Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The refined walls of the disclosed church, were hefty with disdain, and protruding your dazed mind. The scalloped bricks tediously took their time, to enclose you in their condemnating, critical embrace. The velvet floor mat with the Lords face and phrases from the bible embedded into the material was plastered to the floor, in the center of the apprehending circle you and the rest of the collection of alcoholics were margining, in your rustic, portable chairs.

The regulations of your Alcoholic Anonymous meetings were undiplomatic, and as you blatantly glared at all of the newbies and regulars adorning the creaky seats, you noted that everybody in this tarnished, abandoned chapel could agree.

Every week, there was always a new volunteer, that was either sagacious and vulgar with determination to "heal" the warped minds muddying the church, or a volunteer that was dubious on alcohol conflictions and just their to improve the substance of their resumes.

Even yourself— as a young woman that has been dominating the battle of addiction for years beyond legal drinking age— was vacillating whether this establishment was insightful, or futile.

A voice announced your name, and you blinked exuberantly to recollect yourself, shifting in your seat and defensively crossing your arms. Silence filtered the air, as dozens of pairs of murky eyes drifted in your direction.

"Pardon?" You scoffed, eyeing this weeks dedicated volunteer, as he supplied you with a feigned, amiable smile.

"Share something about yourself," he pried hospitably, tilting his head in quarry. "It can be alcohol related, or not."

You sighed, plastering on a candied grin, as you smoothed out the skirt cascading down your clammy legs and straightened your slothful stature. "Oh, well..." You started, your smile faltering, as you casted your gaze to a broad man in the corner of the chapel. "I'm a journalist..." Your eyebrows furrowed, as the man scorned you with his insolent, dull stare. "Um, typically I do investigative journalism..."

The man ruffled with his loose, wrinkled tunic, feathering his hand through his raven, tousled locks, as he trudged over to the clad circle of chairs. His irises were a deadpan honey-hazel, as they observed you, and then the array of seats. He awkwardly shuffled along the rug, and plopped down in the empty seat perpendicular to you.

"B-but I have a range, in what I write." You slurred, jumbling the words, as your eyes flickered from the inquisitive man, and the crowd of attentive listeners.

"That's rad," the volunteer mused, with a benign smirk, nodding along, as everyone clapped heedfully in response.

There was an idle moment of silence, just as the volunteer, that looked like a Dan or a Phil, opened his mouth to address another person, the mysterious man gruffly cleared his throat.

"You write?" He retorted, his dark eyebrows woven together, as he clasped his veiny hands and perched his elbows on his knees.

You stifled a perplexed chuckle, and nodded slowly at him, suppressing the bewildered grin that was threatening to tug at your lips.

"Oh, shit." He grumbled, raising his eyebrows and sighing through puckered lips. He apprehensively scratches the nape of his neck, grimacing at himself. "Atleast you have your fucking life somewhat in order." He exclaimed, glimpsing the astonished crowd. "Oh, come on! Don't act like you're all stable and employed!"

Gasps elicited from each corner and crevice of the chapel— and you only laughed. A hysterical, diverted howl of amusement. Your breaths were labored, hot tears brimming your eyelids, as you shielded your grin with your forearm and rocked in your chair.

The man, the instigator of the insult that articulated this response from you, suppressed his own laugh, his crooked, toothy grin beaming at you from across the chapel, wrinkles embedding into the skin surrounding his hooded eyes.

Dan, or Phil— you had no knowledge of his name, those were just presumptions— scowled at both of you, and waved an accusing finger.

"Out." He seethed, mollifying himself with a deep breath. "Both of you. Now, please."

You and the mystery man exchanged a look, before he snickered and gestured for you to follow him. You sniffled, swallowing the urge to chuckle, and slung your purse over your shoulder, bolting from your seat and scrambling towards the man, "Sorry." You mumbled apologetically, waving indolently at all of the affronted strangers, grinning cheekily at the man as both of you shuffled down the narrow foyer leading to the exit.

He pried the door open, propping it open with his bulky forearm, peering down at you with a lingering smirk as you scurried past him. The rustic door belched and croaked as he allowed it to slam shut behind you.

"Damn it," you murmured breathily, leniently plopping down on the cement stairwell leading to the sidewalk. The outgoing stranger hesitantly lowered himself next to you, eyeing you in his peripherals. "I can't believe I got kicked out already!"

The man snorted gruffly, "I've lost count of how many times I've been kicked out of this place," he mused. "I thought they were meant to help us. Spiritual conversion or some' bullshit."

You nodded in agreement, cocking a brow. "As they say, to 'open our hearts to Jesus and unify with the Lord'." You flagrantly scoffed, and the man snarled in reminiscence. "It's all a load of shit."

The mans laughter died, and you gulped, as his gaze penetrated yours, and elicited a catapult of trepidation to demolish your confidence. It was as if his ravenous eyes were prying you apart limb by limb. Picking you to pieces inside and out. Interpreting your worthy and prominence as a dignified human being.

A prudent smirk ghosted his lips, "I like you," he stated nonchalantly, before dolefully raising his eyebrows and offering you a handshake. "Adam Sackler. You?"

You grasped onto his hand, unifying with the vigorous shake of it, retorting your own name. "That was fun," you chirped, "For the first time ever, It's not my fault I got kicked out of another AA meeting."

Adam hummed in amusement, stroking his clean, freshly trimmed stubble. "They have a restraining order against me." He uttered blatantly, and your eyes widened.

"That's why I was hiding in the corner... but, uh, you sort of captivated me, and I got curious." He sheepishly averted his focus to the bustling street, his gaze following a white labradoodle as it pranced by with its entitled owner, "Even though you sound painfully boring."

He adjusted the hem of his shirt, rolling his broad shoulders. His build was colossal. Thighs bulky, calves monstrous— even through the loose-fitting blue jeans garbing his figure— a toned chest, that seeped through the thin fabric of his tunic. Other large features supplied his face, such as a long, brooding nose, replicating the sculptures of late roman architecture. He was unconventionally glorious, and his sense of humor sparked your unique interest.

"Oh, I'm the most boring-est of them all." You feigned, gesturing with your hands dramatically. "Which reminds me, I have boring stuff I need to do, such as finish unpacking all of my junk."

You ascended from the concrete block, and Adam observed in quietude as you tiptoed down two of the stairs, before objecting with a shout.

"Kid!" He bleated, and you sighed playfully, swiveling to face him with an expectant brow cocked. "Did you say unpacking?"

He hopped down the stairs, his coiled black locks swaying into his face, as you nodded. "Yeah. I'm new to the city, actually." You chimed, and he trailed by your side as you regained your footing and strutted down the sidewalk. Your new apartment complex was just a few blocks away from the church.

"I could help... I live just a few blocks from here." He stated earnestly, and you contemplated just sending him off to tend to his own business, only to instead, bashfully accept his offer with gratitude.

Your walk together through the forenoon streets was pacifying, as shriveled, orangey leaves bristled with the autumn breeze, skidding the rough cement as they played ring-around-the-rosy with the frisky wind, that reeked of Chili Dogs and leaky sewage pipes.

Adam was entertaining, in the most abnormally perfect, succulent ways. He absorbed your small jokes gratefully, as if he was thriving off of them, and he had the tendency to trudge his large feet along the concrete path guiding you to your complex. He had a monotonous, riotous cackle, and a smile that threatened to make your knees buckle.

"Well, this is it." You abruptly coasted to a halt at the foot of the stairwell leading to your complex, and Adam staggered at your side, his eyebrows knitting together.

"No way." He tsked accusingly, shifting all of his weight to one booted foot, staring at you in bewilderment. "Are you sure this is where you live?" He feathered his thick fingers through his hair with turmoil manipulating his mechanisms.

"Of course I'm sure..." You drawled leisurely, blinking at him quizzically as he cocked his head back in astonishment, shaking his head briskly, the black tendrils of his hair wafting into his acuted face.

"I live on level three..." He mumbled, and your heart was racing in your chest with a mixture of exhilaration and apprehension.

"Oh, um... Yay?" You squeaked, grinning timidly, your cheeks flushed a sheepish rouge. "New neighbors?"

He nodded slowly, another smirk brightening the bleak features of his porcelain face, "Apparently so," he murmured to himself, peering up at the pristine windows reverberating the golden sheen of the sun. "Well, those boxes of yours aren't going to unpack themselves."

You flashed him a benevolent smile, "You're right," you said. "Let's go, then."

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"What the hell is this?" Adam rasped, his index finger looping around the string of one of your scandalous lingerie pieces.

You slammed one of the heftier boxes— that contained your pots and pans— down on the granite countertop, heaving breathlessly, as you pivoted to face him.

"Hey!" You bleated, your eyebrows weaving together, as he let out a raspy chuckle and waved your panties around.

"Whose the lucky guy that gets to see you in these?" He jeered, tugging the elastic bands between his curled fingers, grinning at you giddily as you attempted to swat them out of his grasp.

"Nobody," you grunted, yanking your panties out of his grip and glaring at him spitefully, despite the smile tugging at your lips. "I'm a single lady. It's for myself." You paused, as he stifled a snicker, blinking at you as if he was a pesky puppy that just got scolded for rummaging through the garbage can, "I can't believe you know my panty size before you even know my middle name."

He shrugged haphazardly, smirking flamboyantly. "You never know," he uttered tantalizingly. "That knowledge could come in handy one day. Christmas is only a month and a half away, you know."

You hummed in acknowledgment, ransacking the crisp cardboard box that entailed all of your spices and herbs for the kitchen, "Thats true. You can never have too much sexy underwear." You quipped breathily, as you popped up on your tiptoes to reach the small cabinet hovering over the stove.

Adam noted your struggle and shuffled over to you, snatching the portable glass jars of thyme and paprika out of your grasp, and effortlessly slipping them into the cabinet for you, "Are you sure about that, shortie?" He mused, and you nudged him playfully with your elbow as he trudged back over to the box of your clothes. "I see about a dozen pairs in here," he accounted, rummaging through your belongings.

"Woah there, Mr. Sackler." You intervened with the disapproving click of your tongue, scampering over to him and briskly sealing the box, slamming it on the floor. "Don't get too comfortable with my panties, you may never see them again."

He cocked a brow, "May?"

Your cheeks flushed a coy scarlet, and you gulped down your turmoil, batting your eyelashes at him virtuously as you feigned a groan of exasperation. "Well, you know... I don't know... uh..." You babbled, your sheepish frown deepening when he smirked.

As he observed you with intensity, time ticked tediously, as if the notion of cadence was just a void. Blinking at you leisurely, consuming every quiver and twitch of your face, as he apprehensively drummed the countertop with his knuckles, and harbored his breath in his puffed out cheeks.

"You're cute when you're nervous." He endeavored, nodding to himself to confirm his flagrant statement. Your cheeks only scorched with a flame of timidity, as you scoffed and rolled your eyes.

"I am not." You retorted reluctantly, dropping your bashful gaze to the box of other kitchen essentials, tracing the titanium curve of one of your spatulas with your fingertip as you nibbled on your bottom lip nervously.

"Well, I think you're very pretty." He stated earnestly, his dark, feathery eyebrows furrowed, as you glanced up at him through the veil of your mascara coated eyelashes. "Too pretty, to be spending your Tuesday afternoon at that shithole of a church, surrounded by alcoholics."

You smiled solemnly, "Thank you." You murmured shyly, hoisting your recipe books out of the box and steadying them neatly on the counter, "I wish I didn't have to attend those shitty meetings. But I feel obligated to go weekly. It makes my friends and family feel better."

Adam nodded drearily, as if he was breaking your words up into coherent fragments, before he circled your wrist, to prevent you from dipping your hand back into the box full of miscellaneous junk.

"Does it make you feel better?" He asked gravely, his expression stoic, as his gaze bored through yours.

"Um," your wrist flexed in his grasp, as he subconsciously tightened it. "I don't know."

He nodded diminutively, before reluctantly releasing your wrist, awkwardly gritting his teeth. "I fucking hate that shit," he growled, plopping down on your barstool, that still had plastic wrap garbing it. "It feels like walking into a room, and being showered in pathetic condolences and pitiful glances."

You sighed, hoisting yourself up on the counter. You smoothed out the plush cashmere of your pajama pants, swinging your legs back and forth, drumming the island with your heels. "Then why do you go?" You asked inquisitively, tilting your head, and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

He narrowed his eyes at you, grumbling curses as he harbored his breath in his lungs. "My girlfriend makes me." He groaned, scowling and raking his fingers through his untamed hair. "Ex-girlfriend. She thinks she's some sort of fucking superhero, always trying to save people even though she's a walking time bomb, with a fucking craving to disrupt my life whenever things start going my goddamn way!"

You flinched exuberantly, wincing in response to every hostile, keen edge of his grizzly tone. His face was flushed crimson with vexation, and he inhaled sharply through his nostrils, softening his brash, consequential features when he saw the way you stared at him wide-eyed and apprehensive.

"Sorry," he breathed monotonously. "It's just... a battle. Being forced to live with the fact that I once loved her is enough to make me relapse."

You frowned, twiddling your thumbs and plucking at your cuticles, as you avoided his somber gaze and peered out the bay window. Auburn rays of the beaming, evening sun cascading into your new apartment, that was bare and yearning for you to garner it with the artistry pumping through your veins. Golden ribbons of the suns wrath painted the grimy mahogany floors, as dust swirled in ornate patterns through the dense air.

"I said too much." Adam hissed softly, slouching forward and propping his elbows up on the counter about an inch away from your thigh.

"No, no." You rasped, looming over him and platonically kneading his shoulder blade with a pitiful smile. "I just... relate to that, is all."

The tendons in his shoulder flexed beneath your palm, as he propels his body backwards and stares at you. "Whose the asshole who hurt you?" He asked, his voice naval with concerned mundaneness.

You shrugged subduedly in response, chewing on your bottom lip. Apparently your trepidation was contagious, because he got the hint that discussing your traumatic past that speculated your inferior taste in men, was off the table.

"Speaking of drinks." He smirked wryly, "I have beer at my place. I'm about three doors over."

Blatantly, and with eagerness, you nodded compliantly. Despite the knowledge that you would crush cans upon cans of Bud Light until your lips tingled from alcohol poisoning, and your vision was black and muddied.

"We can just blame our lack of recovery on that guy... Dan, maybe?" Adam bleated, and you perked up at his words. "I don't know, he looked like a Dan."

You pawed him away friskily with an astounded, staggering grin. "That's exactly what I thought!" You exclaimed vigorously, as you hopped off of the counter and shuffled towards the door by his side, craning your neck to peer up at him.

"He kind of looks like a Phil, too." You pointed, peeling the door open and briskly scampering out, as he followed and guided you towards his apartment.

"Yeah, yeah yeah." He nodded robustly, pursing his plump, rouge lips. "Or, a Rob."

Your laughs echoed around the tawny, crumbling walls of the foyer, as you stumbled past numerous thresholds, before reaching the entrance of his apartment.

He untucked his key from the back pocket of his scuffed up blue jeans, jamming it into the lock, twisting it around arduously. "This motherfucker," he hissed, clenching his jaw and brawling with the door handle.

He practically kicked the door down, shoving it open with a grunt, as it swung open and slammed into one of the blue hued walls.

You sauntered in behind him, eyeing the havoc that he considered his apartment, with your eyebrows knitted together in curiosity. There were beams and dusty wood pillars sprawled out on the floor, sawdust peppered any arguably clean surface, and a rack of tools was flagrantly perched in the cubicle of his living room.

"What's all this?" You asked softly, peeking at his kitchen, that was dimly illuminated by an auburn nightlight plugged in by the fridge.

Scraps of wood tarnished the Island in the center of his kitchen, crushed beer cans loitered on the floor, and there was a cavernous, gouging hole in the wall adjacent to his midsized sofa.

"I keep myself busy with little projects," he stated bleakly with a poised, accomplished smile, as he gestured for you to cross over a random beam on the floor. "Just trying to find my thing."

His aspiration for craftsmanship was attractive. A man dedicated to his hobbies and passionate about his preferences and aversions, was appealing. Adam was clearly loaded with opinions, and hopefully, the alcohol you both shared as an unhealthy coping mechanism, would alleviate you in bonding on shared interests, as well.

You traced one of his peculiarly ornate wooden structures with your fingertips, as it slothfully leaned against the chipping wall. "Well, if you ever need another little project, you could build me a bed frame," you teased, and his eyebrows raised in obligation. "I'm just kidding, but, I really do need to buy one."

He plopped down on his couch, and you nestled into the corner of it, leaving a gap of cushion between you.

"I'll build you one," he insisted, folding at the waist to rummage through a black minifridge posted at the corner of his couch, pulling out two ice cold beers. "I don't want you to pay hundreds of dollars for a shitty bed frame when I can build you a better one myself."

He handed you the beer, and you smiled benignly, as dewy drops of condensation transferred to your palm, and billowed down the oval walls of the can. You flicked the pop-top off, as it hissed, and fizzed in your grasp.

Both of you downed a few gulps of beer in silence. The bitter taste accumulating on the tip of your tongue was the fuel, to the gasoline of demonstration revving in your veins. It was deliciously lethal, and by the tranquil rise and fall of Adam's chest, you were positive he could say the same.

"I really needed a beer." You admitted, tucking your feet beneath your folded legs, shifting on your bum and zoning in on a piece of his wooden architecture.

"So did I," he breathed in exasperation. "It's been an excruciating week." His head crashed into the plush cushions, as he traced the crevices of his ceiling with his fatigued eyes, before tilting his head to look at you. "At least something good came out of it though."

You mimicked his stature, nuzzling your cheek into the supple cushion of his couch, smiling gingerly at him. "Oh?" You whispered. "And what good, has come out of your shitty week, Sackler?"

His diabolical smirk lingered, those wrinkles of benevolence embedded into the corners of his hazel eyes, "First of all, kid." He murmured, " I met you."

He raised his beer can victoriously, huffing in amusement as you blushed at his statement. "To making a new friend."

Your beers clashed, and you giggled, chugging the remnants of alcohol articulating in your cans. "To making a new friend!" You chanted, as Adam peeled himself off of the couch and collected another handful of beers.

Chapter Text

The auburn glow of the evening sun painted the buildings and skyscrapers a vibrant orange, the hue a welcoming yellow. The cold breeze billowed through your apartment, as New York made the transition from autumn to winter.

Propping your elbow on the windowsill, you peered around your apartment. It was coming together decently. The majority of your furniture had been arranged to your liking, and you even had enough spare time to mount a few of your paintings to the bleak walls.

Speaking of painting, your apartment reeked of acrylic paint and thinners. The windows were open to air out the compact space, and to aid your painting in drying properly. Cold air always added a special glint to a piece of artwork, anyways.

City ruckus reverberated around the chipping walls, the sirens and bustling traffic drowning out the opportunity to relax.

You puffed on a cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a mundane sigh. Smoking was another habit that you were in the process of demolishing, but for now, it appeased your anxiety and gave you the chance to take a break from the world.

Smashing the shriveling bud into your ashtray, that was holographic under the wrath of the suns rays, you huffed the smoke through your nostrils. Colorful paints were matted to your old Queen T-shirt— that you thrifted for the sheer purpose of getting it messy— lapping up in chunks and smears. Your jeans were assaulted by crimsons and canary yellows. That was an accident. These were expensive jeans, and you hissed a curse to yourself as you scrubbed it with your nails to no avail.

As you continued groaning and peeling the smudges of paint off of your jeans, a deep, husky voice called your name from beyond the window. You froze in befuddlement, your eyebrows knitting together. The hoarse voice hollered your name for the second time, drawling your name playfully.

You swiveled around, a grin already plastered on your lips, as you propped your hands on the windowsill and poked your head out the window.

There Adam Sackler stood, in all of his arrogant glory, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his plump lips. Your smile deepened, as you feigned a sigh. "What is it, Sackler?" You tilted your head, toying with your earlobe.

A ripple surfaced in his brow, as he exhaled jagged heaps of smoke, tossing his cigarette to the concrete and smushing it beneath his boots. "We have an AA meeting, remember?" He shouted over the bustling traffic whirring past the complex, rocking on his heels and cramming his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, shit." You grumbled, kneading the worry lines embedding into your forehead. You glowered down at your disheveled clothes. "I don't think I can make it!" You frowned, tugging on your shirt and leaning forward to show Adam the paint stains. "You can just go without me!"

He grunted in disapproval, stretching his jaw and gritting his teeth. "No fucking way!" He bleated, his smirk lingering, as he furrowed his brows and shook his head vigorously. "Get your ass down here, I'm not going without you!"

You chuckled, granting him an indifferent shrug. "We're already late!"

He kicked a pebble across the cement, "If you don't come with me, I'm going to get drunk as fuck tonight and blame it on you." He cocked a brow, snickering monotonously when you rolled your eyes.

"You fucker!" You narrowed your eyes provocatively, and his gruff chuckle morphed into a guttural laugh when bewildered people scampered by and stared at you. "I'm coming down there." You flashed him another glare, disappearing into your apartment.

You laced up your scuffled pair of old Doc Martins, eyeing your dismantled outfit. Stained ripped jeans. Your wrinkled, washed-out Queen shirt that was also tarnished with smudges of vibrant paints. Your hair was in a loose bun that rested on the nape of your neck, tendrils of tousled hair sticking out everywhere. You opted to wear a black trench coat over the messy clothes you adorned.

You glimpsed the standard clock plastered on your wall, before shimmying out of your apartment. You briskly locked the door behind you, jogging down the hall, and skipping down three flights of stairs. The meeting starts in five minutes, and it's already a fifteen minute walk away from your complex.

Breathlessly, you nudged the entrance door open, nearly trampling over your own feet. Adam snapped his neck to face you with that charismatic, shit-eating grin that you always caught him giving you. You rolled your eyes at him, crossing your arms to shield yourself from the frisky wind.

"That was fast..." He said, an abyss of white clouds emitting from his mouth as he spoke.

"Yeah," you huffed, side eyeing him with a small smile splaying on your lips. "I sprinted down here. We're gonna be late, you know?"

He rolled his broad shoulders, his hands nestled into the pockets of his black trench coat that was similar to yours, only twice the size. His dark locks were sheeny, the reflectance of the golden sun making his raven, silky waves glisten. His satin skin was damp, sweat accumulating around his hairline. His breath occasionally hitched, as if he was breathless, too.

"I know. Because we aren't going." He cracked a devious smile, wiggling his eyebrows.

You blinked at him, subconsciously slowing your pace by his side. "What?" You asked, baffled and perplexed.

"I just wanted to get you out of your apartment." He shrugged, pursing his lips and glancing at you with his doe, glossy puppy dog eyes. His all-lip smile was innocent.

"Asshole." You mused, and he scoffed in amusement. "I was painting before you interrupted me."

"You were smoking, actually." He quipped, his smug smile deepening when you sighed in defeat. "I think all those paint fumes are starting to get to your head. Good thing I stepped in."

