your grip growing moist around the telephone.

Home. It seems like a very far away place. And not even just in distance--but in memory. You aren’t sure what kept you there for so long--that little shitty room and your mean older brother and your quiet daddy and your unhappy mama. Why were you bringing the ax down on chickens day in and day out when you could’ve been here the entire time?

You shift all your weight to the left side of your body, holding your hand to your cheek, wondering why you haven’t hung up yet. You wonder, too, why no one has answered. You know that they’re awake. You know that your mama is only a few paces from the telephone. You know your brother is probably sipping coffee now.

It rings for a long time. No one picks up.

With a breath caught between your teeth, the thought of your mother’s lips stained with gravy still pressed into your frontal lobe, you let the phone fall back on the receiver.

Rooster isn’t sleeping. He feels like he never is, even when his entire body is sore from the afternoon he spent on the beach with you yesterday. He wants to sleep--wants to sleep so badly that he’s had his eyes closed for the past two and a half hours, unwilling to interrupt what might happen.

So, when he hears your bare feet on the tile outside of your room, he finally opens his eyes and glances at the alarm clock on his nightstand: 3:10 AM. You must not be able to sleep either. He knows you’re trying to be quiet--you always feel bad about waking him up--but you can’t exactly be quiet in such an open, cavernous house. Even your bare feet on the tile echo down the hall and into his room.

He hears your footsteps coming closer just after 3:17. What have you been doing for seven minutes? Certainly not getting a snack--you haven’t been eating much these days, especially not in the middle of the night.

You knock on Rooster’s door hesitantly, something resembling grief sitting thick and heavy on your tongue. Your lip is still wobbling, your breaths still stunted.

“Come in,” Rooster calls at once, sitting up on his elbows.

The door swings open and you stand in the doorway, dressed in that little red nighty. Your hair is wonky from the pillow and your eyes are little slits, but what makes Rooster’s spine stiffen is your posture. You usually stand so straight and proud, your shoulders squared and your jaw stiff. But right now, you’re almost cowering: shoulders drooping, legs bowed, eyes downcast, lips bitten.

“Hey, daddy,” you sigh. You still haven’t gotten off the Daddy Warbucks jokes--Rooster is beginning to think you never will. “Want some company?”

Rooster pats the chilled sheets beside him, eyebrows knit.

“C’mere, baby.”

Closing the door behind you, you crawl into bed with him, glancing at the Joni Mitchell painting mounted above the bed before you climb on top of Rooster. He takes it in stride, opening the covers for you, letting you nuzzle your face into his throat and slot your legs between his. He even tucks you both in under the covers, pulling them up to your neck before he encircles you in his arms and holds you against him.

He likes to lay with you like this, even if his legs eventually fall asleep. He can feel everything you do--breathe, swallow, sigh, speak, flex, hiccup, fidget, twitch. All those little things that keep you alive, he can feel against his skin.

“Can’t sleep?” Rooster whispers, kissing the top of your head.

You sigh softly, shaking your head.

“I was asleep,” you whisper. “Then I had this gnarly nightmare. I mean, it was a nightmare and a half.”

Rooster nods. He knows about nightmares--his mother used to have them a lot towards the end. He can still remember pressing the cool cloth against her forehead, shushing her, luring her back to a fitful sleep.

“Oh, yeah?” He asks softly, pressing his fingers to the back of your neck. You nod against him. “What, did you dream you were living at Hangman’s pad instead of mine?”

Pinching him softly for teasing you, you shake your head.

“I don’t think I even wanna talk about it,” you mumble.

And really--you don’t. What are you supposed to say, anyway? It was just a nightmare. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Okay, okay,” Rooster whispers. “What should we talk about then?”

“Don’t you wanna sleep?”

Rooster scoffs.

“Me? Sleep?” He asks. “C’mon, baby. Get real.”

“Why don’t you sleep anyway? Don’t jive me.”

Rooster swallows hard. He hasn’t been asked that in a long time. A million years ago, when Phoenix would spend the night in his bed, she tried just about everything under the sun to get him to sleep. Lavender on his bedside table, chamomile tea after dinner, even acupuncture once. But she never thought to ask why he doesn’t sleep well. The only person who had asked was his doctor a handful of years ago, who only half-listened, anyway.

You’re waiting patiently for his response, not pushing and not pulling. You’re content in your spot on his body, just waiting for his answer as you measure your breaths in terms of calmness and softness. You know, even without really knowing, that’s what Rooster needs right now.

