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epigstolary · 5 months

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The Middle of Nowhere, Part Two

I once said that my feeder didn’t have to do anything to keep me on his farm. That I was building my own prison there, bite by bite. And that’s still true — but only partly true. The farm may be a long way away from anything — town, other people, even the road that’s our only real connection to society — and it may as well be a desert island for someone too big to drive a car or walk further than the yard, but it isn’t my prison. Because my prison isn’t a place.

Things started to change when it got difficult even to go outside to our porch. I don’t mean they changed with my feeder; he was still as caring and doting as ever. He started bringing me my snacks once I got big enough that just shuffling out the front door took all my energy and attention. I had to watch where I placed every step of my bloated legs, laden with fat that looked like bags of cottage cheese, and hold on to the walls and the railing along the porch to keep my belly and chest fat from sloshing sideways and pulling me over. Even those few steps left me breathless and my heart pounding by the time I got settled on my bench; but it was worth it to have a plate of his biscuits and gravy or chicken and dumplings, under that big sky beyond our little farm, gilded with another sunset. And even when my bench finally gave way after one too many helpings of both, he dusted off his woodworking kit and put it back together, reinforced and better than new.

But by then, we both knew it was only a temporary fix. It wouldn’t be long before there’d be no way I could maneuver myself out there every day, and he could tell how being cooped up inside would drive me crazy after a while. If I was going to do anything other than sit mostly alone on the couch all day, we were going to have to find another way.

His first innovation was to invite people over for dinner — farmhands, friends, folks he knew from town that he could get to come to me even if I couldn’t go to them. And they were good company, in a lot of ways; they’d bring a taste of the outside world with them. They might talk about how the crops were doing, recount some recent anecdote from working out in the fields or going into town, opine on some petty local politics or gossip. And it was nice to hear about something other than what was going on within the confines of our little farm — an outside world that it was increasingly impossible for me to get to. But really, it was hard for the focus not to turn around to me. Nobody was ever rude the first time they met me; but it was rare not to see either a reaction of stifled surprise, or else a glassy look of unseeing, a conscious attempt not to notice the half-ton of fat flowing and bulging out of my ill-fitting clothes.

It didn’t help that, with me never leaving the farm, there weren’t many topics of conversation other than myself and food that our guests could engage with me about. When the conversation didn’t turn to recent meals or my favorite foods, which usually elicited at least warm agreement about the country staples forming much of my diet, it turned to how I spent most of my day. We’d do our usual face-saving song and dance about what I did to take care of the house while my partner was out working in the field — all of it lies, and increasingly transparent lies as my limited ability to even move became more obvious at higher weights — and how I was getting ready to start losing some weight. I’d talk about how I really wanted to get healthier, get out and about more often; and they’d smile and nod, giving tepid approval and encouragement.

The thing is, I really did mean it. I really did want to get down to a size where I could at least walk around outside again, maybe even drive a car into town and go to the little greasy spoon like I used to. It was becoming discouraging to have every step, every reach, every movement blocked or restrained by the fat smothering every inch of my body. But our guests knew full well I didn’t have a prayer of keeping to a diet or an exercise routine. It was even more obvious to those who’d visited before, and who saw me even more bloated, even more out of shape than the last time they were there.

The actual meals certainly made them think that, if they hadn’t before. My partner would serve a spread fit for a dozen people — something like a barbecue buffet, a whole turkey with all the fixings, a tray of lasagna — and I’d end up eating everything that was left after the others had their fill. Long after their places had been cleared away, I’d still be gobbling up the heaping plates my partner would keep bringing me until every scrap of food was gone. Since I couldn’t last very long at the dining table anymore, usually we’d sit around the living room, and they would basically watch me gorge myself — tits and chins wobbling as I’d chew, plate sitting on my enormous belly so my blubbery arms could rest on the sweep of my side rolls while I cut and speared each bite. It was obvious to everyone, I guess even to me, that I was never going to drop a pound if I couldn’t resist completely abandoning myself to food like that. By the end of the meal, I’d be stuffed full, taking up the entire couch and looking enormous, almost too drowsy from overeating to notice the expressions passing between our guests, their looks of amusement or disgust or astonishment at what was apparently a typical dinner for me. Sometimes they’d even whisper about it, thinking I was asleep. I wasn’t.

From the front window of the house, I could watch them drive away, taillights receding toward that distant road where proper civilization began again. Probably recapping the dinner and my obscene size and appetite with horrified amazement. They’d been merely passing through, tourists in my isolated bubble, visiting their friend’s or boss’s blob of a partner out of courtesy but with no real desire to bring me into the fold. They could make things more tolerable, but they’d never be any real help in connecting with the world again.