You giggled at his flamboyance, strutting side by side along the grimy sidewalks; a rather unorthodox duo, as Adam was a brawny man with an intimidating, awkward aroma, and you were just a younger bashful girl that he was lugging around with him.

"Where exactly were you planning on taking me?" You asked.

"Well, since you're new here..." He began, his voice sanguine and husky with hope. "Theres this diner with killer food right around the corner. You hungry?"

Your bewildered complexion softened and you nodded gingerly. "Always."

He barked out a laugh, feathering his hands through his hair, strolling ahead of you with wide strides. "I have a feeling you'll fucking love this place," he jeered, his tone earnest as you rounded a corner.

The Diner was just across the street. A colossal, neon sign glowed exuberantly, illuminating your destined path to the small restaurant. You always preferred the subdued, homestyle Diners and restaurants as opposed to the big businesses. They always had killer food, as Adam described it.

Entering the Diner, your nostrils were greeted with the savory scent of grease. The tiled floors were a grimy black and white, a cheap alternative to mosaic. The walls were an array of colors— mandarins, blues, yellows. Disco lights illumating the booths, and the retro equities of the entire bustling room.

You followed the sign mounted to the entrance door that insisted you choose your own seat. Trailing behind Adam, he gestured for you to sit first, before slipping into the seat across from you.

The elevated window granted you a beautiful view of the mucky brick buildings, and the polluted silhouette of the skyline off in the distance. The open sign flickered in a coruscating red above your head, saturating Adam's deadpan expression in a bright abundance of colors.

A waitress sauntered over to your table, greeting both of you idly and placing a set of menus down. You scanned through your options, humming to yourself, chewing on your bottom lip— it was a tick that you subconsciously indulged in when you were nervous, shy, or a package of both.

"Any suggestions?" You peered up from your menu and asked Adam, nibbling harder on your bottom lip when your gazes locked.

"The chocolate chip pancakes." He rasped without an ounce of hesitation, slouching into the backboard of his seat, "They're fucking delicious. It's like blowing your load after having a boner all day. Fucking surreal."

You slapped a palm over your mouth to stifle a laugh, only to snort and chuckle manically, hiccuping on your breath. "Thats- they- I'm sorry." Tears were brimming your eyelids from the force of your laugh. At first, Adam just blinked at you as if he was serious, but he smirked in response to your laugh.

"I'm not even shitting you right now," he chuckled breathily at himself mid-sentence, looming over the table and staring at you wide-eyed. "I swear, you'll be fucking horny after having a taste of these damn pancakes."

He snatched your menu out of your hands and you whined in protest, cackling at his words. He stacked your menus together, filing them out and perfecting them to be symmetrical, before slamming them down at the edge of the table, his smile loitered on his face.

"Adam," you snorted his name, shucking off your coat and dangling it over the seat, as he mimicked your gesture. You shook your head in feigned disbelief, "I'm not getting your orgasmic pancakes, thanks for the suggestion though. I think I'll settle for a burger."

He narrowed his eyes at you, his masquerade of earnest on. "You're trying my orgasmic pancakes. End of discussion." He persisted, his expression frighteningly stoic.

"And if not?" You cocked a salacious brow, and he smirked diabolically, his charisma refurbished.

"Come on, kid. You're trying the pancakes." He mused sternly, replicating the frown of a disappointed father. "Also." He cleared his throat, motioning for you to lean closer with the flick of his long fingers. You obliged, and his plump lips ghosted your ear. "That's a road you don't wanna go down, when it comes to me."

You gulped down the trepidation that rose in your throat, "Well, now I'm really curious." You whispered lecherously back, your voice rich with sultry, and you had to suppress a satisfied smile when he shuddered.

"Curious to try the pancakes?" He feigned innocence, plastering on that signature smile of his, batting his eyelashes dramatically.

Before you could retort a snappy remark back, the waitress emerged from the kitchen with her notepad and an attentive smile. "You two decide on somethin'?" She asked, clicking her pen and tilting her head.

"Just the classic burger for me, please." You interjected Adam before he could speak, and he scoffed, scowling at you, as he ordered his optimal pancake meal that was paired with two ribbons of bacon.

"You fucker!" He mimicked your insult from earlier, bolding his syllables and squinting at you in irritation. "Suit yourself. If I catch you as much as looking at my pancakes when they come, you're paying for this entire meal."

You wiggled your tongue at him to provoke him, and he raised his eyebrows pretentiously. "I'll make sure to keep my attention set somewhere worth watching then," you hissed playfully, propping your elbow up and peering out the window to prove a point.

Before you could comprehend his next motion, his fingertips molded into your jaw, as he softly forced you to face him. His irises were fogged with a void of sinister darkness, his jaw clenched. "Keep your eyes on me then, kid." He drawled leisurely, his voice gritty and husky, as he gingerly released your jaw.

A tingle slithered up your spine, and you internally cursed yourself when you shivered in response to his words and his demanding touch. Your reaction appalled you. Adam was your friend. And if it wasn't for the night you shared an array of drinks, you would be even less than friends. Just two morons that managed to unite and get banished from an AA meeting.

"Someone's oddly quiet." He glowered accusingly after a few moments of silence, and you blinked to recollect yourself. His gaze was predatory and raw with passion; contrasting with his small, candied smile.

***

The two of you shared a cluster of embarrassing stories as you patiently waited for your food to be served. After you disregarded your abrupt... arousel, after his prudent gesture, you succumbed to all of the peculiar conversation topics he would fabricate with that strangely operated mind of his.

"When was the last time someone made you cum?" He asked abruptly, his features consequential and a void of emotion, as he sipped on his Coke.

You choked on your Sprite, spitting the sizzling liquid into your cup, heaving and coughing wretchedly. "What?" You snorted in amusement, through another hiccup and cough, smearing the soda that drizzled down your chin.

"I said," he drawled the words sardonically, sealing his lips around his straw. "When. Was. The. Last. Time—"

The waitress staggered over to the table, slipping both of your plates in front of your bodies— that were looming over the table and gratifying towards one another like inquisitive magnets, both of you new to the mechanics of each other. Both of you just enthralled with the others existence.

"Someone. Made. You. Cuuum." He continued once she left, gulping down his Coke, as if the scorn of the carbonation failed to irk him.

You inhaled the sweet, alluring scent of his pancakes before you responded, sheepishly dropping your gaze to your cheeseburger. "Um..." You cocked your head in consideration, pondering on all of your exes; your recent ex always prioritized himself over you in hundreds of ways beyond and including sex.

You grimaced when you realized you could not decipher a single memory of being fulfilled in the sheets. "I don't know..." You admitted coyly, your cheeks flushed a shameful rouge.

Adam paused midchew, as he had already scarfed down half of his first pancake. His fork hovered near his mouth, his food poking at his inner cheek. "Are you fucking serious?" He breathed slowly, blinking at you as if he was offended and aghast by your response.

"Yeah... this is so embarrassing." You frowned, resting your palm on your forehead and sinking deeper into your seat, picking at your food— that was way less appetizing now, and less appealing compared to his pancakes.

"For your ex-boyfriends, yes the fuck it is." He growled, his eyebrows weaving together as he slammed his fork down. "You poor girl..." He snarled in disgust, before clearing his throat and slightly softening his features.

"Hey, look at me." He demanded gruffly, and you complied to his order, expecting him to play the jokester and pick on you for your lack of satisfaction in bed.

"You deserve a good fuck. Just, to be fucking pounded. You deserve it all." He gestured vigorously with his hands, his words hefty and sympathetic, despite the passion in his tone.

That would be lovely.

"I'm gonna have to agree with you on that," you mused, shrugging at yourself, and sneaking a bite of his pancake with your fork. "I haven't been fucked properly since college, and it was a one-night stand with a forty year old bartender."

You moaned at the taste of his pancake— he was not lying about them. They were plush, soft and warm. Delicious.

Your comment appeased him of his tense stature, and he snickered, before his eyes darted to his plate. He instantly glanced at you with accusing, narrowed eyes. "Did you touch my pancake?" He asked hesitantly, his eyebrow reluctantly raising.

"I touched it and ate it." You giggled.

He gritted his teeth, before stabbing his pancake with his fork. "I was going to ask if you thought it was better than an orgasm, but apparently you haven't even had one."

You disregarded his blatant statement, bringing your fork towards his pancake. He cocked a brow at you, chewing briskly, before swatting your fork away with his. He scooped up another bite, and you blushed when he brought it to your lips.

Without question, you softly scraped the bite off of the fork with your teeth, humming a 'thank you' and smiling at him with yours lips sealed. Another purr of bliss crawled up your throat as you swallowed the chunk of pancake.

"I can't believe it." He shook his head, continuing with his rampage about your transient sexual life. "I bet you look so fucking hot when you're cumming..."

You swallowed, your heart stammering in your chest, as your eyes locked. There was not a hint of playfulness in his hoarse tone, nor an ounce of regret or sheepishness etched into his features. Despite all of the bold, vulgar things he had said to you before, this was the only thing that left your jaw unhinged.

"Adam..." You whispered, your breaths labored in your chest as you bored your lascivious gaze through his.

"What is it, kiddo?" He feigned purity, as if his seductive, carnal words were innocent and virtuous. He took another bite of his pancake as if nothing had happened, when the puddle of arousel in your panties said otherwise.

"You tease!" You scoffed accusingly, shifting in your seat, nibbling on the french fries that came with your meal.

He only grinned.

That infuriating, sexy grin.

***

After you both divulged in your meals, you collectively decided to order a large milkshake to share. You opted for the classic, traditional chocolate, because apparently both of you were sweet toothed and chocolate-lovers.

When it arrived, the waitress placed it in the dead center of the table, flashing you a prudent look. Then when you observed the milkshake, you noticed they supplied your drink with two vibrant red bendy-straws that were intertwined to be shaped like a heart.

"What the fuck?" Adam chuckled, and you chimed in with a perplexed laugh, diving into the drink almost immediately.

You slurped down the creamy, sweet drink, and Adam leveled his face with yours as he mimicked your action. You wiggled your eyebrows at one another sardonically. There was a tension, thick and protruding, whenever your eyes connected. The tension was a taut cord, that embraced your heart and gave it a merciless tug.

When you glanced out the window, your eyebrows furrowed when you noticed that night has fallen, and the only light beyond the polished windows were the flickering street lights, and the vibrant neon-sign dangling from the Diner.

Tomorrow was your first real day at your new job. For the past two weeks, you've been working remote as you adjusted to the overwhelming livelihood of the city. It was clearly late, and you had an important day tomorrow. Typically, you were the opposite of uptight and precise about things— but this was different. It was a new beginning, a fresh start, and you needed to start off on the right foot, after everything that happened.

After everything that happened.

The tragedy. The heartbreak. The abuse.

"You okay, kid?" Adam asked abruptly, his voice low and concerned.

You blinked to recollect yourself, smiling solemnly. The last thing you needed to be pondering about was your past. The reminiscence always brought tactile flashbacks of the trauma back, and having an episode while cozying up with a fellow alcoholic in a worn-down Diner was not optimal. 

"I'm fine, yeah." You rambled softly, taking another sip of the chocolate milkshake. "I just have a big day tomorrow."

Another ripple surfaced in his brow, "Oh, shit. We should get you home then, yeah?"

You nodded. There was a knot of apprehension weaving together in your gut. You were just so enthralled and captivated by the conversations you had with Adam, you barely had any time to process that tomorrow was your first day in the office. And that on top of the memories of your past flooding back was eliciting the turmoil to bubble in your core.

"Let's finish this milkshake first." You cracked a sly smile, and he hesitated, before nodding and chugging it all down.

He hissed in pain, clasping his forehead, "Motherfucker, brain freeze!"

Adam paid for everything even though you protested. He insisted that it could be treated as a victory dinner, or a celebration, for being offered the opportunity to start anew.

He staggered up from his seat, grabbing your coat off of the backboard of your seat. He awkwardly shifted from foot to foot, holding your trench coat open for you. You slipped out of your seat with a coy smirk, swiveling around and slipping your arms through the sleeves, "Thanks." You murmured sheepishly, adjusting the collar, as he nodded and pursed his lips.

Sauntering out of the Diner, you noticed there was not a single customer lingering in the building. It must've been way later than you suspected.

The midnight breeze tainted your nose a glacial rouge, as you shivered and nestled deeper into your coat. Your fingers were trembling from the coldness filtering the air. When you were about to cross the street, Adam protectively splayed his hand on the small of your back, nudging you softly and guiding you through the traffic.

"It's freezing." Your teeth clattered with your statement. Adam gave you a thrawny bear hug from the side, wrapping his broad arm around your shoulder and lugging you to his hip. He playfully scuffled with your hair and you chuckled, as tendrils of your locks wisped into your face.

"Welcome to the shitty weather of New York, kiddo." He mused through a strained breath, using his free hand to rummage through his pocket, popping out his box of cigarettes.

He slipped his cigarette into his mouth, lighting it briskly. Smoke billowed through the air, swirling in ornate clouds around you both, as you trudged along the sidewalk in an oddly comforting silence. His build was so brawny that his strides were almost cumbersome, making you stumble a bit as you tried to keep up with the pace of his long legs, looping your arm around his back to stabilize yourself.

Once you reached the complex, he continued embracing you to his hip even as you sluggishly plowed up the staircase leading to the third floor, that both of you lived on.

Approaching your door, you stumbled to a halt and untucked your keys from your pocket. "Thanks for the food, Sackler. That was really fun." You admitted with a breathy, timid chuckle, and he smirked.

"No problem," he laughed. "Oh, also. About the bed frame." He started, and you gestured for him to enter your apartment so he could speak as you prepped yourself for bed. "I need to measure your bed, you know, to make sure it fits."

You nodded vigorously, "Oh, right! Go ahead. My rooms in there." You pointed to the threshold directly across from the front door. "I don't have any measuring tape, though."

He rolled his shoulders, "Alright, I'm gonna' grab some from my place real fast." He cocked a brow and you hummed in acknowledgement, shucking your coat off and draping it over your coatrack adjacent to the entrance of your apartment.

You ripped off your grimy clothes from the day, shimmying into an oversized T-shirt. You tossed your clothes in the laundry bin, before softly untwining the hair tie from your hair. You ruffled with your locks, flipping your head and threading your fingers through the tousled strands, just when Adam cleared his throat at you in the threshold.

"Oh," you jolted, placing your hand on your pounding heart, cracking a dreary smile. "I didn't hear the front door open."

His eyes blatantly raked in your body, lingering on your thighs, as you pressed them together and blinked at him bashfully. "You look nice," he complimented gruffly, his voice low and salacious. "Hopefully your wearing a pair of those cute little panties under that shirt."

A lewd smile toyed with your lips, as you fumbled with the hem of your flowy T-shirt, feeling confident under his allured stare. You rolled it up, until the lace embroidery of your scandalous panties was visible. You bit your bottom lip seductively, and he smirked diabolically, taking calculated steps towards you.

"Mm." He hummed navally, his eyes capturing yours, as his lip quirked up and his fingertips ghosted the strap of your nimble pair of risqué panties. "I guess I'm the lucky guy then, hm?"

His voice was grainy with lust, coarse and methodical, as if the sheer sight of your panties had awoken an obscene, predatory animal inside the caverns of his chest.

You meant to laugh, only the depiction of amusement caught in your throat when he folded at the waist and smashed his lips into yours. His hand grasped your elbow, as you moaned in astonishment into the deep, rhythmic kiss, nearly toppling over from the force of his lips eloping with yours.

He snagged your bottom lip with his sharp canines and you shuddered, passionately cupping his cheeks, stumbling backwards as he guides you towards the bed, your lips smacking and tongues intertwined.

Your back slammed into the bed, and he grunted as he collided on top of you. Wordlessly, both of you were doused in the intoxication of infatuation, devouring each other's lips feverishly. You urgently aided him in pealing his coat off, as it slouched to the floor with a hefty plop.

One of his hands was propped up next to your head, as the other traversed down your waist, his calloused finger slipping into the hem of your panties. You gasped when his fingertip brushed your cunt, that was wet with inclination from the words he poured over you like molten molasses at the Diner just moments before.

He snickered into your lips, breaking free from the kiss breathlessly. "Somebodies wet." He accounted prudently, growling the words into your lips, teasing your entrance. "Was it me, or was it the pancakes?" He teased, smirking into the kiss, as you raked in a heap of air through your nostrils and pushed your pelvis into his hand.

"Probably the pancakes." You mused breathily, deepening the kiss, bracing the muscles in his back with your hands as you explored the flexing tendons through the thin material of his shirt.

In the moment, not an ounce of shame bombarded your senses; although you knew the regret would greet you once the moment was over, and you were forced to contemplate your mistakes.

You pealed apart for a few nimble seconds, as you both ripped your shirts off and tossed them carelessly to the floor, diving into each other's mouths again.

"Mmm," he hummed in amusement, his aqualine nose stroking your cheek, as he angled his head to allow his tongue better access to your mouth. "Turn around, on your knees."

You obliged, your lips untangling with a sticky plop, as you tumbled over and got on all fours. You arched your back, wiggling your hips— only to yelp when his hand collided with your backside.

You were shocked, in the most enticed ways imaginable. All of your exes were vanilla, despite your sexual curiosity and craving for more.

"D'you like that?" He grumbled seductively, kneading the red welt surfacing on your skin. When you nodded, he mimicked his action from before, applying infeasibly more force with the second and third spanks.

Although you were as sober as ever, you could only feel drunk and puppeteered, intoxicated by the plump warmth of his lips. The lips that you watched curl, and sway, whenever he spoke with passion or mundaneness, and always found yourself lulling over. At the AA meeting, his apartment, the Diner. Everytime those lips moved they found a way to captivate you.

"Fuck, kid." He sighed gutturally, as he looped his index fingers around the strings of your minimal-coverage panties. "I knew you would be an eager little slut."

You cheeks flushed a sheepish crimson, red and ablaze with desire— it was at that moment you remembered the mirror mounted above your mattress, and you glanced up at the mirror, only for your gazes to lock in the reflective surface.

He smirked at you, cocking a brow as if to negotiate reassurance, wordlessly asking for your consent. You nodded.

He yanked your panties down to your knees, jerking your calves up so he could slip them off of you. His eyes never abandoned yours as he clenched his jaw and tucked them into his back pocket. "There mine now. Okay?"

"Yes." You rasped without reluctance. "I have dozens of pairs anyways, remember?"

He smirked at your response, rewarding you with a playful tap on the ass, kneading the crimson prints embedded into your skin. "That's right..." He murmured in gratification, his eyes narrowing, that ravenous darkness clouding the hazel of his irises.

"Are we going to fuck this up?" You asked haphazardly, cocking a brow at him in the mirror, as his mustache raised when he pursed his lips. "Our friendship, or whatever this is?"

He unclasped his belt leisurely, the tip of his tongue poking out, as he zoned in on you. "Come on, kid..." He coaxed, unzipping his dark jeans. "We're just neighbors, the only thing that's getting fucked is you."

At that, his length sprung free from his boxers, and you stifled a gasp when you felt the tip tease your entrance. His hands explored your hips, firmly grasping your love-handles. Without a word of warning, he eased into you cautiously, and you bleated as he stretched and expanded your walls, filling you up.

"Oh my god—" You moaned through a strained breath, the sheets crumpling beneath your fingers, as you dig your nails into the mattress. Adam chimed in with a grumbly, "Fuckkk."

Your sex life had been... volatile. Diminutive. Non-existent, as of recently. It's been months since you've had sex. With the big move and everything that happened between you and your ex, there was no time nor place for it.

He thrusted into you aggressively, one hand abandoning your hip to entangle with your hair. He rocked his pelvis at a steady pace, coasting in and out of you, grunting as he rams his throbbing shaft deep within your core.

"Do you like my cock?" He rasped, giving your hair an exuberant tug, craning your neck to meet his gaze in the mirror. Your body was rocking with his vigorous thrusts, his large, veiny hand fisting a chunk of your hair, his raven locks flapping around his face.

"Yes, fuck, yes." You bleated out, your breathy tone laced with greedy tantalization and pleasure, as you snapped your hips back to meet his thrusts.

Sweat was already brimming your hairline, as the heater blasted torrid air, and the brisk, harsh movements of your body extorted you, as he plowed his dick inside of you, plucking your cervix.

"You're a needy little whore for my cock, hm?" He groaned through gritted teeth, his eyes fixated on your ass, as his hips slapped into the jiggling flesh, the fap echoing around your room.

Your core tingled at his words, your moans morphing into a series of slurred whines, as your eyes fluttered shut and your breath hiccuped when he increased his pace and jerked your hair back harder.

"I'm a whore for your cock!" You shouted wantonly, your thighs tensing, as he drilled your sweet spot and pounded into your gut. He hissed in pleasure when you clenched around him, his hand leaving your hip and looping around your waist, slipping down to your mound.

He loomed over your writhing figure, his chest flush with your back, as his fingers pried your folds apart and rubbed your clit in precise, agile circles. You let out a shaky moan, your head cocking back and resting on his shoulder.

His lips nibbled on your earlobe, "You're going to cum for me." He demanded huskily, his voice gravely with yearning, as you nodded swiftly and tried to stifle another moan. "And you're going to fucking scream." He barked when he noticed you harboring your whines, kneading your clit faster.

Your legs trembled profusely, your moans emitted from your lungs in a string of babbling whimpers, and tears brimmed your eyelids, as he pounded into you mercilessly and strategically massaged your clit with his rough fingers.

"Adam! Sh-fuck!" You croaked, gasping, your body being rammed deeper into the mattress, your walls embracing his cock as it throbbed inside of you.

He averted himself to his original position in a wobbly movement, panting and wrenching your head backwards as you neared your peak. "Cum, you filthy little girl." He snarled, and you released a guttural moan as you finished on command, convulsing and squeaking as he continued to abolish your insides.

His hand returned to your hip, as your wetness seeped down your thighs, and he groaned through barred teeth, teetering towards his own edge. You were too buzzed by your climax to even acknowledge the fact that he just fucked you raw, without even considering a condom.

He slipped out of you, grasping you by your waist and rolling you over, splaying you on your back as he panted. "Where do you want me to cum?" He asked gruffly, his toned, glistening chest heaving. "Face. Tits?"

Instead of responding, you shot your tongue out and wiggled your eyebrows at him candidly. He let out a breathy huff of amusement, fisting his swollen cock, pumping it swiftly with little grunts. Only a few seconds later, hot, white jets of cum blasted into your face, drizzling down your forehead and cheeks, coating your tongue.

Both of you collapsed into the wrinkled sheets, his cum leaking down your face and staining the blankets. His back was lapping to the mattress, as he heaved and stared at your ceiling. There was a moment of discomforting, apprehending silence, before he broke it with a brawdy joke.

"So, what was better? The sex or the pancakes?" He hiccuped on his breath, clenching his jaw and tilting his head to look at you. He avoided your gaze every time your eyes locked.