“Remember how I told you about my ma? And how she was sick?” He asks you. You nod against him. He clears his throat, smoothing his palm down your spine and letting it rest at the base. “Well, I was taking care of her and filming for Dennis, you know? So, I was spread pretty fuckin’ thin. Needed to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for filming, but had to wake my ma up for her meds during the night, too. To give it to you straight, baby, I just didn’t have time to sleep. That’s how I got on speed.”

Speed. You try to imagine it--Rooster on cocaine. But you can’t really imagine him high, can’t imagine his pupils blown and his mouth wide open.

He feels it when your body stiffens just slightly, when you jolt with realization.

“I didn’t know that,” you tell him.

He swallows.

“No one does, kid,” he tells you. “Anyway, she used to get these night terrors, too. Nasty side effect of all those pills she was on, you know? So, I guess I kinda got used to not sleeping.”

“You adapted,” you whisper to him. “Like a survival tactic. Evolution.”

He nods.

“I guess I did. I was strung out all the time.”

What he doesn’t tell you, what he hasn’t told anybody in the world, is that he sleeps like a baby when you’re in his bed. You’re an impolite sleeper, throwing yourself across his body, attaching your lips to his chest, needling your limbs through his. He thought that would make sleeping worse, thought that your hot breath on his throat would keep him up. But then he woke up late in the morning, eyes crusted with sleep, muscles slack.

You sit up slightly, just enough for you to look into his eyes. They’re big and brown, staring back into yours just as sadly as yours are looking into his. You cup his cheek, swipe your thumb along his stubble. He holds you tighter against him like it’s an instinct.

“You’re so good,” you tell him, really meaning it. “Do you think we deserve each other?”

His throat is entirely dry.

“How do you mean, baby?”

“I’ve never done anything good in my life,” you tell him. You’re not exactly upset by this--it’s just something you’re stating. “You know, I’ve never, like, lived for anyone else. It’s always been the Cherry Show. You dig?”

He thinks for a moment, not really sure what to say. He studies you, your creased brow and your earnest eyes. You look so honest bathed in the moonlight, nothing to hide from him.

“Who says we’re supposed to live for other people?” Rooster asks.

“The bible,” you answer.

He chuckles lightly.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot how religious you are,” Rooster teases. “Cherry, I didn’t choose to live for my ma. There really wasn’t any other option.”

You nod, chewing your lower lip.

“But you did it,” you tell him.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I did.”

“And you’d do it again, I bet,” you answer.

He doesn’t even have to think about it. He just nods.

Yeah, he’d do it again. He would.

“What do you think it means that I can’t have babies?” You ask him.

You’ve never asked anyone else this before. Honestly, you’ve never really wondered about it. It doesn’t break your heart. It’s a reality you’ve been living with since you were fourteen-years-old.

“Nothing,” Rooster answers without missing a beat. “Nada. Zilch.”

Cheek returning to his chest, you nuzzle yourself against him.

“Do you think it’s some, like, cosmic sign?” You ask him. “Like, I’m too fucked up to be someone’s ma. My apples are rotten or something.”

Rooster shakes his head profusely, tutting.

“You could never make something rotten,” he tells you seriously. He holds you tight against his body, tight like he’s about to shoot the both of you off into outer space and he has to keep you buckled into him. He has to keep your bodies together when gravity is gone and you’re all each other has. “You’ve done plenty of good in your life, kid. I know it. I swear it.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you two settle into each other. You sleep together often, not bound to your room by anything other than conventionality. Your room is his room and his room is your room. More often than not, you fall asleep on the couch with your head in his lap or by the pool during a party or in his bed after fucking.

His body is solid beneath yours, anchoring you to this waterbed, this earth.

Your body on top of his is heavy with comfort, something he is used to now.

“Do you think they miss me?” You whisper.

Rooster knows that you’re talking about your family.

He swallows. You’ve never talked about them before--not in terms of your absence.

“Sure, I’ll bet they do,” Rooster answers. “Unless they’re dumb.”

Maybe they are dumb.

“You know, I called them just now. Let it ring. No one picked up. I don’t think anyone’s tried to find me,” you whisper. You don’t sound sad about this exactly--just factual, serious. “Like, I don’t know how they would. I’m not a minor, you know? And I’m not a Californian legally. But--I don’t know, I guess I thought there’d be something. Like, maybe I’d show up on a milk carton sometime. Or at least a flier.”

“Is that what you want, kid?” Rooster whispers, tone even and fair.

You shrug.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I don’t wanna go back. I don’t even really wanna, like, see them ever again. I feel like I’ve made my peace with that. But then sometimes I think about how I left home and never came back. And I think about what they did with all my stuff--not that I even care about it, anyway. But where is it? Did Carlton take my room?”