Then one day, my partner’s beat-up old pickup disappeared, and he pulled into the yard in a gleaming new one, looking unusually excited for him and expectantly at me. I was puzzled — by that point, I was already too big to heave myself up into the cab of any pickup. But then I saw the truck bed — more specifically, the crane and winch rising from the front corner. My stomach did a somersault at the sight of him rigging up a harness meant for lifting cows and pigs into the bed; it was a way to let me get off the farm, sure, but at a pretty steep price in dignity. It was as good as an admission that I’d eaten myself far too fat to rejoin the world like a normal person, probably for good.

But the temptation to be somewhere else, anywhere else, was too much. A day or two later, my partner was helping me waddle out the front door and down the steps toward the driveway. Months indoors had obscured just how much my body had changed in even that short amount of time. My legs had both bloated considerably and weakened since my last walk through the yard, making every step like having to lift heavy bags of molasses just to advance a few inches at a time. My belly hung lower and broader than I remembered, physically holding back my steps and making it harder to twist my upper body to steady my walk. My side rolls and bicep blubber fought one another for space, pushing my arms up and sending fat bunching around my neck and shoulders. I was an out-of-breath mess by the time I maneuvered myself around and collapsed into the harness.

The sensation of my weight being lifted slowly off the ground, suspended and moved by an object completely out of my control, sent a surreal thrill through me. My hundreds of pounds, cradled in the harness, wobbled and jiggled with its slow movements, and for the most part I had no choice but to be carried along with my body’s jostling inertia. Even more than usual, I was buried under my immense belly and tits, my bloated legs were lifted level with the rest of my body, and my flab-laden arms — if they’d even been strong enough to do anything — had nowhere to grasp to help stabilize my sloshing bulk. The crane and winch cracked and creaked as it labored to move my weight, lifted me over the sides and into position facing the tailgate, and lowered me onto some foam padding my partner had arranged into a kind of makeshift couch against the rear window. I didn’t fill the truck bed — but there wasn’t room to sit next to me, either.

I’ve never felt a mixture of emotions like I did on that first drive back into town. On the one hand, it felt so amazingly free — finding myself on that once impossibly-distant road, our farm receding into the distance as fields and hills sped by. Fresh air, and the wind in my hair. But then, as buildings grew closer together and we started rolling into downtown, my blood ran cold — I’m a half-ton blob taking up most of the back of a pickup truck, too fat to walk or move, coming to town like a circus attraction, I thought. People were going to react.

I’m sure a lot of it was in my mind. I’m sure I was self-conscious, reading intent into every glance and word and gesture, most of the time when it wasn’t there. But it felt like every last person in the town had turned out to stare at my huge form being paraded down main street. Me looking out over the expanse of lard occupying the truck bed and smothering my body. Blubber sloshing uncontrollably every time we turned a corner. Kids pointing at the enormous fatty passing by, their shouts being stifled by nervous and disgusted parents. Skinny people casting sideways glances at the pickup, stopped at a stoplight, as they muttered to each other amid broad grins.

And that was when I realized. It didn’t matter where I was — on the farm, in town, on stage with a million people watching. I had let myself get fattened past the point where I could exist in this world and connect with it ever again. Even when I was right in the middle of it, I was as far removed from these people as if I’d still been back on the farm. I’m never going to be walking around with them, shopping with them, just existing in the spaces they exist in. I literally don’t fit in, even if I could haul around all the blubber I’ve accumulated under my own power. And I’m just as alien to them — someone five times their weight, who can’t control their appetite any better than to get this big, someone they can deride or pity or judge with impunity.

On the drive back to the farm, under a starry indigo sky and with a backseat full of fast food from the town’s only chain, I had to wonder about my feeder. Whether he really was trying to get me out of the house. Or did he know? Had he already figured out that I was too big for it to matter where I was — that the thick rolls dominating my body and the sacks of fat hanging off my limbs would keep me his, even if I’d tried to get someone to help me leave? That this drive would do nothing more than to show me a world, a life, that my fat — his fat — would never let me go back to?

The thought lodged in the back of my mind as he gently helped hoist me, every inch wobbling and quivering, out of the truck bed. He led my bulk, step by exhausted step, back inside and to my usual divot on the couch. And as he got me comfortable, spreading the buffet of greasy, fatty food out before me, and as I bit into the first of ten thick double cheeseburgers, his too-kind smile and his gaze that lingered on my bulging gut for an instant too long told me everything I needed to know.

The farm isn’t my prison. My body is.

#extreme weight gain #weight gain fiction #ssbhm #feeder fiction #gainerfiction #gaining #gainer fiction #wg story #wg fiction #gainer stories

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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 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 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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