You let out a breathy chuckle, "The pancakes." You teased with another giggle, your eyelashes flittering as he reached out and wiped a ribbon of cum off of your face.

"I told you they were fucking good."

Both of you snickered at that, tilting your heads to face each other. His warm breaths wafted into your face, his cheeks flushed an exhausted pink. "I should probably go." He whispered softly, his eyes darting around your face.

You smeared the cum off of your face with your forearm, sighing solemnly. "Probably." You responded bleakly, ascending into a sitting position, wrapping the sloppy sheet around you. You scratched the back of your head, your hair nappy and sweaty, as you sulked in shame.

You needed a drink.

You sighed, glancing at him from over your shoulder, as he stared at you cautiously, propping himself up with his forearm.

"How about a beer instead?"

Chapter Text

The exuberant beep of your alarm roused you from your slumber. A warm, still hand was draped over your bare waist. A migraine was piercing your skull. You writhed, your eyebrows knitting together when you shifted and felt the cold surface of the mahogany wood floor beneath you.

The body next to you stirred, the calloused hand twitching around your waist before it recoiled and you heard a hoarse grumble. Your eyes shot open, wide and glossy, as you swiveled around with a tiny gasp.

There Adam laid; his sweaty back plastered to the hardwood floor. Both of you naked and doused in sticky layers of sweat. He was half asleep, murmuring grizzly curses, his dark eyelashes fluttering.

You staggered up into a sitting position, wrapping the sheet that had also collapsed onto the floor around your bare frame. You had no recollection of the events that took place last night, other than eating at the Diner and inviting him back to your apartment...

Another gasp elicited from your mouth, your palm clapping over your gaping lips, when you remembered that today was your first real day at the new office. Your head was twinging, your thoughts reeling— you were hungover, that was as blatant as ever. The empty glass bottle of Vodka tumbling around on the floor made that clear.

"Fuck!" You hissed, wobbily springing to your feet, scrambling over Adams squirming body, as he sighed and embraced your comforter tighter to his sappy body, his face nuzzled into the fabric. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

You slipped into the bathroom that was conveniently connected to your bedroom, leaving the door cracked open just by a fragment. You briskly fiddled with the knobs of the shower, assuring yourself that the water was scorching hot, so it could wash away the sweat and remnants of your lechery.

The piping hot water cascaded down your body, as you lathered up soap in your palms and vigorously scrubbed your hair. Droplets pattered into the porcelain tub, suds drizzling down your face. The water was hot enough to sear holes through your flesh, steam billowing through the air, as you skimmed through last nights events, trying to fabricate everything that had happened.

Although your memory was hazy and fragmentary, you could recollect Adams bawdy remarks and the suggestive glint in his eyes throughout the night. You could remember a flattering comment he made about the panties you adorned, but everything after that was just a hazardous blur.

One other thing was clear— the two of you fucked. Both of you harbored sweat matted skin, nappy hair, and weak limbs. And although you couldn't reconcile the way everything played out, you did know that the dick was bomb, because your back felt scorched and blown out, and your core was aching and hollow. There were purple, yellow tainted blemishes on your hips to pair with the pain that twinged between your legs.

After rinsing the suds away and thoroughly massaging the soap into your body, you wrung out your drenched hair and hopped out of the tub. You idly patted your skin dry and slipped into your silky baby blue robe.

You nearly toppled over your own feet as you scurried out of the bathroom. When you entered your room, the ginormous, heaving body that was once sprawled out on the floor was now gone. The sheets and comforter were now sloppily bunched up on your mattress, and the refreshing scent of coffee grounds wafted into your face.

You raked your fingers through your wet hair, droplets splattering on the floor beneath you. You glimpsed the digital clock on your nightstand, grimacing when the time read 7:06 in bleak red colors. You shuffled through your bedroom door, briskly shoving it open, only to freeze when you saw Adam standing in the corner of the room.

He swayed back and forth, rooted to the floor directly in front of the canvas that you had just flourished the day before. There were two fresh mugs of steaming coffee in his large hands. His droopy, fatigued eyes darted to you as he gently blew into both mugs.

"Morning." He mumbled, his voice grainy and low, his adam's apple bobbing as he continued blowing into the coffee, trotting towards you.

"Good morning..." You chuckled nervously with a subtle grin, as he awkwardly slipped the coffee into your grasp. "You hungry? I think I have enough time to make something real quick."

Adam smirked at your hospitable gesture, softly shaking his head. "No, no, It's okay." He started through a strained yawn, "I can make you something, if you want. Go ahead and get ready." He smiles drearily into the rim of his mug.

"Are you sure?" You asked candidly, nibbling on your bottom lip.

He nodded, humming in approval into his mug as he chugged the hot liquid down. When you peered down at your mug with a smile lingering on your face, you noticed it wasn't yours. All of your mugs were colorful and miscellaneous, the one in your grasp was white and mosaic. And then you remembered, you don't even have your coffee machine hooked up yet. He must've went to his apartment.

Your smile subconsciously deepened, as you coyly shifted from foot to foot, watching as Adam welcomed himself into your kitchen. "There's pancake mix, cereal, and eggs." You pointed to the array of cabinets, and he nodded, rummaging through your fridge as you stifled a chuckle. "Make whatever you want." You suggested, "I'll be quick."

You shyly tucked a strand of damp hair behind your ear and scampered back to your bedroom when he flashed you an acknowledging smile. Even though you intended to plan out your outfit, your plan was clearly disrupted due to your unexpected guest, so now you were ransacking your closet, frantically searching for a formal fitting outfit.

You opted for a neatly pressed blazer and skirt duo, a black skintight sweater tucked into the tweed skirt. You smoothed it out attentively, adjusting the collar, perfecting your sensual but professional look with a pair of knee-high boots. You tamed your hair with your brush, blow-drying it briskly. You teased it with a comb afterwards, peppering your face in a natural abundance of makeup. The optimal eyeliner, mascara, and nude lipstick look sufficed.

You loathed garbing yourself in formal wear, but with your new occupation it was mandatory, and it was worth the uncomfortable clothing if you got to convey the profession you love. After downing the coffee he had conjured for you, the migraine started to disintegrate and you began to feel less fatigued and discombobulated.

When you peeled the door back open, you poked your head out before emerging from it. Adam was flipping a pancake, concentrating on his impressively decent cooking skills. There was a stack of pancakes already lapping to a plate next to the stove.

"Hey." You breathed as you sauntered into the kitchen, the clack of your heals captivating his attention, as he glanced at you from head to toe, before murmuring an entranced greeting back.

"Those look really good." You cracked a smile, standing on your tiptoes to peer over his broad arm as he flipped the pancake again, smirking in accomplishment. You flailed your hands in a useless attempt to reach the cabinet that was designated for all of your prescriptions and vitamins. He noted your struggle, one handedly flipping the pancake around as he flawlessly jerked the cabinet open with an arrogant smile.

"Nice try, shortie." He hummed in amusement, and you poked your tongue out at him teasingly, grabbing a bottle of pain relievers.

His teasing and quipping made the situation at hand less awkward. The two of you fucked, and in this moment, the tension had evaporated and things felt subtly platonic. Of course, your feelings lingered, but not enough to distract you from today's endeavors completely.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" You asked, clearing your throat to conceal the croakiness embedded into your curious tone.

You filled a glass half-full with tap water, downing the pain reliever and a handful of other pills you had been prescribed to heal your warped mind. Not that their effect was notorious or anything. He nodded slowly, glancing at you from over his shoulder with a befuddled expression.

"Yeah," he drawled heedfully, nodding to himself. "I remember all of it."

You suppressed a frown, dumping two pills into your palm and nudging them towards him. He scooped them up, and you held the rim of the glass to his sleep-swollen lips. He took a few gulps, cocking his head back as he swallowed the pain relievers.

"How about you?" He asked through a gruff breath, flattening the pancake on the pile and turning the stove off.

"Um." You blanked out, timidly staring at the tips of your boots. "Not much."

"Makes sense, you drank most of the Vodka." He jeered with a half shrug, a lopsided smile tugging at his plump lips. He tore a piece of the plain pancake off, popping the soft chunk into his mouth. He shuffled past you, his hand ghosting your hip as he chewed swiftly, "You look nice by the way."

You chuckled, stacking a pancake on your plate and dousing it in maple syrup. "Thanks."

When you swiveled around to face him, he was swiftly collecting his coat off of the rack and slinging it over his arm, his keys jangling in his grip, as he breathlessly collected his things.

"Whatcha doin...?" You asked, eyebrows furrowing, as you took a reluctant bite of the pancake he made. It was delicious, of course.

"I have to go." He admitted, trotting over to you briskly with a stoic expression. He awkwardly hesitated, before gripping your shoulder and pressing a firm kiss to your cheek. "Good luck today. I know we don't know each other that well, but I'm proud of you."

Your smile wavered, as he basically sprinted to the door. "Aren't you gonna eat?" You cocked a brow, devouring your food, scarfing it down in order to arrive to the subway on time.

He shook his head, "No, I just made that for you. But seriously, I gotta go. Feel free to give me a call or whatever." He scrambled out of your apartment without another word, slamming the door shut behind him.

You noticed he had left his phone on the counter, and you dashed to scoop it up, bursting through your door and waving it around. "You forgot your-"

You paused, when you saw him letting another woman into his apartment. She had her tousled brown hair wrapped up in a sloppy bun. She plowed through the door when he unlocked it for her, "Hannah!" He hollered after her, and you hovered silently, clutching his phone with your eyebrows furrowed.

She was shouting obnoxious hisses and complaints, pacing his apartment, as he swayed in the doorway and glowered at her in bewilderment. "Um, Adam?" You called softly, and he tensed before swiveling to face you.

"You, uh... you forgot your phone." You stated bashfully, your tone hesitant, as you yanked your purse off of the counter and slammed your door shut, locking it. "Sorry for interrupting."

You stormed past him, shoving his phone into his grasp, as Hannah stumbled out of the room with her arms crossed. "Seriously Adam?" She sneered, her eyes darting to you as you apprehensively shuffled towards the stairwell. "We have one fight, and you fuck someone else? Are you kidding me?"

Their shouts reverberated around the narrow, tawny halls. You adjusted the straps of your purse, harboring your breath in your lungs as you shimmied into the rusty elevator. The chime as the doors whirred shut drowned out Adam as he yelped out your name in protest.

***

The office was bustling. The air within the walls of the building reeked of something stale and bleak, the scent of freshly-printed paper lingering in the moderately warm space. Rows and rows of sprawled, diverse desks peppered the floor you were assigned. The atmosphere was mildly pacifying, calm and less-sophisticated than you had originally assumed.

It was welcoming. Calm. A cure to your nerves that had been twiddling ever since the apprehending and abrupt occurrence with Adam's presumable girlfriend earlier in the morning.

A hospitable secretary that was clad in a plain but formal pantsuit guided you down the foyer, as pairs of curious eyes trailed your every movement. You flashed them all a subtle, coy grin, your eyes flickering around to glimpse everyone's intrigued gaze.

The clack of your heels ricocheted off of the merely obtuse walls, that were a dull, charcoal gray, brimmed with a ribbon of cool-toned mosaic tile. The color scheme was drab, and all of the furnishings were luxurious. Expensive. It fostered a momentous aroma, that was contradicting to the way you lived.

You preferred the artistry of things. Thrifting and refurbishing disfigured pieces of artwork, crafting and assembling things on your own accord, filling your life promptly with color and creativity. When things were coruscating, like the way you molded it all out to be, it was easier to coax the depression away.

These tedious surroundings would do the opposite of alleviate your problems. The problems that were embedded into your mind for years— and the problems that Adam conjured by simply inviting you into the circle of toxicity that bordered him and his girlfriends relationship.

You just made the assumption that he was a single man. It was a simple assumption to make, when he was an arrogant flirt, with a cumbersome, awkward build. All of that appealed to you, and apparently, it appealed to a copious amount of others. Not only did he receive sultry lip bites and bedroom eyes from strangers when you waltzed through public together, but he had a whole girlfriend that was devoted to his peculiarity.

"The bosses office is just at the end here." The secretary informed, tossing you a feigned smile from over her shoulder.

You nodded curtly. In the frosty, tainted windows of the office ahead, you could perceive two male silhouettes conversing beyond the murky glass promptly. The door swings open, and a not-so-forgiving look was plastered upon the glowering mans face as he stomped out of the office with a demeanor to kill.

Both you and the secretary staggered into the wall to separate yourselves from the snarling man that growled obscenities to himself and prowled through the hallway.

The secretary smoothed out her skirt and cleared her throat, "Sorry about that. We have some... antagonistic folks around here." She shoots from over her shoulder, her befuddled tone blanketed with a sense of calmness.

"That's fine." You chuckled nervously, "New York is full of 'em."

The boss emerged from the threshold, adjusting the collar of his blazer. "Good morning." He greeted idly with a wry smirk splaying on his lips. "Go ahead and take a seat for me."

He nodded a brief salutation to the secretary and she scampered off without another word.

"Good morning." You uttered back, as you obliged his orders and lowered yourself into the seat across from his desk. You subtly took in your surroundings, noting the mundaneness of it with an internal grimace.

That enigmatic smirk continued to ghost his lips as he sat down curtly. "Indeed it is." He jeered, earning him a soft snort from you. A dimple surfaced in his cheek when his smile deepened at your little quirk.

"I'm extremely pleased with the work you've indulged me with these past few weeks." He remarked, his black and gray peppered eyebrows raising with his compliment. "You've already proved to be one of my most prized employees. I'm ecstatic to see the work you can conjure for me while in office."

A crimson, sheepish blush tainted your cheeks. You smiled timidly. It's been years since you received praise for your work, or anything at all, and you could use the ego-boost that resonated from the professional flattery.

"Thank you, sir." You mused, the eagerness nearly blatant in your tone. "I hope I can continue wowing you with my work."

His dimple resurfaced. "I have no doubt that you will." He flashed you a wink, a glint sparkling in his brown eyes. "You're talented, and I'm grateful for your compliance."

Your cheeks were burning now, scorching with a flame of captivation. His features were prominent and sharp. Merely aged, although his disposition proved he was older and refined. There were only a few wrinkles that burrowed through his relaxed face. He was scrutinizing you with his stare, his smirk lingering, his fingers interlocked and tapping together.

The flattery was increasing the pace of your pulse. "Thank you, so much. I'm honored to work here, I've actually dreamt about this very moment for a long time."

He perked up, his eyebrows furrowing in curiosity, his elbows propping up on the surface of his desk. "Well, what kept you from living it out? We would've been glad to have you all this time."

The saliva thickened in your throat, ripe like molasses, as you swallowed down your trepidation. Opening up about your dark and corroded past to your new boss wouldn't be optimal. You briskly scanned through the events that shaped you into the shell of a ticking time-bomb that you were today, narrowing down the long, pitiful list.

"I had a... person in my life that controlled every aspect of it. And apparently seeking out my dreams was one of the many things he didn't want for me."

The boss frowned with an agile nod in understanding. He could translate the silver lining of your words. Your relationship was abusive, detrimental, in forms of mental and physical catastrophe.

"I'm sorry to hear that." He consoled with a remorseful smile. "I'm just glad you're here now. New York is the perfect place to live out your dreams."

Thankful that he changed the subject when he did, you nodded, steadying your wavering smile. "I'm glad, too." You then formally introduced yourself with your name, giving him a firm handshake, as you both snickered at the gesture, as he was already aware of your whole persona.

"Victor Seymour." He introduced himself, and you swore you were coaxed by the spell of his hoarse voice, because his words were dousing you in inclination. Did having sex again for the first time in months awaken this carnal, sensual beast inside of you?

"It's Victor, to you though, my dear." His tone was low and tantalizing, as he brought your hand to his lips. They were soft, as they ghosted a kiss to your knuckle, and retracted with a prudent grin when your breath hitched.

"Anyways, I just wanted to officially welcome you to the office." He shot through a breathy chuckle, ascending from his chair, striding to the door. He peeled it open leisurely. "Cecilia will show you to your desk."

You calmly mimicked his action and peeled out of your seat, smoothing down your skirt that had rode up your thighs. He glimpsed the face of his watch, before he continued to speak with his accolading tone.

"I'll collect you from your desk during your lunch break, just to give you a quick tour around the office."

***

You lugged your own body up the echoey staircase leading to your apartment on level three. It was a long day. Your limbs were yearning to retire from the events that had occurred last night, that never got to properly recover due to the rush you were in this morning.

When you trudged down the hall, passing Adam's apartment, you heard shouting and thudding emitting from the door. His words were muffled and malicious. Your eyebrows knitted together. You stifled the urge to intervene with the fight, forcing yourself to disregard the hollering, as it wasn't your business to tamper with.

Once you entered your apartment, you wiped down the mess Adam had made with the pancake mix earlier in the morning, cleaning up all the supplies he had abandoned on your counter. Secondly, you shucked off all of your clothing that embraced you like restraints, wadding it all up into balls and tossing them into your laundry basket.

Thirdly, you plopped down on your mattress with an appeased sigh. Your panties were soaked, and you loathed the idea of being aroused by the mere praise and intoxicating aroma of your own boss. It was embarrassing, but your fingers moved on their own accord, skimming down your body and teasing your slit through your panties.

You chewed your lip to suppress a mewl, prodding your entrance, as the wetness seeps through your panties and dampens your fingers. The walls were thin enough for you to hear Adam's shrills, and his girlfriends sneers. You drowned it all out with vulgar, lewd thoughts of your new boss.

Your fingers slipped past the hem of your panties, your fingertips rubbing deliberate, precise circles into your clit, as your thighs tensed at the impact of your own touch. You purred, your eyes fluttering shut, your chin craning towards the ceiling, as you caressed your wet folds and kneaded your clit faster with the thought of your bosses hands.

The way they would feel gripping your hips. Groping your ass. Prying your breasts, massaging your nipples. Teasing your core. Caressing your skin. The way his lips would feel on your delicate areas. The way his tongue would feel lapping up your wetness, inhaling your juices, the way his dimples would transform his cheeks when he smirked in response to your eagerness for him.

"Victor..." You choked out, your breaths emitting from your parted lips in ragged spurts, as you subconsciously increased the pace of your cramping fingers, completely enthralled by your own fantasies.

Tingles stimulated in your lower stomach as your peak ascended the ladder of euphoria. "Vic—" You rasped, slashing your whimper short with a strained moan, as you imagined the naughty, degrading titles he would reward you with. "Oh, god."

That sensible part of you that lingered in the depths of your mind as you toppled towards the edge was cringing in regards to your desperate, pathetic moans, for a man that was at least thirty years older and one of your authoritative figures.

"Hm." A grainy voice murmured in the threshold of your bedroom, and you jolted, your fingers snapping out of your panties and the rhythm that was articulating your pleasure being lost.

You moaned in frustration, tears brimming your eyelids, your cheeks flushed with your appending orgasm. Adam applies all of his weight to your doorframe, his broad arms crossed defiantly. His honey-speckled eyes were roaming your figure, consuming in the meek sight of you, as you cowered and heaved under his stare.

"Victor?" He stated gruffly, his stoic demeanor rendering your thoughts with apprehension. "Sounds like an old man."

You narrowed your eyes at him, your body buzzing and shuddering with denial, as you sheepishly wrapped your wrinkled sheet around your frame to protect yourself from his view.

"Do you always just walk into peoples apartments?" You snapped, glaring at him.

His eyebrows crinkled, as if your snark caught him off guard. "Do you always moan Victor when you play with yourself?" He shot back, an amused smirk toying with his lips, as you sighed, and succumbed to the smile tugging at your own.

"What do you want, Sackler?" You asked softly, feeling the buzz in your core deteriorate, and refurbish with discomfort. "The last I heard, you were pretty busy."

You gestured to the wall that barricaded his apartment from yours, emphasizing your words, embracing the sheet to your clammy frame as you waddled off of the bed and in his direction.

He shifted on his feet, eyeing you up and down, with that same enthralled wicker of lust flashing in his hazel eyes. "I came back for my mugs..." He trailed off as you trotted past him, watching the way the sheet hugged your ass, accentuating the bubbly flesh.

You scoffed. On the inside, you were infuriated that he interjected your orgasm with his unwelcomed presence. On the outside, you failed to maintain a bitter facade. It was easy to smile around him when every word he spewed was ludicrous.

"And you couldn't knock?" You hissed, glowering at him from over your shoulder as he practically nipped at your heels with his big feet, and that big, dumbfounded grin on his lips.

"The door was open." He shrugged haphazardly, "Besides, I tried knocking. You were just too preoccupied."

You sighed, internally scolding yourself for neglecting the cheap lock latched onto your door. You dumped the remnants of cold, stale coffee that loitered in his plain mugs down the drain of your sink.

He towered over you by your side, looming, observing your every intent as you rinsed the mugs out and glanced up at him grimly. He propped his large hand on the counter, leaning into it idly, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

"So, this Victor guy..." He quipped, and you groaned dramatically, scrubbing the mugs dry with a rag as he snickered.

When you never responded, concentrating on the mugs as you swiped the beads of water off of the mosaic, he gripped your wrists in a subtle demand to stop.

You gulped, staring at his chest through his tunic, your eyes raking up his pecks, to his neck, before reluctantly meeting his grave eyes. Not a smile touched his lips, nor a ripple surfaced in his brow. It was all blank.

"Who is he?" He nearly commanded, his voice had dropped a few octaves, a wither of course envy etched into his possessive tone.

You only blinked at him, praying that the trepidation wouldn't ruin your candor. You twisted your wrist to place the mugs down, and his grip tightened, causing you to seethe and break free when he released you altogether.

You slammed them down, and his big hand explored his stubbled jaw as he stroked it arduously, peering down at you earnestly. Anticipating a response.

"Who is she?" You retorted, pointing in the direction of his apartment for the second time. "If anybody owes anyone any sort of explanation here, it's you."

He gritted his teeth, chewing on his inner cheek, his eyes casting to the side with inculpation. "Ex-girlfriend." He answered bleakly, cocking a brow at you.

"That's the ex?" You asked in disbelief, and he nodded softly, clearing his throat. "What did she mean when she basically accused you of using me as a rebound, then?"

He answered after a moment of pondering. "Well." He drawled breathily, laughing at himself, as you only glared. "She's not my ex, yet. We're in a rocky spot, so I just assume the end is coming."

That was the breaking point for you. He assumed that the end was coming. He never even bothered to indulge you with the information that he was in a toxic relationship before he got into your pants. He swooned you with his flattery, blinding you with his deceitful games.

"That's just fucking perfect, thank you, Adam!" You sneered accusingly, scooping up the mugs and shoving them into his grasp. "I feel terrible. What the hell is wrong with you?"

You slammed your hand into his toned chest with a scoff, and he only stared at you, brawny and unmoved.

"There's nothing to feel bad about." He insisted, shrugging drably and pursing his plump lips. "Hannah's a fucking skank."

That caused you to pinch the bridge of your nose and shake your head in disappointment. He was the epitome of an arrogant child.