You’re almost positive that you know the answers to these questions. Your stuff is probably ashes now, burned out in the east pasture when it was dry enough--that’s what your family does with trash. Carlton probably didn’t take your room, not when his has enough space for a double bed.

Rooster just listens.

“And--what, do they think about me? Or did I just, like, peace out and they were stoked? All the photographs of me on the wall and the art I made when I was little--where does it go now? Do they have a daughter still?”

Both of you are quiet for a moment.

“Cherry,” Rooster whispers. He kisses the top of your head again, letting his lips linger there as he breathes in the soap on your scalp. “Do you want them to be your parents?”

Slowly, you shake your head. No. You don’t.

“Then they aren’t,” he tells you. “Simple as that.”

“Says who?” You whisper. Your eyes are growing heavy.

“Says me,” he tells you. “We can be orphans together, huh?”

“You’re twisted,” you laugh.

He keens at the sound of your laugh--you’re okay. You’re okay.

“Untwist me, then,” he mumbles.

You sigh, raking your fingers across the hair that grows on his chest.

“Can’t,” you breathe. “I’m twisted, too. Perverted, really.”

Rooster’s grinning now.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He kisses the top of your head again and inhales all of that Cherry that sits so thickly there.

“No more doom and gloom tonight, baby,” he tells you. “Why don’t you go to sleep, huh? I’ll stay up and scare off any more nightmares, okay?”

He used to tell his ma that, too, all those years ago. He’d take a few bumps, sit in a wooden chair beside her bed, and watch her face contort as she slept. He would wake her up before the nightmares would twitch her awake.

“I love you, Roo,” you tell him.

“I love you, Cherry-girl,” he tells you. “You’re my baby.”

☿

The bump you took with Jake before filming sets in as you’re standing in the shitty saloon the prop team threw together in a few days, a tight bustier pushing your breasts up to an almost unnatural height. You’re backed up against the wall by Jake, who’s wearing a leather vest and no shirt with a cartoonishly large cowboy hat.

“Well, I do declare that you are the rudest man I’ve ever encountered!” You say, clutching your faux pearls. There’s a slight Southern twang lilting your voice, one you and Jake worked on for a little bit a week ago. “I am a spoken-for woman, Mister Cowboy!”

Jake is feverishly kissing your throat, nipping and sucking, caging you against the wall with his hands firmly planted on the wood. The camera is close to you two, zooming in on his lips against your skin. You know better by now than to look directly in its lens unless Dennis directs it.

“Shut your trap, lady,” Jake responds. You two ran lines for an hour before shooting, then each took a bump to get your blood pumping. The two of you can recite this script forwards and backwards by now. “If you really wanted me to stop, you’d use that gun I know you’re holding!”

The prop gun--a silly five-barrel pistol--is pressed into the cheap fabric of your skirt. You pull it out, just like you rehearsed, and press it against Jake’s taut belly.

“Fine! You caught me. Don’t underestimate me, boy! I will shoot you dead! You’re an outlaw, afterall. Everyone will thank me!”

Dennis is sitting in his usual chair, smoking a cigar, following along with the script. He’s pleasantly surprised at how easily you memorize scripts and how seamless your line interpretation is.

He’s already had a couple calls from other big producers asking about you, trying to sniff out your contractual obligations. But Dennis isn’t fretting about it--you’re locked in tight with him. And with the way things are going now, your popularity rapidly on the rise, he knows you’re gonna be bringing him the big bucks.

Jake’s pupils are blown. As you look into each other’s eyes, hearts racing, you both recognize that the other is high. Yes, the bump has definitely got your blood pumping.

“I reckon you’re too much of a lady to shoot a gun,” Jake says, giving you his best snarl. You look up at him with big doe eyes and parted lips, your cheeks hot. “Prove me wrong, sugar. Shoot me.”

You’ve rehearsed this bit a few times--you gritting your teeth and attempting to squeeze the trigger. Jake staring down at you with a smirk, still holding your body against the wall. Then you gasping melodramatically, letting the gun fall to the floor.

“See,” Jake smirks. “I’ll bet I can make you do some unladylike things, sugar.”

And at that, just like you practiced, Jake swiftly rips the bustier wide open and exposes your bare breasts. After you gasp, widening your eyes and pressing your shoulders against the wall, Jake hungrily kisses down your sternum and starts to kiss your breasts.

“Perfect,” Dennis says from behind the camera. He takes a long drag, crossing his legs. “Make sure you’re still biting, Hangman. You’re an outlaw.”