"Watch it, Sackler." You breathed with a candied, sarcastic grin. "That's your girlfriend you're insulting."

That ticked him off.

"For gods sake!"

In a matter of seconds, shards of glass peppered the floors, flakes of mosaic speckling the once clean hardwood. Both mugs were now just eroded pieces of porcelain.

You screamed at the impact, flinching when the glass crashed into the wood, as flashbacks of your past flickered like a kaleidoscope of tormenting memories inside your mind. Your hands spring up to cradle the sides of your head, as you staggered away from him.

"Shit." He murmured in defeat, aggressively threading his fingers through his hair, calming himself with an abundance of deep breaths.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, your heart stammered in your chest, as the fights, and the destruction, and the trauma, all flourished your brain. With trembling fingers, and quivering lips, you leisurely dropped to your knees, sniffling and taking the time to pluck up different pieces of glass.

Adams knees cracked as he hesitantly mimicked you, crouching down to be level. "I didn't mean to scare you..." He extended his arm, his fingers brushing your cheek.

You recoiled at his touch, wincing, as your skin throbbed with overstimulation due to the anxiety kindling and spiking all throughout your body.

Tear droplets plummeted into the ground, as you both sweep up the shards in an apprehending silence. When you swiped up the last chiseled piece, it slashed through your palm and you gasped gutturally.

Blood pattered into the puddles of tears, as you applied your thumb to the graze in your skin, seaming the wound together.

"Shit, fuck." Adam babbled, stumbling to his feet and pacing the floors for supplies to aid you. He ripped a bushel of paper towels off of your rack, sinking back down to his knees in front of you.

He ladled your wounded hand, engulfing your palm with the paper towel, acting as if it were gauze. You whimpered in distress, feeling his calloused thumbs dig into it to add pressure.

"Jesus christ." He growled monotonously to himself, staring up at the ceiling, clenching his jaw and sighing. His raven locks wisped into his face as he angled it back to you. "You okay? Let me see."

He unswathed your hand from his makeshift version of gauze, eyeing the slash in your palm acutely. It was already healing, it was just a minor cut after all. The intensity of your blood pressure was the reasoning to your reaction, a normal occurrence for whenever your PTSD returned.

"I-I'm fine." You nodded agilely, your breaths shaky, as he frowned at the sight of your weak disposition. "Just a b-bit on edge."

He reapplied the crimson paper towel, softly lugging you off of the floor. He ripped the towel off completely once you reached the sink, cleansing the wound for you with temperately warm water.

"Look, I know you're angry at me and all. But I really don't... I really don't think you should be alone like this." The concern in his tone was palpable, as you nodded, as it was the only response you could muster with the dryness surfacing on your tongue. "I clearly triggered something, and I feel like... such an asshole."

He flashed you a doe look as he continued rinsing the blood off of your hand and wrist. "I'm not going back over there until I'm sure you're okay. Is that alright?" He asked, and you permitted him with another dreary nod.

After he rummaged through your medicine cabinet and supplied you with a real bandage for the scratch, he secured it on the gash, and lead you to your bedroom. Of course, he was awkward with every ounce of help he granted you, and you enjoyed his quirks even through your solemn state.

You swayed in the doorway, resting your temple on the doorframe, blinking slowly as Adam quickly fixed up the bed for you— that was still disastrous after last nights uncharitable moments that took place upon your sheets.

He folded the comforter back, waving you over. You slipped under the blankets without hesitation, nuzzling your face into your pillow, your eyes screwing shut as he tucked you in. He brought the tip of the blanket all the way up to your shoulders, smoothing it out, observing your desolated state for a moment.

"I'm going to lock your door for you. I'll hide the key under your rug, okay?"

You nodded, grumbling drowsily, purring into your fluffed pillow, curling into a ball.

The guilt was eating Adam up alive, from the innards of his bones that were hallowed out of empathy, to the thud of his morally-cruel heart. The last thing he wanted was for you to see him as the unredeemable screw-up that he was, and it was worse that it occurred this early on. He preferred it when his dark side emerged after the girl he was winning had already fallen in love with him.

Adam found himself checking all the windows in your apartment, giving them a good pry and pound, fiddling with the latches, just to reassure himself they were locked. He paraded around your place quaintly, flicking every light off, unplugging your hairdryer. He flipped the switch of your kitchen nightlight on, doing one last survey of the place.

He removed your apartment key from your whole set of keys. Once he softly latched the door shut behind him, he locked it, giving the doorknob a few attentive jiggles just to check. Then, he slipped the key under your doormat, mentally noting to message you where he had hidden it in the morning. He knew you had heard nothing that he suggested just moments before.

Chapter Text

Coruscating colors flashed vibrantly in the grand foyer of the nightclub. The luxurious nightclub. All occupants of the space were clad in formal suits and lavish dresses. Opulent pillars buttressed and propped up the elevated ceilings, that gleamed with an array of colors. The reds and blues were nearly blinding, as one of your coworkers guides you through the compact crowd.

"I'm heading to the bar first. You?" Your friendly coworker, Diana, asked.

She was leading you through the cluster of audacious dancers. The music thumped and rattled the carcass of the whole club, a grimace lingering on your face. You were a recluse by nature, the type of girl that preferred to lounge at home and curl up for a good read. All of the memories of your party days that you could recollect were catastrophic and traumatizing: your ex-boyfriend was the reasoning for your odd tying together of partying and tragedy.

"Same." You chirped with false giddiness.

You would need at least a couple of courage shots before you could converse with your peers, or dance your apprehensions away on the colorfully-illuminated dance floor.

You united with three of your other coworkers. There names were just a bleak blur in your mind. They've introduced themselves before, but you were horrible at reconciling names. Diana shimmied herself between two of them, one of them— her girlfriend, that you had already forgotten the name of, and then another man, whom was eyeing you lustfully.

You hopped up on the barstool next to him, bashfully letting your eyes rake over the crowd.

"Whatcha drinkin'?" He asked, his lewd gaze lingering on your breasts, that spilled from the top of your scandalous black, velvet dress.

You brought your only piece of designer out for this event. Considering you don't get out often, this would be the perfect opportunity for you to adorn your skimpy Dolce & Gabbana dress. It was gifted to you by your ex. Spoiling you with meaningless riches used to be his form of apology, after he mentally and physically scarred you with his malice.

Both forms of marks loitered on your skin and vulnerable mind to this day.

You cleared your throat, flashing your familiar coworker a feigned smile. "Just a shot!" You shouted over the loud, exuberant music.

He beckoned the bartender, ordering a round of vodka shots. You graciously chugged yours down like a champ the moment it arrived, barely flinching at the obscene taste, for you have consumed enough alcohol to be immune to the acidic taste of liquor.

As you scarfed down an egregious amount of vodka, you caught yourself making alluring eye contact with your boss, Mr. Seymour. Luring him with your sultry gaze, tongue swiping along your lipstick stained lips, as his molten brown eyes undressed you ravenously.

This was going to be a long night.

***

Once you downed enough drinks to be flourished with confidence, you found yourself condensed in a grind circle on the dance floor. Hands high above your head, hips swaying, ass grinding into the crotch of Mr. Seymour. His hands were pawing at your hips, directing yours into his, as you giggled and twisted in seductive ways against him.

Victor is your boss. The rational, merely sober section of your brain scolded. The alcohol hushed the angel nipping at your shoulder, silencing its objection, as you rolled your hips and placed your hands on top of his, swaying with the amorous music.

Only moments later, you were being lugged away from the crowd by the smooth hand of your boss. A queasy sensation was articulating in your stomach, as you wobbled in your heels, and scanned your surroundings through your blurred gaze, following Victor eagerly.

The music had grown quainter, as you topple down a wide, elegant hallway. It was completely vacant of partiers. The robust music softly reverberated around the empty space.

Victors hand snakes around your waist, his frame pressing you into the wall. "You're very pretty, you know that?" He murmured darkly, eyes settling on your lips, as he licks his and delves in to capture them in a kiss.

He pliantly kissed you once, and you hummed contently, as his lips continued to elope with yours in a sequence of quick, sloppy kisses.

"You're very handsome, did you know that?" You tantalized, biting your lip coyly when he pulled away to eye you smugly.

His hand groped and squeezed your ass, eliciting a squeak from you. Your hands started to explore his clad chest when an aggravatingly familiar, deep voice chanted your name in bewilderment.

Victor released you, alarmed by the abrupt confrontation. Adam Sackler was staring at you with a quizzical expression, prowling in your direction, his signature dumbfounded smirk plastered on his alcohol stained lips.

His eyes flashed over to observe Victor. His drunken, prudent smirk deepened, and Adams hand grappled with your hip. You opened your mouth to object in fear of his next action, only for his words to blatantly interrupt you.

"Hey, baby." He purred at you, eyeing Victor in his peripherals to study his reaction.

Of course, he was stoic and slightly panicked, gaze darting back and forth between you— frozen and blanking out— and Adam, arrogantly gliding his large hand up and down your waist, pretentiously staring at your boss. Marking his territory by tugging you into his chest, holding you steady.

"This must be Victor, hm?" He directed to you knowingly. You sheepishly averted your gaze, shifting from foot to foot.

"Victor Seymour." He responded curtly, stumped and confused, offering his hand stiffly. "And you are..?"

"Adam Sackler." He retorted, offering him a flimsy, childlike handshake, tightening his grip on your hip when you subtly made an attempt to paw him away. "I'm this little ones friend. With benefits, of course."

He was demolishing your fresh reputation with every envious word he inflicted. Allowing his odd, abrupt jealously to interfere with the way you would be viewed by your own boss.

You jabbed the point of your heel into the top of his shoe aggressively to reprimand him and he hissed in pain. You suppressed a laugh at his reaction and managed a glare, lightly sobering up due to the danger being bestowed upon your career. You looped his brawny arm around your shoulders, mumbling an apology to Victor, cackling under your breath as his large frame merged into you and nearly sent you plummeting.

"I'm so sorry, sir. He's clearly had too much to drink." You drawled, glaring at him sharply with an accusing tone, biting back a smile. "He's my next door neighbor. Recovering alcoholic. Does serious damage to his brain."

Victor nodded compliantly, appearing obliviously convinced. He adjusted the collar of his expensive suit and cleared his throat. "I see." He smirked solemnly. "That's fine. We'll continue this later." His chocolatey eyes coldly flickered to Adam. "Take care."

He shuffled away, the clacks of his dark balmorals flooding your ears, as he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

You and Adam exchanged an idle look— before the both of you broke out into a fit of guttural belly laughs. Your fingers interlocked with his by your shoulder as his arm continued dangling over your neck. You were both staggering as you dragged him down the foyer, searching for the nearest exit.

"What the fuck was that for?" You chuckled, slurring, peering up at him through droopy eyes.

He shrugged, snickering, his whiskey scented breath wafting into your face. "I didn't like the way he was touching you. It should've been me." He responded nonchalantly.

Your laughter died, fading into a subdued, lingering cough. "You have a girlfriend." You demanded. Wobbling through the glass-paned doors at the end of the foyer.

"We can behave ourselves as friends, we're grown ups." You added, the cold, midnight breeze billowing through the air, caressing your tousled hair.

The wind feathered Adam's scruffy hair, dark locks coiling and drooping into his face as he whined deeply. He swooped down and stole a swift kiss to your lips.

You gasped and recoiled slightly, ripping your hand away and attempting to nudge him off of you, "Adam!" You scolded, already picturing his girlfriend screaming at him for his infidelity, as you stroll through the halls and consume it all guilefully.

He chuckled ravenously, lips forming into a pink pout. "But, we're drunk." He whined, lugging you closer protectively, holding you in an awkward side embrace, face nuzzling into your hair.

"Thats true." You sighed. "It's not an excuse, though. We're adults."

"Can't we be adults that commit adultery?"

You punched him playfully in the bicep, giggling mischievously. You brushed the virtuous angel and heinous devil off of your shoulders for now. They could bicker over Adam's lecherous demands later. Right now, you were on the verge of blacking out. You just wanted to drag your big... friend with benefits... home, and down a gallon of water.

The subway station was only a five minute walk away from the club: you wondered if you could make it, limping deliriously along the cement in your overpriced heels. You whimpered and whined complaints, rolling your ankles to resurface the feeling in them.

"Quit whining." Adam teased with a mundane huff, halting in his tracks a few steps ahead of you. "Just hop on my back."

You chuckled, climbing onto his back without an ounce of reluctance. He was huge, it took a lot of stamina to hop onto him. Your legs wrapped around his torso, arms dangling around his neck, as he jumped to adjust you to his liking. He started trudging along the sidewalk effortlessly, nearly gliding, the ride smooth and agile.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, earnestly.

You nodded vigorously, humming in satisfaction at the mere thought of devouring food. Preferably something greasy and fattening; drinking always gave you the munchies.

***

His hand slid elegantly down the guardrail as he skipped down the stairs leading to the underground subway tunnels. The space was eerily vacant, as it was nearing the witching hour. Litter wisped along the concrete with the cold breeze, whistling and howling, spreading garbage around every crevice of the station.

The dim, amber lights overhead flickered as a train zilches by boisterously, robustly, producing a heavy gust of wind that nearly sends you and Adam toppling over, both of you chuckling. The speakers engraved into the walls beep your train number, and he allows you to slip off his back.

You winced when one of the pads of your bare feet connected with the frisky, grimy concrete. You instantly clamped onto him, hoisting yourself back up sloppily, gagging. Apparently, you had lost a shoe on the walk. An expensive one, too. Your foot would surely be infested by New York's originated diseases, now.

"Looks like I'm your Taxi service for tonight." He quipped through a gruff laugh, slipping through the steel doors of the subway as they chimed and whir open.

You both situated yourself on the vacant subway, that was illuminated by the artificial light beaming from the narrow tunnels you were winding through. Your butt was planted on his lap, his broad arms looped tightly around your waist like a makeshift seatbelt, as you both bounced with the brisk whir of the train.

Even though being this connected and conjoined with his massive body was wrong and demeaning due to his current relationship, you couldn't stifle your harmless desire for his touch. The alcohol was possessing your every thought and movement, and it took all of your willpower to muster down the need to grab him by his godly face and kiss him with all of your drunken might.

You wiggled in his lap, wearily resting your head on his shoulder, nestling into the warmth he emitted. You blinked tediously, sleepily. His blinks were just as slow and fatigued, as you both stared at your reflections that gleamed back at you in the unpolished windows.

Your eyes were puffy and bloodshot, a black ring of smudged eyeliner brimming them. Cheeks flushed with intoxication. Hair tousled and wild, bodies molding together in exhaustion. Your legs were flailing across his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, head merged with his, as he smirked contently. His long legs spread wide, tapping the dusty floor patiently. One arm draped around your waist, the other limp on the armrest of the seat.

Your finger ghosted the light smirk splaying on his plump lips. His smile deepened, head tilting back and resting on the fogging window. He observed you from the length of his nose, eyes narrowed playfully.

"I know I said I wouldn't, but..." You whispered, fingers trailing from his lips, and caressing his jaw. "I want to kiss you."

His hand left the armrest and earnestly cupped your cheek, softly urging your face down to be level with his. Your lips clashed in a deep, passionate kiss, filled with yearning and inclination, both of you humming and moaning into the lengthy kiss. It was a life-altering kiss, meaningful and everlasting.

It lasted for a whole ten minutes— the steady, vehement entanglement of your lips, leisure and patient— before the train screeched to a sharp halt and nearly sent both of you flying out of your seat. You giggled into his mouth, hand mounted to his swelling chest, before he scooped you back up on his back and carried you off of the train.

You suggested taking the elevator as opposed to the stairs, just to make the job easier for him, and stubbornly he denied your requests. It took a vast quantity of grunts and sputtered curses before he could drag you three flights up the stairwell of your shared complex.

He was breathless by the time you reached his apartment. He invited you in for a divine meal of microwaved pizza rolls and room temperature soda. You couldn't pass that up, not with the hunger bubbling in your stomach.

He practically tossed you onto the floor once he made it inside, heaving and panting. He was quick to shred his shirt off, nodding at you wordlessly, urging you to do the same. You peeled out of your luxury dress, kicking off your last-standing heel.

Adam was already making a meticulous line of frozen pizza rolls on a plate by the time you were done shucking your clothes off,
maintaining his dorky, satisfied smile.

"Put one of my t-shirts on." He offered, eyeing you as you awkwardly stood half-naked in his living room.

You scampered into his bedroom— the layout of his apartment was similar to yours, so it was simple to locate— ransacking his disastrous closet for a shirt. You opted for a huge, basic gray tunic. You tugged it on, satisfied with the way the sleeves cut off at the crooks of your elbows, and the hem tumbled to your mid thighs.

You returned to the kitchen. Hoisting yourself up on his counter, swinging your legs back and forth, watching the pizza rolls spiral slowly in the microwave underneath a warm glow. It was strange, how you could both sit there in a comfortable silence. Munching on your midnight snacks, flashing each other affable looks, smiling cheekily. Drunk as hell.

Maybe, it was just the benefits of your abstract friendship that made it this easy to just exist around each other.

Maybe, it was all just too good to be true.

Chapter Text

"Fuck!" Adam seethed, fingers clawing and prying at your ass, as you slur out a whine and sink down onto him deeper: consuming every inch of his throbbing cock as you straddled his broad, muscular thighs.

"Mmph." You grunted, gasping, hands flat and bracing the wall for stabilization, as you ride him furiously, savagely, like there's no tomorrow; and no one that can intervene with this salacious moment.

The couch creaked, the rigidity legs screeching into the scuffed-up mahogany wood floors, squeaking in defeat. It could've broken beneath you at any given moment.

You were digesting the pleasure, and the drunkenness, from not only the alcohol you had consumed earlier in the night— but the warm, calloused touch of Adam, as he grapples with your hips and forces you down onto him, guiding you robustly, spewing curses through clenched teeth.

You rock your pelvis in rhythm with the animalistic buck of his hips, hiccuping on your own moans. Your hands tremble and escape the wall, slithering down to his brawny shoulders, your body bouncing. Your nails raked through his velvety flesh and he hissed in pleasure, his lips attacking yours with inclination.

Your bodies— that ranged drastically in size and build— were eloping in a passionate harmony of infatuation, longing, and hatred. You hated him for worming himself into your life, loathed his charisma, despised the way you loved his cock.

He hates the way you fished him out of the detrimental waters of his toxic-love life and enraptured him with the net of your embrace. He was supposed to be proving Hannah's accusations of his sociopathic tendencies wrong.

Cheating was one of the first things on that list, and here he was; balls deep in the emotionally scarred neighbor, struggling to stifle his groans, tongue intertwined with yours.

Your tongue explored his mouth, one arm looped around his bicep and pawing at his muscular shoulder blade, the other threading through his raven tendrils of hair. Your jaw dropped when he snapped his hips up harder to plow into you, your pants and moans flooding the air as he kissed you on your open mouth.

His lips abandoned yours, trailing down your throat, licking your breast. You mewled, arm snaking around the back of his neck, his face smushing into your breast, tongue swirling around your nipple and capturing it with his teeth. You started slowing your pace, taking him in long, deep strokes, deliberate and tantalizing, eliciting a guttural groan from his throat.

His head fell back in pure bliss, his grunts sputtering in your face as you hovered over him. He strained his neck, chin pointed towards the ceiling as he seeks out your lips, kissing you roughly, hastily, as if you would vanish from his touch.

Then, an aggressive knock resounded from the front door of his apartment.

Both of you froze mid-stroke, your lips detaching, pants ricocheting off of one another's alarmed faces. Adam's hand clapped over your mouth to silence your whimpers, as he stared at the door with furrowed brows.

"Fucking let me in, Adam!" A high, obnoxious voice squealed, rattling the doorknob frantically. "I'm not messing around."

You glanced at the clock mounted crookedly to his wall. 4:52am. Your eyes flickered back to his in pure panic, wide and heedful. He tapped your butt lightly in a wordless demand to hop off. You obliged, easing off of him slowly, hopping off of his lap and tumbling onto the cushions of the couch.

You snatched the throw blanket off of the couch and sloppily swathed yourself in it, as Adam shouted, "Go away, Hannah! We can talk about this later!" There was an idle slur of his words, as the alcohol intoxication lingers in both of your adrenaline-rushed systems.

He tugged his boxers and jeans back up, unethically tucking himself away.

"Adam, just open the door!" She demanded, pounding on it repeatedly.

You scurried into his bedroom, toppling over the piles of miscellaneous, scattered clothes that you had peeled off and disastrously left in your lustrous wake. You tried to scoop up as many articles of your clothing as you could. You managed to compile your now slightly shredded, alcohol stained designer dress and your bra. Your underwear was dangling off the edge of his bed frame, as if they were a glorious prize to be showcased.

He opened the front door before you could grab them and add them to your stack of belongings. You stifled a yelp, practically diving into the closet and hiding, when you heard Hannah trudging throughout the apartment, cursing and howling complaints.

"Are you fuc—" she cut herself off, sniffling, inhaling an abrupt wift of something. "Were you drinking? And why can I smell perfume?"

Adam's response to her statement was muffled, as he spoke in a calmer, collected tone. His breaths were still labored, chest swelling rapidly with his heavy, laundering breaths.

"Are you drunk?" She breathes. Her tone was laced with disgust. As if she was offended, appalled by her discovery.

"Maybe." He grumbles back. You could nearly hear him shrugging lazily with his big, bulky shoulders. "I went to that club across town with my friends from the theater." He defends.

"You were doing so well with your recovery." She murmurs, solemn and disappointed. "Have you been attending those AA meetings?"

There was silence. You presumed he nodded, because she continued. "Have you made any friends? Anything?" She asked hopefully.

He relented before he responded, "Yeah." He muttered mundanely, curtly. "I met my new neighbor there, actually." He added, fully aware of the anger that would bestow upon Hannah.

She went silent. Metaphorically, you could hear the cogs churning tirelessly in her head, and the grit of her teeth.

"Anyways. What was so important?" He asks, changing the subject before things got violent.

"My best friend, Jessa. You remember her, right?" She stated. He must've nodded. "She got put into a mental hospital. I don't know where yet, but we have to pick her up. And I need you to drive me and Shoshanna there."

He scoffed dryly, coldly. "I'm not a taxi service, Hannah. You can take my car, but I'm not going on some little road trip with you."

Hannah scoffed back. "You're such a dick." She utters, and you could already perceive him not even flinching at the insult. "Excuse me, for trying to save this relationship."

Her stomps increased in volume, and you froze, harboring your breath in your lungs, when Hannah bursted through the bedroom door. You cowered into a pile of neatly stacked clothes, gulping down your trepidation, as she rummaged through the room.

Then she gasped. "What the fuck is this?" She shrills, her she-devil like voice high and accusing. You winced at the ear-splintering sound that emitted from her vocal cords.

He stared at her silently, watching as she dispersed from the bedroom, the string of your scandalous thong limply curled around her index fingers. He paced his breaths, evening them out, inhale by exhale. His short nails were embedding into his palms, fists clenching, cheeks crimson, as he rebuilds his stamina piece by piece.

"Whatever." She growls, the floorboards creaking as she stomps to the door, flinging it open. "Fuck you. You're a narcissist. You don't care about me, and you don't care about your little fuck buddies." She pivoted to exit his apartment, before swiveling around one last time to shout, "And I'm taking your car tomorrow!" She states, brows knitting together.

You peaked past the crack in the closet door, surveying Adam, as he shrugs and tsks blatantly. "Kay. I don't really give a shit. Just make sure Shoshanna drives. You're too unstable." He shoots, sneering at her, throwing his keys at her as she yelps and flinches, her hands shakily flying up to catch them.

She scowled at him, stomping through the threshold, slamming the door shut behind her. It was boisterous enough to rouse the entire apartment complex out of their slumber, and startle those that were already awake. It was five in the morning, after all.

Once the coast was clear, you sneaked out of the closet, tiptoeing reluctantly. You approached Adam, planning to slide past him and head back to your apartment. Only for his hands to firmly— no, hostilely grab you and lug you back to the couch.

"I'm not finished with you yet." His breathy, domestic words came out as a growly snarl, as he spun you around and slammed you stomach first into the arm of the couch. "You're not leaving until you cum." He hisses.

You whimpered, squirming, as he twined your wrists together and firmly locked them against your lower back. He eyed you salaciously: bent over, ass high, back arched, face smushed into the couch cushion. The blanket loosely garbing your frame, slipping down your figure, unraveling carnally. Revealing those sweet, supple, bare parts of you, that drove him wild.

He worked on the zipper of his pants, untucking his cock— the soaked condom still clinging onto it. He simply hiked the sheet up higher to reveal your bare ass, his hands groping and kneading the flesh. He applied a harsh spank and you squeaked, jolting.

He pried your thighs apart and slipped inside of you with ease, gripping one hip firmly, the other hand bounding your wrists as he plows into you. Pumping and thrusting aggressively, ramming his tip straight into your cervix, drilling into your cunt as you nearly foam at the mouth.

Your body bounced and rocked forward with his exuberant thrusts. One of his hands collected a cluster of your hair, shoving your face deeper into the cushions. Your breathy moans were muffled, face sheathed into the pillows, as he forced your head down and fucked you animalistically.

Your hands trembled in his grasp. Your insides burned with pain and bliss, as the peak you were ascending to before you were interrupted starts to rise, teetering towards the edge. His hips clapped into your ass, the smack of skin on skin echoing throughout his apartment.

"Adam—" You hiccuped, words distorted, as he growls and slams into you harder. Gliding in, and out, robustly, snapping his hips.

"Dirty whore." He rasped, panting, cock twitching within your core. "You're going to cum for me, aren't you?" He cranked your head back by your tousled bundle of hair, freeing your face that was suffocating in the abyss of throw pillows.

"Yes." You whined lewdly, your breaths spewing out of your agape mouth. He pumps into you harder— pounds into you— splitting you open with his cock. "F-fuck! I'm gonna cum." You mewled.

Your wanton moans synced together as you milked his condom-covered cock, your juices leaking down your inner thighs, body spasming with release, your wetness drenching his throw blanket. He hit his peak only seconds after you, grunting, fingers fisting through your untamed locks as he pounded himself through his high, dragging you through yours.

He remained lodged inside of you, as both of you caught your breath and idly recollected yourselves. Once he pulled out, he carelessly snapped the condom off, chucking it to the floor.

He flipped you over onto your back, your ass sinking into the cushions and your legs dangling off of the arm of the couch. He parted your legs, slipped into the space in between. He loomed over your body, and smashed his lips into yours with titillation.

You hummed in satisfaction into the kiss, smiling softly into his plush lips. Your fingers skimmed through his wavy, dark hair, guiding his face into yours. His hands were propped up by your head, tongue exploring every warm crevice of your mouth, consuming any alcohol that loitered on your lips.

"I don't want you to leave yet." He admitted through a grumble, snagging your bottom lip with his teeth, his hand cupping your cheek as he gingerly eases you up with him.

You chuckle, as he releases you from the deliciously torturous imprisonment of his plump mouth. His honey-mocha eyes bore through yours, head nuzzling into your hand as you scratch his scalp and smile drearily.

"I don't want to leave, yet." You shoot back through a fatigued smile, blinking at him leisurely, high and dazed on euphoria.

He smirks prudently back with a small huff of amusement. Based on the look spreading across his face...

The night was not over, for you.

***

The golden, midday sun cascaded through the murky window. You hissed, eyes squeezing together, as you mutter complaints and shift in the creaky bed, rolling over on your other side.

Warm breaths tickled your cheeks, fanning out your tousled bed-head. A broad arm gingerly looped around your waist. Adam groaned as he shuffled into you, nuzzling his face into your neck, his stubbly beard tickling the flesh. You rest your cheek on his head, purring, curling into his brawny frame that emits warmth like a personal heater.

It was comforting to feel his morning breaths, that reeked of whiskey, tumble from his lips and ghost your throat. Your hand snakes up to play with his hair, drearily twirling around a coiled strand. He snorted gruffly, his plump lips pecking your neck.

"Morning." He grumbled mundanely. His morning voice was husky and a few octaves lower.

With a heavy sigh, he shifted over, flattening on his bare back. Both of you entirely nude, and sweaty, after last nights events. Bundled up under the thin, nearly translucent sheets swathing his queen sized bed.

The fitted sheet was peeled up and folded slovenly, bunched up, exposing the drab mattress foam underneath it. Pillows were scattered all over the floor, clothes peppering the mahogany wood.

"Good morning." You murmured hoarsely back, your vocal cords snapped from the amount of times you screamed and moaned his name the night before.

You snort at your own thoughts, lugging the sheet off of his body and tumbling over, wrapping it around your damp figure as you rolled off of the bed. Leaving Adam completely nude and vulnerable.

You chuckle as he snatches your pillow from the head of the bed and shields his dick. "He's still sleeping..." He defends, and you laugh gutturally, covering your smile as you cackle and saunter over to the window— nearly stumbling on the lengthy sheet on your way over.

You hoist the window up, it creaks in defeat, and you grunt as it latches. The cold, midday air lurks through the drapes, the breeze billowing throughout his bedroom and wisping your hair around your sleepy face. You fumbled for your bra that was splayed sloppily on the floor— one of the straps snapped— and yanked the lighter out of the padding.

You always hid it there. You loathed carrying a purse, so you settled for cramming your belongings into your bra, if it fits. You found your pack of Marblaro Ultralights in the catastrophic conjunction of shredded, sweaty clothes, beaming gratefully at Adam.

His bulky arms were crossed behind his head, as he observed you attentively from the length of his nose. Muscular legs crossed, the fitted sheet now draped over his torso and lower regions, guarding his toned body that was just on display seconds before.

"Pass me one." He ordered, gesturing for a cigarette. You smiled softly, scratching your unruly hair, and tossed him one. The slender white stick tumbled across the bare mattress, he scooped it up and shot you a wry smirk.

You propped your elbows on the windowsill. The chilly, benign air wafted into your face, tampering with your tousled hair, as it swayed around your head. You popped your cigarette into your mouth, lips sealing around the edge. The lighter sputtered as you lit it briskly.

Smoke billowed and swirled through the misty air. The landscapes of bustling buildings and corner shops were all tarnished in damp puddles, as the rain drizzled from the gloomy clouds casted overhead. The cement was three shades darker, as pools of muddied water seeps through the cracks of the sidewalks.

You hear his bedframe groan and squeak, as he grunts and sighs heavily, leisurely climbing out of bed. The fitted sheet was wrapped around his lower half, as he trudged over to you, cigarette dangling from the corner of his plump, rouge lips.

His arms inattentively loop around your waist. He towers over you from behind, looming over you, lips pinching the cigarette softly as he wiggles his eyebrows in a silent command to light it for him.

You smirk up at him, as he angles his head to be level with the lighter. You flick it nimbly, it spews an acidic scent, before the flame arises and kindles heat at the tip of his cigarette. It gleamed amber as he took a deep puff, one arm escaping your waist, so he can house the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb, eyebrows furrowing.

"Ultralights?" He huffed, sputtering the smoke through the corner of his lips, the white haze drifting through the cool air.

"Mhm." You hummed around your own cigarette, nodding agilely, flicking your ashes out the window and dangling your wrist over the chipping beam.

Adam inhales a heap of smoke, his large hand slithering up your waist, capturing your jaw softly. He tantalizingly angles your head up, his lips ghosting yours, as both of you part your lips and exhale smoke into each other's open mouths. His lips then delve into yours for a deep, scrutinizing kiss, as he explores your mouth that tastes of cigarettes and the residue of your tequila from the night before.

"Mmmm." You hummed giddily, blissfully into his mouth, your free hand planted to his chest, skimming over his toned abdomen. Your lips smacked as they separated, smoke escaping his mouth in jagged tendrils, freed from the harbor of your conjoined lips.

"What time is it?" You ask groggily, squinting to adjust to the brightness of the sun as it peers through the swollen, glum clouds strolling over the city. You traced the chafed surface of the windowsill with your fingertip, biting your lip.

He shrugged, the smoke filtering the apprehension that sparked in his lungs, as he exhaled it contently.

You glanced at the standard clock plastered to his bedside table. "Shit." You hissed under your breath, smashing the tip of your cigarette into the windowsill hastily, blowing the wave of smoke out forcefully, as you dab the ashes away and toss the bud out the window.

"What?" Adam asks, resting his veiny forearm on the sooty windowsill, eyebrows knitting together as he puffs on his cigarette and eyes you heedfully, curiously.

"I was supposed to meet Victor for lunch today at noon." You breathe, rushing to primp yourself to the best of your abilities. You used your knuckles to scrape the crust out of your eyes, smearing the already smudged mascara infeasibly more. It was already one in the afternoon.

He clenches his jaw, stifling the scoff that crawls up his throat. He snorts bitterly instead. Shaking his head in disbelief, peering off at the downcasting, bleak scenery, taking an aggressive hit of his cigarette.

"Is there a problem?" You drawled, perplexed, pausing your mechanisms just to cock a brow at him.

He scoffed for real, snapping his head to face you. "Victor, as in that old man from the fucking club last night?" He hissed, scowling at you with a hostile, envious gleam in his eyes.

You frowned, squishing your breasts back into the padding of your bra, one-handedly holding the sheet up to shield your modest areas. You struggled, grunting. "He's not that old." You defend, glaring at him. "It's not a date or anything. I'm new to New York, you know. It's just the courteous thing to do. The professional thing to do."

He growled in disapproval, carelessly dabbing the flame out of his cigarette and throwing it out the window. Dark eyebrows woven together, build towering, as he trudged over to you. He rounded you, standing only inches away from your bare back.

He pawed the upper half of the sheet away, grabbing the flapping straps of your bra, aggressively jerking them back. You squeaked and staggered backwards, back crashing into his chest. "Right. Because It's professional to take advantage of your young, slightly oblivious employee when she's drunk and mindless." He spits, sneering, latching the clasps of your bra together for you.

You wrap the sheet around you tighter, sliding it up to fully swathe your body, swiveling around to scoff at him. "Oblivious?" You muse, flashing him a glare, strutting over to scoop up your remotely-tethered dress. "How charming, Sackler. You know just how to make a lady feel special." You snort coldly.

He grits his teeth, reeling around to fumble with his dresser drawers, digging through the top drawer. First, he untucks a pair of fresh boxers, tugging them on underneath the sheet. He drops the sheet once the boxers shield his private areas, rummaging through the top drawer again. He pulls out a crinkled wad of cash, tossing it on top of the dressers dusty surface.

He started dressing himself, layer by layer, garbing himself in a plain, loose-fitting tunic and a pair of blue jeans.

"What are you doing?" You ask, adjusting the crooked sectors of your tight dress, hiking the hem back down to descend to your mid-thigh.

"Coming with you." He chimes, staring at you with a look that proves his statement was non-negotiable.

"That's... you can't come." You argue gingerly. Searching for your underwear in the abyss of clothes scattered aimlessly along the floor.

They were nowhere.

You recall Hannah scooping them up and blabbering about them— she must've taken them with her. You grimace. You were going commando today... you had no time to stop at your apartment and change. You were already inexplicably, embarrassingly late.

"And why is that?" He shoots back, calling your bluff. He looped his belt around his wide waist, securing it tautly. "If it's professional, and not a date, he shouldn't mind if you bring a... friend along."

You sigh. "It just... it feels rude. After last night... you showing up to lunch with me won't be ideal. He's going to know something is going on between us."

He narrows his eyes at you, inhaling sharply through his nostrils. "So what? Let him know." He glowers, nearly offended by your statement. He collects the wad of cash and crams it into his back pocket. "Let's go before we miss the subway." He insists, cocking his head at the door, gesturing for you to go.

Your narrowed eyes train on his pretentiously, before you succumb to his effective stare. "Fine." You snap, sauntering out of his room; with a noticeable limp in your stride. Adam chuckles prudently as he watches you struggle, knowing damn well he was the reason for your wobbly footing.

You yank your coat off of his coatrack, shucking it on vigorously. Tying the strands together around your waist, you plow through the front door, curling your arm around his, guiding him to the elevator.

Once you slipped inside, the doors dinged and chimed, whirring closed. The mellow music quaintly rang from the rusty speakers. You grin coyly, arm tightening around his, as you stand on your tiptoes, lips brushing his big ear.

"I'm not wearing any panties." You whispered seductively, feigning innocence as the doors chime back open. You smile gingerly, tilting your head virtuously, as he eyes you with a ravenous glint in his hazel eyes.

"Watch it, kid." He growls ominously, his upper lip curling, undereye twitching. "If you want to make it to this lunch in one piece, I advise behaving yourself."

He didn't have to advise you twice.

Chapter Text

The scuffed up, worn-down corner store reeks of cheap cigarettes and stale lottery tickets. The clank of coins disposing from the ATM machines, and the gruff laughs of slothful employees, filtered the warm air of the shop. It was not the... safest, nor cleanest, environment. The atmosphere was nearly detrimental and distressing, as opposed to comforting and tranquil.

Your fingertips apprehensively tap into the surface of the drab counter. You glance around the unwelcoming scenery heedfully, waiting for Adam to emerge from one of the rows of shelves, that contained sloppily organized snacks and cheap alternatives to tools and repair kits. They even had off-brand Oreos stashed onto one of the unlenient, rusty shelves, that looked like it would come crashing down at any application of weight.

The cashiers pale complexion and bald, speckled head, glistened uncharitably under the artificial lights beaming overhead. His narrowed eyes raked you in suggestively, his tongue swiping along his thin pair of lips. He smirked crudely.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing on this side of town?" He grunts. His grimy hands were plastered onto the counter, as he leans into his palms, eyeing you with sinister intent.

You narrow your eyes pretentiously back, withholding that pompous eye-contact, as you slam the box of condoms down onto the counter. You cock a taunting brow as you scoot the colorful box over to him, "Buying condoms." You quip vaguely, shrugging.

He scoffs, glaring at you as he snatches the box up and scans it belligerently. Jabbing the blocky, outdated keypad of the cash register. His eyes glimpsed over the box, and his arrogant smirk resurfaced.

"Extra large?" He clucks his tongue prudently, eyebrows crinkling together, as his smirk lingers. He shoves the box of condoms into a plastic bag, ruffling it out, prying it off of its silver rack and placing it on the counter.

"What?" You spat. "Is somebody jealous because they can only fit an extra small?"

Adam appeared by your side, his dark eyebrows weaving together as he approaches. He surveys you in bewilderment, as you and the cashier battle in a cold stare-off. A purple vein was protruding through the mans bald head, his teeth gritting.

"Ten dollars, even." The man barks. You flinch, your brave, assertive demeanor crumbling when he raised his voice.

You hastily fumble with your coat pockets, as Adam intervenes, slapping his hand into the counter and looming over the man. "Watch it, buddy." He snarls, pointing and waving his finger in his face potently. "Unless you want to fucking deal with me, I would advise controlling your temper."

The man snorts in amusement, "You watch it, man, or get the hell out of my store."

You slide a wad of crinkled cash across the counter, looping your arm around Adam's, as he sneers at the cashier with a grueling look. You tug him lightly, "Let's go." You insist, pulling him, steering him away from the man as he begrudgingly follows, his eyes still locked on his in annoyance.

Mr. Seymour had cancelled your "lunch date" after your lack of compliance. He was understanding, open-minded about your ordeal. He insisted that you rest up and cure your hangover before you come into work on Monday, and you agreed to his suggestion. You were grateful for Victor, not everybody was fortunate enough to be domineered by a boss that was as generous and dignified as him.

He rescheduled your rendezvous for tomorrow, during your lunch break. This time, you were keeping the meeting to yourself, instead of sharing it with Adam. The last thing you needed was a monstrous, cumbersome man accompanying you for a casual meeting with your boss. It was an unprofessional image that you refused to portray.

"What the fuck was that dude's problem?" Adam growls, eyebrows furrowed.

You shrug, pursing your lips, gliding your hand down his brawny arm and interlocking your fingers with his instead. You smile sheepishly at him, and he smirks arrogantly, rendering your hand a comforting squeeze.

You were aimlessly strolling down the city streets, the honks of horns and average city ruckus blanketing the grumbles of Adam as he complains about his infernal encounter with the cashier back at the shitty corner-store. It was nearing mid-afternoon, as the sun beams exuberantly with its blinding glow, illuminating the bustling sidewalks.

After everything that occurred last night, with the copious amounts of alcohol you consumed, you were feeling inclined to attend an AA meeting. It was an obligation that originated from the pressure your parents and peers used to bestow upon you about your alcohol addiction, before you cut all ties with those that surfaced from your past. Including your parents, and any other relative.

"I'm going to an AA meeting today." You blurt, a white, frisky fog emitting from your mouth as the cold air oxidizes your breath.

Adam nods. "I probably should, too." He admits through a strained sigh, clouds of chilly air billowing from his chapped lips.

"I thought you hated them?" You stated.

"Don't you hate them?" He shoots back, eyebrows raised defensively.

"Yes." You snap. "But clearly I'm not recovering anytime soon. It's better to put in the effort to heal."

Adam nods in agreement, his large hand releasing yours to slither into his coat pocket. You mimic his action, sliding your hand into your own pocket. Already missing the warmth that his hand was supplying you with.

"I'm coming with you." He responds earnestly, his deadpan tone indicating that it wasn't up for negotiation. "I'll take you out for pancakes at our favorite Diner after. How does that sound?" He asks with a small, amiable smile.

You nod with a cheeky smile, waltzing your way through downtown New York, boarding the nearest subway. The ride was brisk and mellow, as you both stood quaintly, watching as the buildings wisped by like an abundance of bleak colors.

Your bodies rocked and swayed with the belligerent cranks and swerves of the train. Your hands were tightly eloped with the glimmering, silver pole in the center, chuckling at one another's wobbly movements.

You snatched his hand and hauled him off of the subway once it skidded to a halt. You staggered up the stairs together, winching when the frosty, hostile breeze nearly sent you both toppling over. The church that housed your AA meetings was only an idle stroll away from the station.

You shuffle past the waxed, oak double-doors, exhaling a breath of relief when the warmth of the heater collides with your skin, the torrid air that the vents spew embracing your numbing flesh. You could articulate the muffled chatter of this weeks volunteer, emphasizing the basics for the newbies.

You and Adam stumble into the large, crammed foyer, chuckling to yourselves. Several pairs of eyes dart in your direction, narrowed and bewildered. The rusty, portable chairs were scattered and organized by rows as opposed to one dejecting circle, as they were a few weeks ago.

This weeks volunteer was a stout, fairly-elderly woman with round glasses and plump cheeks. She pushed her glasses up by the trim, clearing her throat, eyeing you with contempt as you both situated yourselves in the empty back row of creaky seats.

"May I continue?" She muses through gritted teeth, tilting her head, hands bracing the side of the podium she was standing behind.

"Be our guest." Adam responds, shrugging with raised eyebrows, gesturing for her to continue lethargically.

She begrudgingly continued her statement, introducing herself to the group. Once she had nearly lulled everyone to sleep by blabbering on and on about her alcoholic journey, and the trials and tribulations of earning her thirty years sober badge, she invited an audience member to discuss their hardships in front of the crowd.

A kid, that looked merely nineteen, ascended from his seat, sheepishly volunteering to discuss his "journey through alcoholism."

He timidly rambled about his addiction, that originated at the age of sixteen, when he was a partying socialite that would chug cans of Bud Light and solo-cups full of vodka up until the point he blacked out on his friends couch. Your heart ached as you consumed his words attentively— nearly latching yourself to him in that moment, as you could relate to battling the tiresome addiction at such a young age.

After everyone applauded and offered the kid a few nimble praises and affirmations, the next person arose to distribute their own story. You were only half paying attention, when Adam's hand gripped your thigh. Fingers pinching the flesh, palm flat, hand gliding up and down teasingly.

You shoot him a provocative look, nibbling on your bottom lip, eyes narrowed lewdly. His golden-hazel irises gleamed with something wicked and carnal, as he licked his plush lips, eyeing you with pure need pulsing in his gaze.

You sigh, a playful smile toying with your lips, as you avert your concentration to the woman indulging the crowd with her sob-story that involved spending months in loathsome rehab and a full year on probation. It was nothing in comparison to your story, that should never be recited, remarked, or stated out loud.

His hand slithered up higher, at a tantalizingly leisure pace. He fondled with your thigh, allowing his hand to slip past the hem of your dress— where your pussy was bare and revealed underneath the fabric.

You shuddered when his pinky snaked down your inner thigh, brushing your folds. His breath wafted into your ear as he leaned towards you. "You little slut... you're wet." He murmurs dauntingly, snickering when you discreetly shifted your hips upwards into his touch.

You stifle a whimper as his pinky pries your folds, his other fingers creeping down. His calloused fingertips lapped your wetness at your entrance, dragging it up and down teasingly, as you mewl in approval. His face was non-chalant, calm and mundane, as his hand went to work beneath your dress.

"We s-shouldn't be doing this here." You choke out softly, voice low and heedful, as your breath hitches and hips buck slightly.

"Mm." He hums, narrowing his eyes, smirking. His goatee lifts with his prudent smile. "Then lets get outta here, yeah?"

You nod robustly, whining when his hand slips away from your cunt. He ascends to his feet, chest puffed and demeanor stoic, as he waltz away from the row of chairs, expecting you to follow. You do, eagerly, disregarding the complaints rooting from the volunteer as she clicks her tongue at you in disapproval.

***

You both completely smothered one another when you entered your apartment. Although the idea of eating dinner at the Diner did appeal to you, both of you temporarily dismissed the thought of food in this moment.

His burley frame was draped over yours, grinding, rocking, his lips delving into yours for a inclinating kiss. You arched your back and deepened the kiss, lips eloping, fingers ruffling through his hair, body's emerging.