Something is cold in your belly, coiled up like a snake. When your eyes flutter shut as Jake sinks his teeth into your nipple, your mind hums with nothingness. You’re not really here right now, you’re somewhere else. Somewhere on your own, somewhere that your face is on every milk carton and where every lamppost has fliers covering every square inch of them. You’re somewhere wrapped up in Jake and Rooster, smushed between them, keening at their lips against your cheeks and their warm bodies against yours.

“Cherry,” Dennis says, suddenly pulling you from that warm place. “You missed your line, babydoll.”

Wrenching your eyes open, you blink at Jake and then at Dennis. Jake is cupping your breasts for decency purposes so you’re not entirely exposed in front of the crew. Brows furrowed, he’s staring down at you.

“God, I’m such a space cadet today! I’m sorry, Dennis!” You say, heat spreading across your chest. “It won’t happen again! Swear it!”

Dennis nods, lips flat.

“We’ll pick it back up from I turn little ladies like you into whores. Alright? Let’s fuck.”

Jake nudges you with his forehead, eyes finding yours.

“Y’good, berry?”

You nod hurriedly.

“Never better,” you whisper.

By the time you wrap up, it’s almost sunset. You’re sore from being fucked so harshly, which is what Dennis called for, but you’re satisfied at least. The coke is wearing off and you’re in your jumpsuit again now, sprawled out over the couch in Jake’s dressing room as he combs his mustache in the mirror.

“Y’alright, Cherry-berry?” He asks, glancing at you.

You’re twiddling your thumbs, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” you answer. “I’m groovy.”

He knows you aren’t telling the truth. You’re quiet. Usually, after filming, you’re asking for notes and telling Rooster how stellar he was and buzzing. You practically bounce off the walls after filming. Even though this is your first scene with Jake, he knows all this. He knows that something is off about the way you’ve totally thrown yourself over the couch.

“Something’s on your mind,” Jake says softly. You won’t return his gaze, eyes trained on the ceiling as you fidget. You haven’t even bothered to take off the Western-themed makeup, so your cheeks are ridiculously pink and there’s a little beauty mark above your lip. “Lay it on me, honey.”

The truth is that you’ve been thinking about it all day--why your parents didn’t answer the telephone. They were all in the kitchen, just a few paces away from the telephone. Your family will answer the phone during meals--even supper. They never go out of town overnight. There is no possible way they knew you were the one calling besides intuition, but even then, it seems unlikely. Why didn’t they pick up?

Rooster made you feel better--holding you close, stroking your hair. But as soon as Jake picked you up this morning to drive to the set, that doom and gloom rolled in like a thick fog in the distance.

“Cherry,” Jake says, drawing you from the dark corners of your brain. He’s facing you now, arms crossed over his chest. “C’mon. What’s going on?”

Finally, you turn your cheek and look at him. His pupils are still blown, but his gaze is unwavering and earnest.

“Had a wicked nightmare,” you tell him. You sigh, swallowing hard. “Just…thinking about that, I guess.”

Jake studies you for a moment. You look deflated, tired. He doesn’t know it, but you slept with Rooster last night, letting your head rest in the crook of his neck all night. The nightmare disturbed you, but your parents not answering your one and only call disturbed you to the point of needing human connection. Jake doesn’t know any of this, but he knows that you need some air pumped back into you.

“What was it?” He asks. He leans against the mirror now, still staring at you. “Trust me--I’m a dream decoder on the weekends.”

You bite your lip.

“Finally had to get that side-gig, huh?” You tease. “Shame that fucking didn’t work out for you, cowboy.”

Jake waits quietly for you to tell him, a smile tugging on his lips.

“It was bogus, really,” you finally start, his silence nudging you towards the truth. You run your palms up and down your bare arms, your eyes untrained and lingering on the naked bulbs that line the mirror. “Back home in Nebraska, lying naked on the dinner table like a cadaver or something freaky like that. Family just eating dinner around me like everything’s hunky-dory. Started talking about me being all…twisted up inside. You know, like, baby-wise.”

Jake nods. His fingers are beginning to tremble. He needs another bump, but he’s straining through the cold sweats and the dry mouth to listen to you. He cares about you--more than he expected himself to--and he cares about what you have to say about nightmares and dreams. He thinks, even, that he would listen to you talk about paint drying. He just cares. Simple as that.

He’s trying to be good for you. He hasn’t tried to be good for anyone since Gentry.

“What else?” He asks.

In the warm glow of the room, you look very soft right now. In fact, for the first time since he’s met you, Jake thinks that you look young. That’s what you look like--a girl. A lost little girl. But then he blinks and you’re Cherry again, sinking your teeth into your lip and stretching your arms above your head.

He really needs a bump.

“I guess that’s all,” you answer, sighing. “It’s kinda just given me bad vibes all day. You dig?”

You aren’t sure why you’re telling these fragmented truths. You aren’t sure why you’re telling two halves of the truth to different people, allowing integral parts of the story to stay shrouded in the dark. Rooster knows that you called. Jake knows what your dream was. Maybe if they ever talk about you with each other, maybe if they connect the dots, they’ll understand a part of you that even you don’t understand right now.

“Here,” Jake says, fishing in the pocket of his jeans as he crosses the room to you. He sinks to his knees, the buttermints container in his hand. “I’ve got something that’ll put a little pep in your step.”

He strokes your hair and you bite your lip again, eyes trained on the container.

“I don’t think Rooster digs it when we get high and he doesn’t,” you tell Jake, wringing your hands together. “He kinda gets stuffy, doesn’t he?”

You’re thinking about what Rooster told you last night--how he used blow to stay up and keep staying up. You can’t imagine, really, just how spread thin he was by the end of it all.

Rooster doesn’t outwardly try to be in a bad mood when you and Jake are high--but you know that he is. You’re hypervigilant to his moods, which is something that happened suddenly and completely one day. Every twitch of his mouth, wrinkle of his nose, nod of his head reads so clearly to you. You know when he’s losing his patience, when he’s holding in a laugh, when he wants to say more but won’t.

Jake scoffs, cupping your cheek. His palm is clammy on your face.

“That’s just cause he’s got a stick up his ass about sobriety,” Jake tells you. He pinches your cheek softly. “C’mon, we don’t have to go to his pad. We can go anywhere you want, Cherry-berry. The beach, The Dresden. Shit, we can go to fucking Vegas for all I care!”

You sit up on your elbows, chewing the inside of your cheek. You want to feel better--you want that more than anything right now. You don’t want to feel bare naked anymore today unless you’re neck deep in the ocean.

“Vegas? You really are an idiot savant, cowboy,” you tell him, grinning. You nod for him to open the container and he beams at you.

“I ain’t just a woofin’, honey,” he tells you, making quick work of opening the container. “I’m the real deal.”

“No phonies here,” you agree.

He takes a bump first, a long and hard snort. And then, like he always does, he spreads the flowery stuff against your gums. You swallow, letting your eyes fall shut as the familiar feeling numbs your mouth.

“I’ll never get over how foxy you are,” Jake tells you, shaking his head.

He means it, too--you sucking on his finger, eyes fallen shut, blue eyeshadow caked on your eyelids--you really do something to him.

“Eat your heart out,” you tell Jake, grinning.

He kisses you suddenly, quickly. His lips are wet and parted, his tongue pressing itself onto yours as he holds your neck gently.

“Let’s go to the beach, huh?” You whisper against his mouth. “We can skinny dip in the ocean.”

“Don’t be a bunny,” Jake tells you, resting his forehead against yours. “We’ve gotta eat before then, huh? Let’s purge on some burgs!”

☿

Rooster watches the sunset outside, hands on his hips and foot tapping impatiently on the concrete, in between incessantly checking his wristwatch. You left early this morning, detangling yourself from him and pressing a thousand kisses to his face before bounding out the door. He knows you must be done shooting by now--but you’re not home.

It isn’t that he has plans for the two of you or anything. You’re not late for some big dinner, you don’t have a date, he doesn't have Cockwalk 3 for you to watch, he doesn’t necessarily have anything planned for the two of you except to sit in each other’s company.

And he hates it, really, that it’s upsetting him so much. He expected you home by dusk, if not earlier than that. He expected to order a pizza and have a few drinks--maybe even go out and grab dinner. You’ve been talking about getting your own car now that you’ve gotten a few paychecks--he thought you could talk about that tonight.

He hates it that he’s worried about you not having a cardigan with you because even though you tell everyone you’re hotblooded, you get cold. And he knows that your ego is too big to admit it--which is why you always nuzzle yourself into him as the night grows darker, cooler. He hates that he knows that if you’re with Jake, he won’t recognize that you’re cold. He isn’t Rooster--he won’t shrug off his jacket and give it to you and you won’t ask.

He hates that he feels like a father waiting for his daughter to come home. He hates that he feels like someone’s old man left in the dust, worrying himself sick about you being cold or lost or hurt or upset.