You moaned coarsely into his mouth, yanking his hair, guiding his face into yours— noses brushing, lips smacking and pummeling, tongues dancing together in harmony.

A knock resounded from the front door. You blatantly disregard it at first, incapable of hearing over the labored breaths that you were panting into each other's mouths.

Until the thundering knock applied itself with meaning, the person on the opposite end of the door being completely unmindful of the occupants surrounding you. In other words, your neighbors.

"Who the fuck is that?" Adam grumbles into the kiss, lips digging deeper into yours, tongues intertwining, as you hum gutturally and grind your hips up into him.

"I don't know." You respond breathlessly, looping your leg around his torso, kissing him forcefully back. Your hand pushed on his chest, slightly shoving him off, so you could lift your back from the bed.

Your lips detached when a grainy, familiar voice cursed your name. You froze, breaths fanning out Adam's hair, eyes wide, as his hand glides up your waist. His eyes observe you with concern. You flop off of the bed, hugging your silk robe— that you had changed into upon immediate arrival to your apartment— tighter to your touch inclined body.

You tiptoed to the door heedfully, pressing your ear into the surface, chewing your lip. "Open the fucking door!" That familiar male voice barks, and you jolt, suppressing a gasp.

Adam prowls up to you, arm curling around your waist, eyebrows furrowed as you cower into him, allowing him to embrace you.

The doorknob rattles belligerently, and you bury your face into Adam's chest, hoping to drown out the aggressive shouts of your ex-boyfriend, as he nearly rips the handle off of your door entirely.

Adam's jaw clenched, his hand protectively cupping your head, stroking your hair. He decided enough was enough, once your ex, Tony, started slurring drunken curses at you, screaming words of disdain.

He was going to flip.

Trying to simmer his boiling rage down, he supplies himself with a few deep breaths, before yanking the door open— sending Tony staggering backwards.

And just at the perception of his face, Adam's mantra vanished. He was going to fuck him up.

Chapter Text

“Fuck." Adam seethes through clenched teeth, the tendons in his knuckles flexing, as you flinch and continue to dab his wounds clean.

"Sorry." You murmur sheepishly, ringlets of warm water beading on his scathed, bruised knuckles, cascading down his flesh in crimson-tainted ribbons of tarnished water.

He continues to gruff out complaints, wincing with every swipe of the damp rag you apply to his scuffed-up skin. His burley frame was crammed onto the small lid of your toilet, as you huddled in compactly in the cubicle-like space— you being endeavored with tending to the wounds he obtained after throttling the living shit out of your ex-boyfriend.

"Jesus christ, Kid." He growls with a quivering exhale, scoffing, as you pause to peer up at him with glossy eyes. "Is your ex buck-toothed? Fuckin' left a dent of his big ass chomper into my damn hand."

You chuckle, nibbling your lip, observing his bruise-stricken features. His raven hair was matted to his dewy face in damp, sweaty clumps. Drying blood drizzled from one of his nostrils. A faint bruise encompassed his undereye, that twitched when his gaze locked on yours.

He belligerently hauls his hand away from your ginger grasp to suck on his bloodied knuckle, pouting at you. You had to stifle your laughter, as your cumbersome man-baby-of-a-friend stares down at you with utter disbelief scribbled across his bruised features.

Sweat still beads off of the arch in his dark eyebrow, dribbling upon the purple, yellow-tainted blotch of bruises margining his left eye, and the red claw-mark of Tony's nails embedded into his opposing cheek.

He beat the living pulp out of Tony, your indignant, self-absorbed ex-boyfriend. In other words, one of the many underlying causes of your permanent disdain, and the emblems of trauma that marked your mind.

Everything whirred by so fast... the fight, the obscene, ravenous words, the thundering pops of bones and the daunting thumps of skin colliding with skin.

Tony had always been a fighter. He was coarse by nature, cutthroat by design. Not the enigmatic, charming kind. One that was deemed trash and discarded for dead upon the rat infested streets of New York's slummier regions. He was accountable for multiple cases of treason— including illicit drug-use, arson, and gang affiliation.

Adam was a fighter. A formidable man with a complex disposition, that not even the closest amongst him could sniff out his persona, nor digest his intent. He was an enigma of his own, a brawny, lewd man, with no objectives nor tasks to sustain. Just a recovering alcoholic merely functioning on his own.

There was a reason Adam won the brawl that broke out amongst the threshold of your door, and it was a reason so blatant that even Tony should've been consequent enough to be aware of his amusing failure.

That reason... was because Adam is fucking shredded. Hulking, large, towering. A slab of pure muscle strapped across his toned abdomen. Muscles garbed his biceps. His shoulders were broad, his legs long, muscular and taut. His hands pure vein and callous.

It came as no shock that he could be rewarded as the winner of the little fight he happened to convey. He could've humbled himself, just a smidge, though. He radiated pride through every pore upon his face.

"You got him pretty damn good," you admit through a giggle, as he grumbles out a string of curses and complaints. "From what I can discern, he's either on his way to the hospital right now, or the nearest wheelchair."

Adam snickers at that. "Fucking hope so." He growls out, sneering at the wall, as he reminisced on the blurry cluster of events that had occurred just idle moments before. "What the fuck did the bastard even want from you, anyways?"

Suddenly, it was difficult to sustain your smile. A downcasted frown ghosts your lips instead, a dejecting heaviness laboring on your chest. You swallow, eyes flickering back up to his face, as you remove the rag from his bloodied knuckles. Applying it tenderly to his cracked lips.

"He wants drug money." You offer, murmuring, voice shallow and poignant. You vigilantly swiped a dollop of blood off the corner of his swollen lips.

He wallows as he ponders. His solemn, hazel eyes boring through yours as you sheepishly avoid his gaze, continuing to cleanse the small slash protruding his lips.

"What's his fix?" He asks quietly, his words nearly just a rumble in the back of his squared chest. His eyes raking over your stoically-emotionless face.

You shrug haphazardly. "What started as pain killers.... became heroin."

Adam shakes his head in contempt, stroking his rugged, bearded jaw. "And you were with this guy for...?" He trails, eyebrows woven together, as you sniffle and zone in on the blood-blemished, damp rag.

"A couple years." You breathe, blinking away the tears that prickle at your eyes. Engrossing yourself with dipping the rag underneath the warm water that cascades from the faucet briskly. "He wasn't always an addict— but he wasn't ever a good person." You admit sheepishly.

He tilts his head in bewilderment, an essence of concern blossoming on his face. "Talk to me, kid." He insists gruffly. Pawing your hand away, huddling over, propping his elbows on his knees. Clasping his hands and grinding his knuckles together lethargically.

You shift around, the parallel pattern of your bathrooms scuffed-up tile embedded into your knees. You clear your throat, toying with the tips of your tousled hair, apprehensively avoiding his scrutinizing stare.

His finger ducks below your chin, thumb caressing your jawline, as he urges your head up and forces your attention upon him.

It was all dawning on him with each second that tediously passed in which you refuted his demand, refused to comply, to the simple but desolating task of divulging your past to him.

His thumb slithers up to brush your bottom lip. "He's the reason you're so... afraid. Isn't he." He Implicates, narrowing his eyes.

Your lip quivers, eyes brimming with hot tears that threaten to stream upon your cheeks, as you somberly peer back at him.

He clenches his jaw, plowing off of the toilet seat, "Fuck." He snarls. Pacing the floor, cradling his wounded hand to his chest, as you observe him heedfully. Unease bubbling and gyrating in your gut. A single tear strolls down your burning cheek.

"We were just... unhealthy, is all." You defend, earning you a scoff from Adam, as he rolls his eyes and continues to agilely pace the floor. "T-theres a reason he was put on pain killers in the first place."

He tsks bitterly, piercing you with a glare. "No, shit," he hisses your name. "There's always a shitty reason for turning to drugs."

You choke on the sob that clamors up your throat, smashing your face into your hands, clawing at your face as tears start to stroke and stain your cheeks. "It was my fault, Adam!" You bleat, shouting, breaking down into a fit of body-racking wails, as all of the traumatic memories crash into you like a tidal wave of forbidden emotion.

"What?" He exclaims, baffled. Not moving from his shifty stance in the center of the bathroom, brows knitted together.

When you only respond with a gurgle of tears and inarticulate blubbers, he approaches you cautiously. Towering over your shuddering frame, folding slightly at the waist to rub consoling circles into your back.

"We don't have to talk about it." He coos awkwardly, voice laced with regret and culpability.

You sniffle, choking on another hoarse cry. "N-not a day goes by where I don't r-regret everything that h-happened." You manage to stutter out. Over your sobs, you can discern the crackle of his knees as he crouches to be level with you.

He disregards the idea of responding verbally. Instead, he continues to tenderly run his hand up and down your back, kneading, digging, hushing your broken cries.

You swivel around, crashing your tear-soaked face into his chest, feeling the warmth he radiates start to melt the tears away. His hand cradled your head to his broad chest, fingers threading gently through your hair.

"Look, kid. I know times are tough... but..." he trails off, biting a curse through clenched teeth. "Motherfuck! I could never be an inspirational speaker..."

You snort, chuckling groggily through the pain that enraptures you and swells within your entire being. Like a sustaining tumor that refuses to pop. He snickers wryly at himself.

Your tears begin to minimize, the only remnants of your severe breakdown being the streams of tears that burrow down your scarlet tainted cheeks, and the swollen bags beaming under your bloodshot eyes.

"I'm sorry..." you mumble into his chest, that reeks of sweat and the hint of musk that lingers on his dampened T-shirt.

He sighs. Opening his mouth to indulge you with a response, only for his phone to boisterously ring from your bedroom. He scrambles from the floor, shuffling out of the bathroom. The floorboards creak as he briskly saunters towards the robustly dinging, outdated phone.

"How the fuck?" He grunts, tampering with every button that aligns the old iphone, slamming his digits into the cracked screen. "The fuck is all this technology bullshit." He grumbles, growling, applying one final jab to the screen before holding it to his ear.

"What?" He breathes in exasperation, ruffling with his hair, as you leisurely ascend from the floor and scrub your cheeks clean of any tears.

He freezes when a response articulates from the other end. "You're just fucking with me." He blubbers, shaking his head in disbelief, a grimace splaying on his scrunched face.

You wince when a blood-curdling shriek emerges from the phone, Adam's eyes blowing wider than saucers. "Put Shoshanna on the phone!" He demands.

"What the fuck do you mean she wasn't driving?" He barks, spit lurching from his barred teeth, as he paces the floor. "I thought I fucking told you not to drive my car!"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, emitting vexation with each fiery breath he exhales. "Where are you?" A sequence of squeals follows his question. His chest expands with his next breath, "Because I would like to fucking see how much of my car is left!?" He exclaims.

"Okay. I'm on my way now. Don't fucking move, do you hear me?" He shouts, before drawling his next words, and pointing at the wall in exaggeration. "Stay where you are."

He struggles to hang up the phone, grumbling snark as he pucks his finger into the screen. "Off! Turn off!" He shrills at the device he managed to dwarf with his entire hand. He eventually gives up, lurching the phone into the floor, sending clusters of glass shattering into the tile, sputtering across the bathroom.

You blink at him, attempting to fabricate anything to say, only for your tongue to be smothered with a dryness that leaves you gaping at him incredulously.

He storms out of your bathroom, stampeding around the premises of your apartment, collecting the belongings he had scattered around every surface.

"Adam?" You call heedfully, emerging from the bathroom, to watch him maneuver around feverishly. "What's going on?"

He pauses as he slings his coat over his bulky shoulder. "Get dressed."

Your lips cork into a frown. "For what?"

He sighs, "Just get fucking dressed!" He commands, his voice husky and eerily coarse, as he flings his arms out in exasperation.

You nod skittishly and scurry to your bedroom, blinking another abundance of tears back, shucking off the dress you had been clad in since the night before. Trying not to recollect on the chaotically eventful twenty-four hours you've had.

The instance with your boss at the bar. Hannah barging into Adam's apartment and ransacking it when you were in the middle of fucking each other's brains out. A gnarly hangover. An asshole clerk at a grimy corner store. A failed Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Adam beating the living shit out of your ex-boyfriend. And now an enigma taking a toll on him, that he was dragging you into?

Adam emerges through the threshold. "I didn't mean to yell at you... but I'm not leaving you here alone after what just happened." He apologizes haphazardly, leaning his cumbersome frame into the doors wooden trim.

"What happened?" You ask, as you shimmy into a pair of mom jeans, wiggling as you button them up and eye him inquisitively.

He kneads his forehead lethargically, eyes sealing shut. "Hannah and her friends crashed my car." He sighs, shaking his head, trying to suppress the raw anger that gyrates in his chest, for the sake of not scaring you off.

"Oh, shit..." you exhale shakily. "I'm sorry."

He nods mundanely, scrutinizing you, as you hurriedly slip into a pair of scuffed-up hightop Converse, and tug a knitted, oversized sweater over your head. He aids you by plucking at the tangled, staticky hair that disperses from your head. You chuckle coyly, cheeks flushed scarlet, as he playfully ruffles with your hair.

"We need to hurry."

***

"Adam... this is a café." You drawl in befuddlement, peering through the slender glass panes that showcase a compressed cluster of people sipping on coffees and indulging in baguettes.

He responds by swinging the door open for you, allowing you to brush past him and heedfully tiptoe inside. The scent of fresh coffee grounds wafted into your face. Dim, amber lighting gleamed overhead.

"Ray." Adam addresses the man at the counter, earning him a sharp look from the barista.

His bleak, short curls settled on the top of his head in chestnut coils, his eyes brown and lethargic, his expression completely mundane. Blanker than Adam's usually was. His thin, cupid's-bow lips were quirked into an uneasy line.

"What is it, Adam?" He grumbles, as he pours a fair quantity of dark roast coffee into a little mosaic mug.

"Hiya." Adam greets drably, shoving his hands into his pockets. "We need your car."

Ray arches a brow, his eyes flickering over to you, mouth agape. "And who is this?"

"Oh," Adam staggers, pointing at you dully with his thumb. He introduces you by your first name, and you flash Ray a hospitable smile.

Ray nods, "Well, I'm Ray." He greets plainly back, "What the hell happened?"

Adam clenches his jaw, glancing around the cafés warm atmosphere. His satin skin gleaming with sweat underneath the amber glow of the low-hanging bay lights.

"Got into it with some guy." He shrugs, gritting the words monotonously. "Can we borrow your car or not?"

Ray rolls his eyes, adding a dollop of whip cream to the cup of steaming-hot coffee. "The last I checked, you had a car." He remarks.

"Last I checked, your ex-girlfriend crashed it." He retorts bitterly, eyebrows woven together, as Ray pierced him with a glare. "About two hours south from here."

Ray sighs, exuberantly dinging the bell just adjacent to the station for topping off the drinks. "Order for Kimmy." He chimes plainly, sliding the coffee across the counter, before settling his weary gaze back to you and Adam.

He surveys you both— earnest and beaming at him with hope. He sighs in defeat, "I get off in 10. I'll come with you, I don't trust you to drive." He explains.

"Thanks." You chirp, as Adam smirks at his grouchy friend, whom glares at him once more before dissipating through the threshold leading to the backroom.

***

The ride to your unknown destination was tedious. Painstakingly slow. Every time Ray throttled with the knobs to turn the music up, Adam nearly blew a fuse. Resulting in a two-hour ride spent in a suffocating silence, except for the exasperated sighs of Adam, and the occasional comment chirped out by Ray as he drove leisurely down the compact interstate.

Things only escalated in the worse ways imaginable when you arrived to the... scene of havoc. Adam's car was totaled, a headlight shattered into unsalvageable pieces upon the tarmac, shards of eroded metal peppering the cement, the windshield harvesting a long, rigid crack.

Three girls were accompanying the wreckage. One of them sat crouched and calm on the sidewalk, arms crossed, expression unbothered, as she watched the vehicles whir by boisterously. The other was on the phone, staring at the disheveled car with pinched brows. And Hannah, was pacing the road, tears streaming down her ruby-red face.

"Jesus christ!" Adam barked, lurching out of Ray's car, slamming the door shut and storming towards his completely damaged, demolished car.

"Holy shit." Ray murmurs, swiveling to face you, eyes wide and fascinated, before pivoting back to face the ruins of the car.

Steam billows from the hood, a detrimental stench of burning crosswires filtering the air. "Oh no..." you whisper, sucking your lip between your teeth, nibbling nervously as you watch Adam slam his hands into the car and use all of his might to scream.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" His baritone voice reverberates around the entire bustling street, his complexion burning red with rage even from the distance separating you.

"I'm so sorry!" Hannah squeals, her body trembling as she sobs, submerged in guilt.

The blonde woman sitting crouched upon the sidewalk scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Oh, stop being a baby, Hannah!" She shouts, her british accent potent and fluent, as she glares keenly at her blubbering friend.

"Really, Jessa?" The other woman snaps, a faint lisp protruding her high-pitched voice.

Eventually, the entire cluster of people beyond the car start to scream, assaulting each other with venomous words, spewing spite, shouting and pinning the blame for the incident on one another.

"Should we stop this...?" You stifle a nervous laugh, asking reluctantly.

Ray hums, puckering his lips, shrugging and cocking his head to the side. "Maybe just one more minute." He muses, watching attentively, as you chuckle in agreement.

Adam swivels away from them, stampeding towards the car, plowing for the backseat that you were stuffed in. He swings the back door open, folding at the waist to peer at you stoically. "Get out." He says, staggering back, holding the door open for you.

You apprehensively shuffle out, staring at him in bewilderment, and turmoil. Shifting from foot to foot. Nervously glimpsing the girls, who were staring at you, completely baffled and livid. Except for Jessa. She seemed amused by your presence, chuckling sinisterly at the anger flashing upon Hannah's face.

"Sit in the front with me." He directs, plopping down into the passengers seat, opening his arms for you as the girls all trudge across the road and sheepishly approach Ray's car.

You swallow, slipping into his lap, shimmying to get comfortable as he loops an arm around your waist and slams the door shut. The girls file into the back seat, grumbling, cramming themselves compactly together.

Nobody speaks at first. You were suffocating in the silence, smothered with a heat of shame that prickles and scathes your skin, as you sit rigidly in Adam's lap. His hand starts to rub alleviating circles into your stomach, his other hand looped tautly around the handle plastered to the top of the car.

"Oh my god?" Shoshana exclaims, gaping at you with pure disdain. "Who is this?"

Hannah shushes her sharply, smacking her in the arm in a wordless reprimanding. "I don't wanna do this right now." She whines.

Jessa chuckles, popping her head into the front seat, extending her tattooed hand for you to shake. "You're way cuter than Hannah." She quips, drawling her accent, smiling dauntingly. "I'm Jessa, by the way. I have a feeling we're going to become the wonderfullest of friends."

You shake her hand heedfully, chuckling nervously, blushing at her comment when you notice Hannah glowering at you.

"Are you kidding me?" Shoshana scowls, whisper shouting, elbowing Jessa.

"Knock it off back there, I'm trying to drive." Ray intervenes, raising his eyebrows at everybody earnestly in the rearview mirror.

***

Ray dropped Jessa and Shoshana off at the apartment they were sharing. Leaving you, Adam, and Hannah in the car. He continued to hold you securely to his chest. Although his body was conjoined with yours, he had never felt more distant and foreign. His body was here, but his mind had drifted to uncharted regions that you refused to explore.

When you arrived to your apartment complex— completely acclimated to the lack of discussion filtering the interior of the car— the abrupt murmur Adam released into your ear caused you to jolt.

"I need to talk to Hannah." He mumbles into your ear, his hand splayed on your hip, as you frown. "I'll stop by your apartment and get some stuff later. We need to figure all of this car shit out."

You nod, gulping down the urge to refute. You wriggle out of his lap, as Hannah spills out of the backseat, Adam toppling out of the front with a grunt. You enter the building first, Adam and Hannah following you.

You merely acknowledge the two of them as they shuffle into his apartment, her screams already ricocheting around the hallway. You sigh, as you enter your own apartment. Already being bombarded by their argument, that bleeds through the ventilation system.

What a fucking day.

Chapter Text

It was another frisky winter night. The heater squelched and spewed moderately-warm air. The torrid air was stuffy, hefty with the scent of dust that surfaced in the old machine. Old 80's classic rock blared exuberantly from your staticky stereo, the shitty signal eliciting a grimace on your face, as you finish mounting your newest painting on the wall above your flatscreen TV.

The city was consumed by coruscating lights as the sky blooms black, encompassed by faint flickers of distant stars. The haze of pollution clouded the constellation, blocking your view from the sapphire moon and its babies that specked the atmosphere. You were grateful enough for the obscured vision of dimming, clustered stars. The city and the stars were equally as beautiful in your eyes of artistry.

The classic "Edge of Seventeen" by Stevie Nicks rumbled from your low-quality radio system and you beamed. Twirling around the living room as you pined up your amber-gleaming string lights. Swaying and rasping the lyrics contently, feeling a bit tipsy after the glass of wine you poured yourself— the wine gifted to you as an amiable welcome gift from your new boss, Mr. Seymour.

It was a hospitable gesture, and even though you were a recovering alcoholic, you accepted it with gratitude and promised him you would crack it open the moment you made it home from work. Which is exactly what you did. You lounged on the couch and sipped on the tart, luxury wine. You were accustomed to cheap beer as opposed to opulent liquors, so it took a bit of getting used to before you could pour yourself multiple glasses and chug them.

Now, you were on your third— nearing your fourth. Clutching it in your hands, shuffling around the apartment in your fluffy socks, feeling content under the warm-toned lights that you installed on your own accord. The artificial whites that were originally housing the ceiling were atrocious, in your opinion. The coppery tainted lights were more cozy and welcoming.

Everything was coming together accordingly. The apartment was starting to feel like home. The sensation of a home was so foreign to you, and it will take some accommodating before you grow used to living on your own in a bustling city, without a warped boyfriend looming over your back...

You shook the egregious thoughts away, blinking vigorously. Instead, your concentration zoned in on the music and the bittersweet burgundy of your wine.

Loud, hostile shouts thundered over the dull bass of your music, and you groaned, dramatically rolling off of the couch. You've grown accustomed to the high pitched, banshee-like shrills of Hannah Horvath. They were blood curdling, and quaking through even your own apartment, even with the music blasting.

You debated on pounding your fist into the wall and screaming at them both. Adam and Hannah were an abomination, an unhealthy couple that every renting-occupant would loathe to be neighboring.

You trudged into your bedroom, hoping the boisterous shouts wouldn't carry to the back of your apartment. To no avail, they did. And they were exceedingly louder. Their words were now coherent enough for you to fabricate precisely what they were saying.

"You're a sociopath, Adam!"

"And you're not? You're the most narcissistic piece of shit i've laid eyes on, Hannah."