He hates that he was waiting all day for you to come home, replaying your conversation before bed, rubbing the knots out of his spine from your body weight resting on him all night. He’s been smiling today, finally well-rested. He hates that he slept so well last night, hates that he only sleeps that well when you’re in his bed.

He doesn’t even have it in him to finish his Tom Collins. He leaves it on the tiki bar, ice melting in the highball glass, and doesn’t bother to shoo any of the bugs away when they come to collect its sugary contents.

Just past midnight, you’re leaning against the passenger door of Jake’s car, damp hair dancing in the wind as Jake drives you home. You’re still in your jumpsuit, though it’s soaked thoroughly with ocean water now. Your shoes are tossed somewhere in the backseat, your makeup is smudged, and there’s sand all over your body--from your bellybutton to your toes to your ears.

You’re coming down now, having taken more bumps today than you even care to remember. That ecstasy is fading as the morning grows nearer and nearer, as unavoidable as Rooster’s going to be when you get home.

Jake is still high, taking a bump just before hopping behind the wheel, and he has the radio turned up too loud. Pretty Baby by Blondie is thumping through the speakers and vibrating your tongue.

You feel like you can’t talk right now. You’re so full. Full of burgers, coke, cum, sand, ocean water. And even if you were clean--if you were freshly bathed and crawling into clean sheets--you would still feel too full. Too much emotion, too much regret, too much sex. You’ve been fucked five times today, all by Jake, and you’re sore all over.

Cherry Arsan is always game--but right now, you just want to go home and sleep. Maybe that means you’re not Cherry right now. Or maybe you just don’t know her as well as you thought. You’re too tired to decide what is right and what is wrong.

You don’t even know that you’re asleep until you’re suddenly being lifted from the front seat of Jake’s car and thrown over his shoulder.

“Oh,” you say softly, balling his shirt in your hands. It’s still wet, still sandy. “Didn’t mean to be a buzzkill, cowboy.”

Jake shakes his head, starting for Rooster’s front door with you still slung over his shoulder. Your jumpsuit is wedged between your cheeks and you don’t have it in you to fix it. You don’t even have it in you to hold your head up--you’re just limp on his body.

“It’s alright now, honey,” Jake tells you, perky as ever. His high hasn’t faded yet--he isn’t sure if it’s from his orgasm or the coke, but he is far from complaining. “Just chill.”

Rooster’s waiting in the foyer. He heard Jake from all the way down the street, tires screeching and radio booming. He drives too damn fast, especially when he’s high--it irks Rooster.

“Honey, we’re home!” Jake sings loudly as he bursts through the front door.

Jake is surprised when he sees Rooster standing right in front of him. Rooster is still in his collared shirt and slacks, his belt and wristwatch still intact. Usually, by midnight, Rooster would be in his pajamas. And if that isn’t indication enough that something is off with Rooster, his body language is a dead giveaway. His arms are crossed over his chest, his posture is stiff, his eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is set.

Rooster is, simply put, fucking furious.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Rooster hisses, crossing the foyer and pulling you off Hangman’s shoulder and onto your feet. “You can’t carry her like that!”

Jake just rolls his eyes, bumping you with his elbow.

“I think dad’s pissed,” he whispers to you, eyeing Rooster.

Rooster doesn’t smile.

“You alright, kid?” Rooster asks.

“Groovy, baby,” you tell him. Your voice is quiet--thin. “Just need to get some shut-eye.”

Then begins his examination of you. He tilts your face from side to side, taking note of the heat in your cheeks and the sand in your hair. He notices the little bite marks scattered along your collarbones and chest and the way your jumpsuit is ruined with saltwater and sand. Your makeup is running off your face, your skin is peak-ed, and your shoulders are slumped. There’s even a dash of white powder on your top lip and he knows exactly what that is.

Jake is whistling, kicking his shoes off and heading towards the bar to make himself a drink.

“Did you nab any more Aperol?” Jake asks. “You’ve been out for a hot minute, brother!”

Rooster chews on his bottom lip.

“You’re not on my good side right now, man,” Rooster tells Jake, his tone still even but deep and serious. “I think you need to just go the fuck to bed.”

Your ears are ringing. You’re exhausted, wilting where you’re standing.

Jake just raises his eyebrow at Rooster, still looking through his liquor collection.

“But, dad! I’m not tired! Please let me stay up until the television signs off!” Jake teases, chuckling.

Rage is burning hotly in his veins now, which he isn’t all that familiar with. He usually doesn’t let himself get this angry, especially not at Jake. But there’s something about the state you’re in right now that’s changing that.

“I’m not fucking around,” Rooster tells Jake, hands on his hips. “If you wanna keep partying, fine. But you’re not doing it here.”

Jake freezes finally, heart racing still.

He straightens himself, beholds Rooster standing in front of you with his chest puffed out like he’s some sort of hero.

“Yeah? How come?” Jake asks coolly.

“I had no idea where you two were tonight,” Rooster says, narrowing his eyes at Jake. “And I was expecting Cherry home by dinnertime, man. I was worried sick.”

Jake blinks at Rooster.

“Baby’s got a bedtime, huh?” He says, glancing at you. “She didn’t tell me that.”

“I don’t have a fucking bedtime,” you sneer quietly, reaching for the buttons of your jumpsuit, which you fumble with. “Get real.”

“Listen,” Rooster says, holding a hand up at Jake. “You can tease and fuck with me all you want, but I’m not gonna sit here and act like this is hunky-dory, alright? If you wanna fuck around, get high, and fuck on the beach then do that. But don’t drag Cherry into it!”

Jake scoffs.

“Yeah, she wasn’t exactly kicking and screaming, man,” Jake tells Rooster. “Don’t know if you know this, but she’s not your fucking orphan, man. She can make her own choices. Which she did--and she chose to fuck around with me tonight. Sorry that pisses you off.”

Now Jake is pissed, anger burning the tips of his ears.

Rooster and Jake stare at each other, both of their jaws tight with irritation. You slink out of your jumpsuit and leave it in a wet heap on the tile. You’re almost naked now except for the panties you have on, which are ripped from earlier today.

“I find it hard to believe that she asked you to get her high,” Rooster says finally.

When you walk out before him, fully intending to get away from the two men that are arguing over something that’s making your head pound, he suddenly reaches out and halts you with a big hand on your shoulder.

“Really?” Rooster asks Jake, scoffing. “Had to mark her up, huh? Jesus, man. You can’t be doing that. Not in this line of work.”

He’s talking about the love brands that cover the back of your throat and the top of your back, little purple bruises.

Jake holds his hands on his hips, growing hotter under the collar.

“Oh, cause you didn’t mark her up nice and good over Valentine’s Day, huh?” Jake asks. Rooster pales a bit, but doesn’t break his gaze from Jake. “She wanted it, man. That’s why I did it!”

It’s true--you did want to be marked up a bit. You were high when you asked him to do it and he was already taking you from behind up against the hood of his car. In that moment, as he suckled your skin and bruised it, you felt like you belonged to someone. Like actually, thoroughly belonged to someone.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m sure you’re all about what Cherry wants, right? And you never do anything because it’s what you want, huh?” Rooster spits. He shakes his head at Jake and scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t fucking jive me, man.”

“What’s your problem, man?” Jake asks, truly incredulous. “Cherry isn’t yours.”

Cherry isn’t yours.

It echoes in the house, knocks against your skull like a brick. It sobers you, opens your eyes, stops the pounding in your ears.

“Fuck off,” you suddenly sneer, lips twisted. Jake stumbles in place, eyebrows raised. But then you turn to Rooster and narrow your eyes at him, too. “Both of you.”

They’re both shocked--blinking at you with their mouths agape. How you’ve managed to render them speechless--smaller, younger, and naked--is truly a power that only you possess.

“Don’t fucking talk about me like I’m not here,” you say, stepping out of Rooster’s grip and looking at the both of them. Their shoulders are starting to wilt. “I can do whatever the fuck I want, alright? I can fuck whoever I want, I can eat whatever I want, I can snort whatever I want. Don’t fucking box me in, man.”

“I wasn’t trying to box you in,” Rooster says, his voice even again. “I was worried about you.”

Liquid magma is boiling in your belly.

“Well, don’t worry about me!” You tell him, hands raised. There’s suddenly water in your eyes now, weighing down your lashes. “It’s pointless.”

What you mean is: you can go missing and no one will look for you--not even your parents. And they won’t answer the phone, either.

You turn to Jake, ignore Rooster’s gaze burning the back of your head.

“Don’t call me a baby,” you tell Jake. He nods. “I’m not a baby--I’m not anyone’s fucking baby.”

It’s quiet for a moment--the only sound is your heavy breathing.

“Cherry,” Rooster starts, cheeks pink. “Listen, I’m--!”

“Goodnight,” you sharply interrupt, spinning on your heel and heading towards the bathroom.

You slam the door shut. Jake and Bradley both startle at the sound, cowering in each other’s gazes. All the anger has suddenly dissipated, vanished.

“Is it cool if I sleep in the spare?” Jake asks softly, testing the waters.