"You're fucking insane. You have little to no regards for anybody's needs, other than your own. Like fucking your new next door neighbor, just for a sense of gratification?"

"Give me a god damn break! Think realistically for once. This relationship has been over for months."

"You know what? Fine. Chase the pretty, tragic next door neighbor and see where that leads you. I'm done trying to salvage this relationship, with your puny cock already set on someone that isn't me."

"Fine!"

There were thunderous creaks of the floorboards as feet stomp through his apartment. Your heart was racing, lodged in your throat, tears of guilt and offense brimming your eyes. Then, there was a deafening thud, and a deep howl of agony that followed it.

You panicked, nausea churning in your gut, as you contemplate calling and checking in on him. You sucked your bottom lip into your teeth, lips swiping the remnants of red wine that tainted your mouth.

You chugged down the remainder of your wine— the alcohol did a substantial job at carrying you to the front door. You swing it open robustly, scampering down the hall, hopping. Reaching Adam's door. His hoarse grunts bleeding through the thin wood.

You knock merrily.

The hefty trudge of his surely booted feet skulks across the floor, eliciting creaks and belches from the hardwood floor beneath him. He forcefully swings the door open, sending you stumbling backwards in bewilderment.

His raven locks were disheveled, sweat-silken. His pale skin was bathed in a conjunction of glistening sweat, broad, shirtless torso blanketed in a sheen of perspiration. His already bandaged hand recoiling tightly to his chest, his breaths wafting out like pants.

He blinks rapidly, groggily. "What are you doing here, K-kid?" He rasps, tone high and grumbly, like a begrudged whisper.

A concerned ripple surfaces in your brow. "Did you hurt your hand again?" You slur, hands reaching to cradle his wounded hand.

He flinched away from you. His stature was stiff and cumbersome, eyes swiftly, nervously raking over his apartment. He swallows thickly, releasing a strained pant.

"Is everything okay?" He asks dubiously, perplexed, eyebrows furrowed.

"Is everything okay?" You repeat, reversing the question, befuddled.

He purses his lips, compressing them together tautly, his chin quivering slightly from the force of his apprehensive tick. "Go home, Kid." He breathes, shaking his head, a dimple surfacing near his lips as he frowns. Moving to shuffle away from the door— leaving it ajar.

You shimmy past the threshold, scoffing softly. "You know you can talk to me..." you say, following him through his scraggly, disheveled apartment.

Slabs of ply wood piled upon the floor, sawdust embedded into the crevices of every tile. A red Craftsman bag was overflowing with rusty tools, spilling an abundance of bolts and nails upon the floor. Not to mention the fresh, gaping hole in the wall. About the size of Adam's big fist. The hole still crumbling and deteriorating as you eyed it worriedly.

"Hmph." He responded with a grizzly grunt, belligerently plowing the decorative throw pillows off of his couch, crashing into the cushions with a loud sigh.

In the center of his living room, you sway timidly, awkwardly. Chewing the corner of your bottom lip, nibbling, eyebrows furrowed.

"Don't just stand there." He grits bitterly. Sighing through flared nostrils. "If you're staying, get the fuck over here."

You comply, a coy smile toying with your lips, as you saunter over to him giddily. The second your knees brush his, he cradles the backs of your thighs. Digging his nails into the flesh, manspreading, allowing you access between his muscular legs.

"Hi." He growls, attacking your lips hostilely with his own, forcefully lurching you into the couch. He crawls over top of you, his hand slithering down your outer-thigh, exploring the flesh. His tongue plunging into your mouth, lips molding angrily with yours.

Your eyebrows were drawn in astonishment, hands resting gradually, reluctantly on his shoulders, as you met the fervency of his kiss. His tongue delving deep into your mouth, your jaw slack, as he growls into your lips. Starting to grind his clearly erect cock into you.

"Adam what—" He silences you with a forceful, dizzying kiss, earning a muffled groan from you. Your hand snakes into his hair, feathering through it torridly. "What are you—"

"Need you." He rasps boisterously, breathlessly into your lips, devouring the drool that starts to pool from your abused lips. He gives your shirt an urgent tug, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. "Now."

His lips escape yours— granting you the opportunity to rake in lungfuls of humid air, your hands aimlessly gliding around his back, as he plants wet, hot, lecherous kisses into your neck. Suckling ferocious welts into your pulse, a mewl crawling up your throat.

"I don't think this is a good—" His fingers had skimmed down the front of your pants, rubbing at your clit through your panties, causing your core to churn with need and your breath to hitch. "Y-your hand—"

"I'm going to fuck you into another fucking dimension..." He grunts grittily, hoarsely, working you through your underwear as he attacks your neck with his brutal kisses. "I'm going to fill you with my fucking cum... every last drop."

He shreds your pants off of you, bunching them into a careless ball, lurching them halfway across his messy studio apartment. He only tampers with your wet panties, shoving them aside, his hand coming up to savagely unbutton his pants.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard.." he breathes, laughing dauntingly, gruffly at himself, as he starts to fist his cock, pumping it drably. His hands slam into the cushions surrounding your head, the dull, warm tip of his cock sheathing your entrance leisurely.

He plows into you with one full thrust. You squeak, your bodies jolting stiffly at the forceful impact. He repeats this. Coasting his cock into you with one brisk thrust. Stopping for a moment.

Before he starts to drill his massive dick into you, hands bracing either side of your head, hips colliding savagely into your ass. The sweaty clap of skin and your croaky moans reverberating around his apartment.

"You f-filthy whore," he blubbers, sneering down at you, plump lips twitching. Body racking into yours, cock plowing through your slick cunt, head hovering highly over you. "I'm going to fuck a baby into this pretty little cunt."

Your core coils with an overbearing gyrate of inclination, your moan hitching as you crane your chin towards the ceiling. Clenching around his throbbing cock, that pounds into you angrily, belligerently.

Your legs were trembling, locked securely around his waist, holding his body there firmly to allow his cock all the best access into your dripping cunt. "That's fucking right.. you like that. You like that I'm going to spill all of my cum into your tight little pussy." He seethes. Hands abandoning the cushion to forcefully latch to your wrists, pinning them there.

You nod robustly, whimpering, breaths labored. "Mmm— fuck, Adam!" You howl out in pleasure, when he grips one of your thighs and releases it from his hip, hoisting it over his shoulder. One of his formidable hands bars both of yours together now, as he loops his bulky arm around your jiggly thigh, plunging into you infeasibly harder.

"That's fuckin' right, baby," he grumbles blissfully, hissing in delight, face flushed red in exasperation. "You better fucking squeal for me... fuck. So. Tight." He grits through punctuation, biting the words through his rough thrusts.

His hand untwines your wrist, threading aggressively through your hair, forcing your head to angle upwards. Chin squished into your collarbone, body flapping and jiggling with his thrusts, your moans rocketing through your throat.

"Watch my cock fuck into this pussy." He snarls. Spitting down at your cunt, blasting it with his saliva, using his free hand that wasn't cradling your skull to sloppily knead it across your mound and into your clit, his cock tautly disappearing into your entrance.

"O-oh my god..." you blubber, slurring, drool drizzling from your lips, your head lulling.

His eyes bore through yours ravenously, snarls gritting through his teeth, nose scrunched, as his hips smack into your reddened ass. "Love fucking this pussy." He rambles lowly, stifling a grunt, thumb pinching and rubbing swiftly at your clit. "Was fucking made to hold my cum."

Your walls flutter around his throbbing dick at his bawdy remarks, head spiraling with a dizzying amount of thrill and desire. "Adam, I'm- I'm—"

"Fuck!" He barks through strained teeth. Nails clawing at your thigh, and your scalp. He releases your head blatantly, and it crashes into the cushion with a dull thud. "My little cockslut. Cum on this cock."

Your back arches, a wanton cry of pleasure rippling groggily through your throat as you throw your head back and rock your pelvis into his thrusts. Sweaty body convulsing, legs spasming, sticky cunt barring him in.

He harbors his breath in his crimson, puffed out cheeks. "Yes—" He growls, the animalistic sound punching through his lungs raspingly, enthusiastically. "Mmph."

His hips stutter, cock pulsating, his breath hitching coarsely. He pumps his hot seed deep within your blazing core, snapping his pelvis tirelessly, angling your hips higher to pound all of his cum straight into your pussy.

"That's my good girl." He rasps huskily, beaming with worn anger, salaciousness, and proudness. "Taking all of my cum so well."

You were flittering in the dazed cloud of euphoria he had ascended you to. Chest heaving, spit lapping in the back of your hoarse throat, body spent and cunt exhausted.

He was lodged into you, unmoving, hands back to flattening on the cushion below you. His breaths wafted into your face— the scent of beer clinging to the warmth he radiates. His eyes were skewered shut, sweat beading on his dark brow.

You tenderly swipe it away with your thumb. Observing him with furrowed brows, and an inquisitive tilt of your head. Opening your mouth timidly to comment on his breath that harbored a stench of culpability.

"Have you been drinking?" You whisper. Stroking his cheek. Chin compressed into your collarbone, creating a ripple of skin, and a double chin.

His jaw clenches. Eyes not bothering to open. "I don't need a fucking lecture right now." Is all he says. Voice low and dangerous.

"I-I wasn't—"

He pushes away from you, staggering off of your body, towering to his feet. You wince at his abrupt movement, and his detrimental shift in moods. "I could taste the fucking wine on your lips," he hisses. As he trudged away, rebuckling his pants. Frame hulking and stiff with fury.

"So don't even speak to me about recovery." He sneers coldly. Skulking across the floor with heavy, waddled, laboring strides.

You swallow the hoarse lump that bobs sappily in your throat. Your pulse skyrocketing with unease. "I wasn't g—"

"It was only a fucking— " He starts to shout defensively, before you interrupt him.

"Can I get a word in?" You roar. Glaring sharply at him, as he silenced himself begrudgingly. You adjust your panties, seeking out your pants on the floor, lethargically situating yourself in them.

He stays silent. Eyeing you with pure disdain.

"I wasn't going to lecture you." You defend. Shaking your head exuberantly, scoffing at his assumptions. "I was just worried."

He patronizes you with a bleak hum. "So you're allowed to indulge but the second I drink I have a fucking problem, and you're so worried about me?" He feigns a pout. "Give me a break," he glowers your name, hand engulfing the handle of the fridge.

"What's going on?" You demand, as he rummages through the fridge, forcefully fishing out a beer. "Why are you being such an asshole to me, Sackler?"

He heedlessly pops the cap of the beer, that spirals across the room, his lips instantly latching to the glass. He throws his head back as he chugs a relentless amount.

"I just made you cum all over my cock, and you're still fucking complaining?" He utters in disbelief, full of contempt and malice.

The vile treatment you were enduring from him, was painful. Clearly, he was intoxicated. And the belligerent little fight you had discerned just thirty minutes before clearly left him brash and crude. The hole in his wall, and the cum oozing from your cunt, made that as blatant and clearer than ever.

"I'm... sorry." You breathe sheepishly. Teetering towards the door with reluctant, heedful tiptoes. Trying not to provoke anymore of his flagrant anger. "I'm gonna—"

"I didn't say I was finished with you yet." He says, deadpan. Expression saturated in something dangerously domineering.

You scoff. "And I said I should go." You repeat assertively, moving to shuffle nearer to his door— only for his next hostile action to startle you tremendously.

He chucks the half-full bottle of Bud Light in your direction. The molasses-copper glass fractures into thousands of keen, unsalvageable shards, as it shatters on impact after smashing into the wall merely three feet away from you. After nearly jolting out of your own shaken shell, your body stiffens in fright, your veins running hot with unease.

"A-are you fucking kidding?" You whisper, slurred words quaking with contempt and fear. Tears welling and brimming your eyelids.

"You're just like the rest!" Your accusatory words ring coldly, as you shove through his door, scampering to your apartment with hot tears cascading down your face.

The heavy stomps of his feet pounding perniciously into the floor sends tremors up your legs as it rattled the entire third floor. He emerged through the doorframe, "And you're just like her!" He spews venom at you.

Reaching your apartment, you slammed the door so brashly, that it sent all of the freshly stringed-up fairy lights plummeting to the floor defeatedly. Adam's shredded scream echoes through you apartment— corresponding with the thunderous crashes of the numerous objects speckling his catastrophe of a place.

***

It's been a week since the day of the storm that had rolled through. The storm, that brewed with the alcohol that blemished each of your personas. The storm that bestowed collateral damage upon the... relationship... you were starting to build with Adam.

All of the framework was there. The blueprint for this dysfunctional, inimical relationship had seemed to be substantial from the start. When it was just a friendship that had blossomed into something truly lust-based. Now, the framework had been blown to smithereens, all because of the storm.

You've been engrossed with work to distract yourself from the fracture upon your unsteady home-life. Last Friday, you took on one of Mr. Seymour's most consequential stories, that involved a copious amount of investigative-research and... mental stamina, if you will.

Apparently— the incident that had taken place at Adam's apartment only a week ago had been an advantage to your business commutes, because Mr. Seymour had responded amiably,  to the work you had divulged him. He said he was impressed with the notable work you had put in, and he rewarded you with a brief break from the office— and a nice dinner.

Your eyes coast over the dress you had opted for, for tonight's crucial dinner with Mr. Seymour. It was a velvet, mauve black— slicked to your body, clinging to every curve, even your gut that naturally protruded through the tight fabric. The collar plunged low, revealing an immodest amount of cleavage. The hem latched to your thighs. The sleeves were mesh and flowy, allowing at least one portion of your dolled-up body some air.

You nibble your glossy lips, scrutinizing yourself, tilting your head as you smooth the clad material out. Shifting from stiletto'd foot to stiletto'd foot.

Mr. Seymour equipped you with two things about tonight: that the bill was on him, and the destination was a formal, luxurious surprise. So you garbed yourself in one of your more optimal pieces of clothing, and even slipped on a pair of overpriced heels you just so happened to have stored in your closet. Smothered by piles of unfolded clothes, that laid soiled on the floor.

You moderately peppered your face in products that would enhance your beauty— heavy coats of mascara, a stripe of eyeliner, a dollop of rouge blush to taint your cheeks. Keeping the jewelry cladding your joints minimal as not to contrast with your bolder-than-usual makeup look.

You indulge yourself with studying your reflection once more, before collecting the purse that you begrudgingly decided to pack full of the necessities you would need in order to convey yourself as a "proper" woman. Again, you were the type to utilize pockets as opposed to a purse, but tonight was about positive impressions.

That's all it was about— good impression. Professionalism. Nothing beyond work-endeavor related things.

That's what you rendered yourself, like a wreathing mantra— that is, before a high-pitched moan resounds throughout your apartment.

You stand dumbfounded before the mirror, eyebrows weaving together, hands pausing mid-stroke upon your dress.

"Adam!" The shrilly voice repeats. Squealing, moaning. Your heart plummets to your stomach, throbbing dangerously fast, drumming in your uterus.

"Shit!" You hear his baritone voice groan. The sound guttural and familiar, ricocheting off of the drab walls of your apartment. Your heart leaps to your throat, that was dry and swelling with disdain.

Tears sting your eyes, but you were swift to blink them back. Trying to suppress the boulder of betrayal that smothers your chest, you dart for the front door, slinging your purse over your shoulder. Unintentionally, you viciously slam your door shut behind you, scrambling past his apartment in your heels, wobbling a bit.

"I thought I told you to keep it d-down!" Adams voice reprimands through a lewd bleat of pleasure.

You grimace, mauling your own mantra apart piece by piece, demolishing it fiber by fiber, as you situate yourself in the elevator.

Maybe tonight would be different.

Chapter Text

Four glasses of red, Italian brewed wine.

The burgundy tartness laps at your tongue. Throat parched and dry, after the amounts of wine you gurgled down in the past hour to soothe your overbearing trepidation.

The alcohol was coursing, ricocheting through your veins. Possessing your limbs, plaguing your inebriated mind.

The luxurious, multi-zeroed meal engulfing your platter was only the aid to your less than substantial dehydration.

Now, the artificial scent of Black Ice smothers your lungs, burning your nostrils. The low hum of Victor Seymours vehicle sending tremors up your legs. The silver Mercedes-Benz, 2017 model, gliding through the secure gates that breached open for him at the foot of a winding, tarmac driveway.

Nothing else mattered in this moment.

Not Adam. Nor the random girl he chose to drill himself balls-deep into out of pure disdain for you.

Your features scrunch into a grimace at the thought. "Mr. Seymour?" You gulp, fidgeting with your clammy fingers. The alcohol churning and gyrating in your gut.

He acknowledges you with a hum, a smirk ghosting his lips. "We talked about this," he urges softly. "You can call me Victor. What is it, Doll?"

Your pulse leaps with inclination at his words. "I just... you..." your blubbered words trail off aimlessly, eyes scrutinizing his every mechanism. He was refined, dignified, radiating respectability— the nearest thing to a sanctuary you were being rendered in this unoptimal moment.

His conceited smirk strengthens, although he remains silent. The rumbled-growl of his Mercedes coincides with the pound of your pulse that skyrockets, as the vehicle rolls to a vehement stop at the base of a mosaic stairwell. Winding to a modernesque Villa, the scheme restricted to matte blacks, charcoal-grays, and drab whites.

You swallow. Your saliva was slick with unease, slithering down your throat like molasses. Victor clamors out of his seat with a small grunt, coursing around the car, swinging your door open for you suavely.

"Thank you," you swoon meekly. Cheeks ablaze with turmoil and timidity, as you scramble across from him, head bowing sheepishly.

"Mhm." He chimes lowly. His hand slithers to the arch of your back, guiding you up the steep, slick stairwell, that's tiles were lavish and approximately triple the value of your rent.

"This place is..." you start to croon breathlessly, grinning in disbelief. "Breathtaking."

He chuckles gingerly. "It's my proudest possession," he quips. The hand splaying on your back coasting down, riffing the curve of your ass that protrudes through the velvet of your skintight dress.

You shudder, goosebumps soaring up the expanse of your skin. His fingers pock into the padlock of the colossal front door. Swinging open on its own accord, broadcasting the grand foyer that was flourished with luminescent white lights.

Everything was... polished. Reflecting the artificial, blinding lighting. Every speckle of decor was opulent and worth an abundance of money, that you could never obtain.

"Take a seat," he gestures to the three-thousand dollar sectional.

You plop down into the plush cushions, sighing contently as the pillowy cushions retract beneath you. Victor situates himself only a couple tantalizing inches away from you. Arm slithering across the back of the couch, hand gradually stroking your shoulder blade. Lechery flashes beyond his brown pupils.

"You've been..." He cuts himself off, eyes flickering around your face, devouring your features that twitch under his surveying stare. "God." He scoffs, brushing a tendril of your hair. "You're beautiful."

Your cheeks burn with coy desire. You extend your hand, scooping up his cheek, thumb stroking his keen cheekbone. Eyes darting from his glistening eyes, to his lips.

His hand feathers through your scalp, fisting your hair, guiding your face into his. You groan into his mouth as your lips collide sharply, maneuvering in a passionate kiss. Tongues dancing, noses clashing, hands roaming one anothers bodies.

He caresses your thigh, hoisting you up to straddle his lap. Smooth hands exploring your hips, one of them gliding up your back and raking through the back of your tousled head. You grind into his pelvis, panting into the alcohol blemished kiss.

Thoughts of Adam start to accumulate and swarm your brain, but you were swift to shuck them away, distracting yourself by working arduously at Victor's belt.

He plants tender kisses to your pulse as you unbuckle his belt, unlooping the luxurious leather, discarding it to the floor with a clank that reverberates around the expansive foyer.

"Is this okay?" You exhale, unbuttoning his pants, as he growls throatily in approval into your neck.

He thumbs the hem of your dress, bunching it up, nipping at your jaw as you undo his pants. You fist his cock, that pulsates in your grasp, guiding it to your pussy— fortunately enough, you went commando on tonight's date.

You tease your clit with the head of his cock, running it through your slit with a mewl, collecting your juices with the tip. You ease yourself down, choking on a moan, rocking your pelvis leisurely to accommodate a steady rhythm.

He hums gutturally, neck straining, head falling back in bliss, crashing into the back of the couch. Your hands knead at his shoulders, where he's clad in a black blazer.

"You feel so good..." you whisper, breaths quaking, fanning into his face.

His hand ladles your jaw, steering your lips into his, tongues eloping in a string of wet kisses as you ride him with the firm grinds of your pelvis, sustaining every inch of him in your core by bucking your hips.

He starts to grope at your tits, palming them in his hands, rolling the fat between the heels of his palms. Thrusting up into you. Earning him a tiny squeak that clamors from your throat and emerges through your lips, entering his mouth.

"Fuck." He hisses into your lips, as you increases your speed, bouncing on his cock now. Sheathing it from the base, consuming every bit of his hard shaft, embracing his dick with your walls...

The telephone plastered to the matte side-table starts to blare.

Both of you disregard the boisterous disruption, gripping onto one another's bodies, moaning richly as his dick keeps coasting up into you deeply.

It rings again. And again, when you ignore it the second time.

Victor groans, a mixture of lewd pleasure and annoyance, as he curls his hand around the phone and aggressively holds it up to his ear. "What?" He rasps bitterly, breath hitching as you grin at him mischievously and start to fuck him harder, hostilely grinding into his cock.

"I don't—" He stifles a grunt, hand surrendering your hip in protest. "Know a S-Sackler."

You freeze. Pausing mid-stroke on his cock, hands burrowing into his now wrinkled shirt in bewilderment. Your brows pinched together in disbelief.

"It's the middle of the night," he pants, eyebrows furrowed, eyes casted to the side. "Can't you just tell him I'll take the call tomorrow?"

You hiccup on your breath, a dizzying amount of turmoil oxidizing your mind. You slip off of Victor, crawling off of his lap, adjusting your dress. Feathering your hands through your sweat-soiled hair, patting your hot, sweaty cheeks dry.

This could not be happening.

"Jesus christ." Victor snaps. "Tell him that I'm busy. If this matter is truly important, he can schedule a visitation and stop by my office tomorrow. Understand, Cecilia?"

***

"Victor, fuck!" You wail, voice saturated in pleasure, as he plunges into you forcefully enough to rapture his entire desk.

He groans, snapping his hips, that collide raunchily into your ass. The supplies on his desk rattle, pens clanking to the floor defeatedly, papers chafing off and fluttering into the tiles.

The blinds of his office were drawn, swathing the panes of glass that typically gave the entire sector you worked for a view of his drab but opulent office.

The legs of his desk squelch, skulking across the faux-fur rug planted to the waxed floors, as he pounds into you briskly. You were on a limited schedule, after all. After the disruption in his home last night, you settled for continuing your little rendezvous for another time.

Apparently the most optimal place and time; bent over his desk during your thirty minute lunch break.

You suppress another moan, fingers clawing at the desk for support, as he ransacks your cunt with his rushed thrusts. He refused to spare you a moment of affection— in this instance, you were merely just a default hole designed for his pleasure.

Oddly enough... you liked it.