Rooster nods.

“Of course, man.”

☿

Rooster isn’t sure what to do.

He’s been waiting outside the bathroom for thirty minutes now. And before that, he was turning off all the lights and throwing your jumpsuit in the dirty laundry and changing into his pajamas. You’ve been in there for a long time--too long, really.

He has decided that he won’t be able to even lay down if he knows you’re upset with him. He doesn’t even know where it all went wrong, really. He was just worried about you. He just wants you to be okay. And right now, he doesn’t think that you are--not with makeup all over your face and love brands all over your body. He knows he fucked up, which he doesn’t often do. And he knows that he has to make it right.

Another ten minutes pass and he’s still standing motionless outside the bathroom. And finally, finally, he gets the courage to knock very softly a few times.

Your response is immediate.

“Come in.” Your voice is so little, almost lost beneath the crack of the door.

Rooster’s response is also immediate--at once, he’s turned the handle and come into the bathroom, beholding your wilted form before the counter. You’ve showered and shrugged your robe on. Now, you’re looking at yourself in the mirror, your cheeks tear-stained and your lips swollen.

“Baby,” Rooster whispers. He freezes when he remembers your words: don’t call me baby. I’m not anyone’s baby. But you don’t move to correct him. And your face doesn’t screw up with disgust. “I’m sorry.”

You nod, sniffling. There’s still makeup staining your face, despite having tired to scrub it all off in the shower.

“Me too,” you tell him. “I didn’t want to worry you. Was your night a total bummer?”

Rooster shakes his head. He wants to reach out and hold you close to him. He wants to kiss your face. But he keeps thinking about what Jake said, what you didn’t dispute: Cherry isn’t yours.

“No, baby,” Rooster says quietly. “But I’m glad you’re home.”

Home. The word feels so layered right now.

“Yeah,” you respond quietly.

There is almost too much to unpack right now. You have a million things to say to Rooster, all of which make you cry. And Rooster has a million things to say to you, each one achingly close to a confession of some sort. But it’s too late. You’re too tired, he’s too upset, Jake is too close, you’re still coming down. You can talk about all of it when you’re sober, when you haven’t been crying.

“Here,” Rooster says, catching your gaze in the mirror. He nods to the counter. “Hop up.”

You do without a word, facing him with your shoulders slouched.

He slots himself between your legs and takes the washcloth from your hand. He turns on the tap, lets it run warm as you fix your gaze on his bare belly. And then he holds your chin, tilts your face so you’re looking up at him. There’s that little hot coal sitting in both your bellies when you look at each other--all that honesty, all that love, all that respect, all that affection. It’s there, even now, after you told him to fuck off. Even after Jake said you weren’t his.

Tenderly, very tenderly, he begins to dab at the leftover makeup on your face. The washcloth is so warm that it prickles your spine. And Rooster’s gaze is so endearing, so full of adoration for you, that your bottom lip wobbles. He’s never seen you cry before--but he knows that’s what is going to happen when you start to blink rapidly.

But he’s good about it. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t call attention to it. Even when fat tears begin to roll down your cheeks, he just dabs at them and continues to wipe your face clean. When you sniffle, when snot begins to drip down your top lip, he doesn’t flinch: he just wipes it clean.

You two don’t speak for a long time. For a long time, the only sound in the room is him dipping the washcloth in the water, wringing it out, then pressing it to your skin. Little sniffles and wet breaths occasionally echo off the tile, too, but you know it’s something that you can’t stop and Rooster knows it’s nothing he can stop either. So, it just happens.

“There,” he whispers, setting the washcloth beside you and resting his palms on either side of your thighs. “All clean, baby.”

You’re still crying.

“Thanks a million,” you whisper to him. Your chin trembles. “I’m your baby, right?”

Rooster’s brows knit, but he nods immediately.

“Of course,” he tells you. “And you know what? I was about an hour away from calling the pigs and getting a search party started, baby. We’re talking every milk carton, every lamppost. Fliers plastered on department stores--the whole nine yards, baby.”

It makes you laugh, a thin and pathetic thing. And then it makes you sob.

That’s when Rooster finally wraps his arms around you, when you finally let yourself go and cry openly into his bare shoulder. And the scent of his skin, vetiver and cigar smoke, makes something settle in your belly.

This is home, you realize. This shoulder, this skin, this man, these arms.

This is home.

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: posting this here now that Tumblr has let me out of horny jail. I need all of you to know that I absolutely adore you and my time in Tumblr jail would've been miserable if not for all of you people. you're all my little chickens and I love you!

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

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