"Don't let them hear you.." he taunts breathily, slamming into you, eliciting a grunt from your throat.

He was impressively skilled in fucking, considering his age and nearly mercenary demeanor. There was only one problem...

He wasn't Adam fucking Sackler.

As if you had summoned him by simply permitting his name into your mind, a quaint, nearly bashful knock resounds from the locked corridor of Victor's office.

He slows his thrusts within your core, smearing the sweat that beads off of his forehead using his forearm.

There was another knock.

"I'm coming." He bites tetchily through gritted teeth. Easing out of you, as you whimper at the emptiness and rub your slick thighs together, rolling off his desk.

You adjust yourselves back to decency. You smooth out your tweed skirt, as Victor fiddles with the collar of his burgundy dress-shirt.

You waddle in your pumps, stumbling your way over to the ottoman perched on the opposing end of his desk. Clearing your throat, using your thumb to swipe the smudged lipstick off of your lips.

Victor peals the door open.

Adam Sackler was not whom you were greeted with. Instead, his friend Ray from that bustling coffee shop stood there. A brow cocked. Eyes flickering between the two of you knowingly.

He muses your name. "Could..." He clears his throat, shifting on his feet apprehensively. "You come with me? We got some trouble in paradise."

You sheepishly glance at Victor, who zones in on you expectantly. You gulp down your trepidation and concern.

"Does now... seem like a good time for this?" You ask, tone accusatory.

"There's never a good time for Adam." Ray sighs, averting his focus to Victor. "I apologize Mr. Boss-man, but a..." He glances at you acutely. "Friend of ours is in the... hospital."

Victor blinks. Haphazardly peeling away from the door, plopping back down into his leather chair, twiddling with a pen. Eyeing you blankly.

Angst burrows and carves through your core. Your throat bobbing as you swallow, staring back at him heedfully.

He cracks a smile. "Duty calls." He agreed.

You smile sheepishly back. "Thank you, so much sir." You chirp in gratitude, as Ray starts to shuffle away from the threshold in expectancy that you would follow.

You round Victor's desk, stroking his gray stubble as you steal a discreet peck from his lips. "Thank you." You whisper again, and he grins up at you, expression purely smitten as you toss your blazer over the crook of your elbow and scramble through the door.

***

Adam's apartment was smothered in chaotic destruction. All of his wood structures were demolished. Shards of bloody glass speckled the floor, crunching underneath your nude pumps. Throw-pillows were shredded, all of the stuffing peppering and lapping to the grimy floor. The ceiling's were chipping, flaking, from where things had been lurched through the air.

Soiled condoms coiled in slimy trails on the floor. The fridge was left ajar, the frigid air from inside bleeding through the apartment. Every cabinet had been rummaged through, plates shattered on the hardwood floors.

The only thing left standing was the mason jar of Moonshine mounted to the counter. Nearly completely empty.

"Oh, Adam..." you murmur in disappointment to yourself, scooping up the jar, examining it. A whiff of the detrimental, chemically-alcoholic scent wafts into your face and you heave.

"How bad is he?" You whip around to shoot the inquest at Ray, as he frowns.

He surveys the catastrophe that engulfs you both, sighing solemnly. "Broke all of his knuckles. And a decent amount of blood loss." He mumbles, peering around vigilantly. "He walked himself to the urgent care down the street at like, five this morning. They sent him to the hospital. Planning to keep him there overnight for stability."

"Shit." You whine, skewering your eyes shut, shaking your head swiftly in disbelief.

"He's fucking insane." Ray drawls, rolling his eyes. "I don't know how anybody can deal with him."

You chuckle nervously, shimmying through the threshold that leads to Adam's bedroom. "I don't know either." You admit under your breath, peering around his bedroom, where the damage was less collateral.

You rummage through his closet, fishing out a grimy backpack that was tucked in the back. You start to skim through his clothes, hauling a couple of his plain T-shirts off of their hooks. Pairing them with a couple pairs of his loose-fitting blue jeans. Stuffing them into the bag.

"What are you doing?" Ray asks, befuddled, joining you in the closet.

"Bringing him some stuff for the hospital." You respond inattentively, begrudgingly ransacking the creaky top drawer of his dresser, towing out a couple pairs of boxers, and socks. Shoving them into the bag alongside the rest of his belongings.

You patter to his restroom next, simply tossing basic toiletries into the bag. Zipping it up briskly, slinging it over your shoulder. Your maternal mode was kicking in by each passing second.

Regardless of the amounts of disdain and hatred you harbored for Adam right now, you were inclined to aid him in anyway you could. He was a friend before he was a fuck buddy, and right now, he could use your support.

***

You were acclimated to the stench of antiseptics that came with navigating the halls of the hospital. It burned your nostrils, for the entire walk through the hall that led to the room Adam was being stationed in.

You and Ray rush through the threshold, plowing through the drapes that margin his section of the compact hospital room.

Adam's hand adorned a bulky brace, only his bloodied nails poking through. A gash ripples across his forehead, bandaged with gauze and medical tape. A long white sheet was housed over his hulking frame.

His hazel eyes possessed a glint of embarrassment as you let your gaze pick him apart piece by piece.

"What is she doing here." He grumbles to Ray. Eyes not abandoning you as you saunter over to the bench that was situated just before the wide window. Plopping down his bag of things with a dull thud.

"I brought you some things..." you say. Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth nervously, toying with it, flicking it with your tongue.

"So you trespassed." He spears you with a venomous look.

"So you fucked someone else and I'm the bad guy for coming to help you?" You roar back, eyebrows woven together in disbelief, annoyance plastered all over your face.

You fumble with his bag, belligerently unzipping it, sorting his belongings to distract yourself. Unpacking an outfit, folding it, stacking it promptly on the bench.

Adam falls silent for a moment. You can hear the cogs spinning tirelessly within his inebriated, fuddled mind.

"So you thought we were exclusive?" He remarks back, sitting up stiffly in his cot.

It's your turn to clip your tongue. Suppressing the tears that start to brim your eyelids in disbelief with his attitude.

"No." You eventually lie. "I didn't. That's why I fucked my boss twice in the past twenty-four hours." Your words slit through every crevice of him like keen daggers. "Because you made it clear just how inexclusive things are between us."

"Oh... kay." Ray exhales, heedfully tiptoeing away from the scene unfolding before him. "I'm gonna..." He gruffs out, awkwardly pointing to the door, "Yeah."

He scrambles out, brashly sealing the corridor on his way out. Leaving you and Adam in an egregious, unwanted solitude.

"You... fucking... whore." Adam whispers, seething the words through punctuation.

You stifle a laugh. Choosing to ignore the blatancy of his spiteful spews.

"I knew it. I knew you would crack under the pressure of that cocksucker," he hisses dauntingly, voice grizzly and dangerous. "Because you're a needy little whore. You'll take attention from anybody who gives it to you."

"And you'll give it to anything that has a fucking hole!" You spat back, whirling around to bark the words at him, sending him flinching at your abrupt movement. "Just to fucking cum. Because like me, you're a dirty whore who would do anything just to cum."

Adam swallows. Blinking. His unbandaged hand starts to palm the bulge tinting through the sheet, and you wince, shaking your head in protest.

"You're disgusting." You snarl.

His breath hitches, hand working sloppily at his bulge through the nearly transparent material of the sheet. "I am?" He whimpers, words quaking together.

"Yes. Look at you... proving my point." You trot towards him reluctantly, sneering. "You're hard. You like it when you get called a little whore, don't you?"

He nods robustly, lips agape.

"You're in the fucking hospital and the only thing you care to think about is cumming?" You glower the words, extending your hand to seize his hand away from his bulge.

A look of contempt kindles in both of your eyes, as you quarrel with your gazes. There was a moment where both of you went to speak, only to suppress any sort of conversation.

His hand snatched your wrist, hauling you into him, his lips crashing into yours. You yelp into his lips, as he cradles your arm to his chest, pinning it there, his wounded hand snaking into your hair and forcing your mouth onto his.

"Adam, no—" Your words were muffled and disoriented into his lips, as you writhe around in his grasp, trying to fight the teeth-clashing kiss.

He thrusts his tongue into your mouth, his tongue roping you in, fingers pawing unethically at your scalp. His teeth sink into you bottom lip, eliciting a dollop of blood, and you recoil.

Successfully shoving off of him, you stagger back, panting. Lips swollen, blood dribbling down your chin. You smear it across your chin using your forearm, a crimson ribbon gliding across your skin.

"Look, Kid..." Adam alters his disposition. Somberly dropping his gaze to his knuckles, twiddling together shamefully.

But he doesn't say anything.

His words engraved metaphorical wounds into your flesh, ravenous claw-marks, an emblem of the tragedy that was this very... relationship.

But you don't say anything, either.

Instead, you haul his belongings off of the bench, thudding the bag to the floor. You blanket yourself in vigilance, as you lower yourself into the seat. Peering aimlessly through the glossy panes of the window, that portrayed the cities nighttime, bustling buzz. The amber hue of the evening sun ricochets off of the colossal skyscrapers, disappearing behind bushels of gloomy clouds.

"I'm going to stay the night." You Inquire. Not granting him any room to worm in a refutation.

"You don't have to." He insists. Stridently cracking his neck. "I'm fine."

"I said I'm staying." You demand softly, not even bothering to shred your entranced gaze away from the window.

There's a prolonged beat of silence.

A nurse manages to creep in and tend to his wounds, catering him an unorthodox meal of chewy meatloaf, soggy waffle fries, and a juice box.

You heave in disgust at the scent that billows through the room. Propping your forearm on the windowsill— that was now broadcasting the moons misanthropic wrath upon the lively city— you crane your neck to face him.

He was devouring the food, scarfing it down, chugging on his juice box.

"Have they been starving you?" You quip dully, brows knitted together, a sad smile splaying on your lips as he pauses.

"Haven't eaten much." He grumbles haphazardly back, resuming his feast, stuffing his mouth full of half-assed hospital food.

He pauses a second time when he notices your inquisitive stare. "How about you." He chirps gruffly between chews. "Hungry?"

The unchewed meatloaf pokes at his cheek, as he blinks at you sluggishly. Cheeks warm and rouge, black waves disheveled. All clad in a hospital gown.

There's a part of this beautiful liar that you treasured. Tokenized, even. Could it be his bawdy confidence? Could it be his doe, lethargic, tender, hazel eyes? You have no clue. All you can discern, is that you are allured by this big brute of a man. Anchored to him by lust.

Regardless of how twisted, and warped, and unwavering to Hannah's accusations he is; you cinch yourself off of the bench. Creeping over to his cot bashfully, as he scoots over to render you room upon the compact bed.

You plop down, as he scoops up a bite of the meatloaf, guiding a bite to your mouth. You scrape it off with your teeth, gagging at the flagrant taste. He chuckles, dimples surfacing around his eyes, as he scarfs down another bite.

"Poor baby." You feign a pout, reluctantly lifting a hand to his hair, stroking it benignly out of his face while he nearly chokes on a waffle fry. "They're feeding you junk."

He frowns, humming a sulking growl, nodding into your hand. "They're no pancakes." He jeers lightly with his mouth crammed full, shrugging mundanely.

His domestic demeanor was making it difficult not to forgive him.

"I'll feed you some real food when you get out of here. How does that sound?" You feign a content smirk, ruffling playfully with his hair, humming gingerly at him.

"I don't think that's a good idea." He protests, clenching his jaw. "I don't deserve you, Kid. At all. That's why I think we should just stop seeing each other like this."

Your heart plummets to your gut at his words, but you persevere through the agony that it amounts to. "You're right. You don't." You admit prudently, nodding along, rubbing comforting circles into his back.

"But." You add, tenderly circling his unscathed wrist, interlocking your fingers with his. He observes you from the length of his nose, that scrunches slightly in bewilderment. "We've tried being just friends before, Sackler..."

His plump lips quirk downwards into a dejected, understanding frown. "So... you don't think we can..." He swallows. "Be... friends anymore. Is what you're saying."

You caress his knuckles solemnly with your thumb. Eyes penetrated through his, in a wordless, glum agreement.

"Okay..." he breathes, shaking his head rapidly, kneading his temple. "Okay." He affirms. One last night, then?"

You nod dolefully, as he wraps his broad arm around your shoulder, embracing you fondly to his side. Pecking your temple, straining his neck to grant your face space to burrow into his clavicle.

There was another trepidating round of silence. Both of your bodies squished together, as you shared the platter of over-remotely disgusting food.

This time... you could feel the shift of the detrimental tide. You could feel yourself being submerged deeper and deeper under the wave of desolation that threatened to drown you with its voluptuisity.

One last night together.

Chapter Text

One more night...

You repeat the mantra you had established like a broken, whirring record in your mind, as Adam's cock drills you into the mattress.

"Mm, fuck!" Your wanton groan broils from your tongue, frothing and gurgled, eyes flittering to the back of your head.

Ropes encompass your wrists, wiring them to the backboard supporting his bedframe. Rubbing raw and weary beneath the ruthless restraints, as Adam plows his cock lewdly, inhumanely, into your cunt, that was dripping and nearly shredding with his brazen thrusts.

"Fucking little slut." He growls hoarsely through a harbored breath, sweat beading at his chin, drizzling down his neck, where the veins protrude and strain, hips snapping arduously into your ass.

"You thought you could run away from me? Hm?" He snarls, one big bear-paw coiling around the creaky headboard, the other looping around your bouncing frame, snatching and blemishing bruises into your jaw. "From this big fucking monster cock?"

He wrenches your head back, neck snapping backwards, a hitched moan reverberating around your throat. Tears cascade down your sweat-sullied face, chin craning to the ceiling, as he increases his pace impudently. Seething through clenched teeth, looming his face over yours, venomous black eyes penetrating yours from overhead.

"You think you can live without my cock? Huh?" He rasps, baritone voice slurred, ominous and domineering.

"N-no, A-Adam!" You squeal robustly, shrieking the words through a wail of bliss that scorched your throat.

He pounds belligerently into you, plucking that sweet spot with his cock, "No— Not Adam," he sputters gutturally. "Call me daddy, fucking whore."

Your jaw slackens, lips quivering, whines spewing from your mouth. "Mmph, Daddy!" You cry groggily, features wrinkled in inclination and body-wracking pleasure.

"Shit, this pussy swallows my cock whole." He glowers, words riffing from his tongue in a disbelieving snide. You hiccup and he groans, applying a forceful spank to your ass that jiggles with his animalistic thrusts.

"D-daddy... fuck, I'm gonna cum." You croon, as a torrid heat scathes your face, and a warmth plateaus in your core. You muster all of the might you can in your unoptimal predicament to fuck him back. "Please."

You flinch when he blasts a wad of spit into your face, allowing his saliva to slither down your forehead, trickling down your face. He eventually releases your jaw, easing the tension in your neck and shoulders, your face crashing into the sweaty pillows.

"I bet he doesn't fuck you like this," he sneers, hand fisting through a tendril of your hair, other hand relenting from the bedframe and clawing at your back, nails piercing through your sweaty skin. "Like the filthy, needy little whore you are."

"Say it," he adds, hand coasting to your hip, guiding you back into his brutally manic thrusts. His chest slams into your back, swelling into you, latching there like a leech. He nips at your shoulder with his crooked teeth, eliciting a meek, primal squeak from you. "Tell me you're my little whore."

"I- y- I'm you're l-little whore," you blurt through a squaggly moan, prolonging a blissful, throaty hum. "Pl-please, I'm gonna— I'm gonna cum."

He spanks you. "Then fucking do it," he barks, shrilling the words through barred teeth, animalistic thrusts never refraining.

His grunts were strident and guttural, as he seethed husky, incoherent nonsense. You convulse, limbs spasmimg, heaps of air wrenching your lungs, pleasure consuming every fiber of your being as you strain one last moan that reverberates throughout Adam's disheveled apartment.

"Atta girl," he growls, chasing his own salacious high, as your bodies jiggle, bed creaking and bleating. "Soak this c-cock."

You blubber gibberish, drool lapping at the pillow your face was squished into, moans piercing through the bleak-white pillowcase, wrists straining in the taut ropes that restrain them.

He slips out of you, pumping his cock brashly with his fist, wrist gyrating arduously as he heaves and groans. "Shit," he roars in bliss, as his hot seeds spews from his cock and splatters all over your bareback, cascading down your flushed skin.

"Holy fuck! Baby, you're so good!" He whines, as he pumps himself through the aftershocks of his powerful orgasm, seething, muttering breathy curses, free hand threading aggressively through your tousled hair as he wrung himself free of every drop of cum he could render.

"Mmm," you hum throatily, drearily, smearing your makeup onto the pillowcase. Thrashing your wrists weakly, mewling defeatedly, wriggling your hips. Shifting on your exceptionally feeble knees, as he uses a random T-shirt from off of the floor to swipe your back clean of his cum.

"Adam..." you whisper. Mascara soaring down your cheeks that matted to the pillow, that reeked of drool and sweat.

He tugs on his black boxers and pats your ass playfully, "It's still daddy, to you, kid." He breathes ferociously, clawing at your ass, kneading the blistering welts that surface there.

"D-Daddy..." you whine timidly, feeling vulnerable as your juices drizzle down your thighs, legs still spread to broadcast the mess he had made out of your abused pussy.

"Yes?" He rasps. Continuing to massage the blemishes he had embed into your ass.

"C-can you untie me now?" You slur into the pillow, words muffled and futile, breath hitching.

He pauses, before applying another belligerent spank to your ass, sending your nails clawing at the rope in an aimless attempt at shucking them off.

"Wanna juice box?" He pants, scratching the back of his disheveled, coiled, nearly greasy head. Mane glistening under the suns midday glow, like polished black marble under a chandeliers sheen.

"Um..." you consider, shifting to cinch your thighs together, shimmying in the uncomfortable position you were restricted to. "Do you have apple juice?"

He hums, calloused hands grappling at your thighs, forcing them apart again. You shudder, as the frigid air nips at your core, that was glossy and creamy with the aftermaths of sex.

"And fruit-punch." He chirps. Barefeet pattering across the hardwood floors, that groan and squeak under the application of his weight.

"Apple, please." You holler, as he dissipates through the threshold.

You could hear the boisterous slams of his cabinets, as he ransacks his already disastrous kitchen. Only the glass shards and broken remnants of his explosive reaction to the Moonshine he consumed had been cleansed. Everything else remained fractured, and blemished, and warranted as a reminder of that chaotic evening.

You wriggle your fingers, hoping to re-stimulate the circulation that they were lacking. Static prickles at your fingertips, and you sigh heavily, head crashing into the pillow, face nuzzling into the plush cushion.

Your conscious slowly starts to worm it's way back in, sheathing your mind, planting itself where it belonged. At the forefront. The euphoric aspects of your orgasm that had completely rattled your insides was no longer sustained, vanquishing with the pain that now smothers your overused cunt and spent frame.

Adam waddles back in with heavy trudges, skulking across the floor with those big fucking hooves he called feet. Nearly rapturing the entire apartment complex with his strides.

"Juice box," he muses giddily, waving it around in your face, holding the straw to your lips.

You spear him with a glare, craning your chin, dipping it into the pillow as you seal your lips around the straw and chug it down savagely, "Mm," you gruff around the straw, scarfing down the chilled apple juice.

You pant heftily, smacking your lips, "Can you untie me now? This hurts..." you pout, blinking up at him with doleful doe eyes.

He smirks, wrinkles surfacing around his honey-speckled eyes, that twinkle in satisfaction. "Say please daddy." He strokes your hair and feigns a purr.

Your eyes narrow into contemptible slits, as you sigh in disbelief. Refurbishing your pouty face, you mewl, "Pleaseee, daddy?" Even managing to make your lips quiver.

He blinks for a moment. Before a sheepish grin tugs at his lips and he chuckles manically, leaping on top of you.

You squeal a series of giggles, as his cumbersome build tackles you, fingers tickling your sides roughly. "Sackler!" You yelp, body thrashing and curling in on itself, as you frail your legs and snort.

He barks out an ugly laugh, teeth nipping at your ear, "It's daddy, remember?" He croaks through an oddly wholesome cackle, robustly tickling your waist, making you buck away from him and wail in amusement.

"Please—" you choke on a laugh, brows pinching together, wrists thrashing. "Please, stop!"

His bulky arms embrace your waist, hips grinding into your ass, as he gnaws his teeth all the way up to your shoulder and snarfs purposely like a wild hog.

"Get off of me, weirdo!" You quip, snorting, hiccuping on your giggles. His romanesque nose prods into your cheek as he nibbles at your neck, continuing to growl playfully like a mammal feasting on its prey.

"Weirdo?" He jeers, flattening his tongue and licking a fat stripe across your jaw, licking your cheek repeatedly. "Who, me?"

You sigh, stifling another chuckle, craning your neck to seek out his lips. Kissing him meaningfully, as he smiles proudly into your lips, working at the ropes looping around your wrists as his tongue explores your mouth.

When he successfully releases them, he swivels you around to lay flat on your back, his hands engulfing both wrists, kneading the sore spots that had accumulated there. Tongue still maneuvering with yours, he guides your wrists to the mattress, pinning them firmly.

You arch your back off of the dewy, disheveled sheets, moaning into the sloppy kiss. Flexing your knuckles, eyelashes fluttering, bare breasts burrowing into his toned chest.

You pull away with a leisure, quaint smack. Blinking slowly, you peel your wrist from his grasp, stroking at a strand of his tangled black hair. Brushing it bashfully out of his face, suppressing a grin.

"You're my weirdo though." You whisper sheepishly, huffing softly at yourself, eyelashes batting gingerly in exhaustion.

His hazel eyes gleam with a restricted emotion, that dances in abysmal colors around his dilated pupils. They flicker to your lips, then your eyes, and back to your lips. He attacks your mouth with a firm, passionate kiss.

Cupping your cheeks tenderly, cradling your face like it's a delicate piece of architecture to be left admired and unscathed. Lips molding with yours respectfully, moving rhythmically to accommodate the passion that sears from the warmth of your synchronized mouths. It was a kiss of pure intimacy; nearly sentiment. So pliant, and supple, and endearing.

Your pulse leaps in your throat, skyrocketing with a wave of forbade emotion. His jaw slackens as he deepens the kiss, thumbs grazing over the apples of your flushed cheeks. One of your hands grips at the nape of his neck, the other feathering through a cluster of his staticky, damp hair. He melts under your touch, radiating comfort, a profound warmth seeping through his baby-soft skin.

His eyes remain calmly skewered shut as he pulls away, lips leisurely detaching from yours, a string of spit connecting your swollen lips together. He presses his forehead tranquilly into yours, both of you catching your labored breaths.

"Time to go, kid." He grumbles, tumbling off of your body, clenching his jaw and squaring his broad shoulders tensely. Perching himself mundanely at the side of the bed, his back flexing like a wall of pure muscle.

"Go?" You mumble in bewilderment, wrapping yourself up in his sheets, bunching them around your frame.

"Yeah," he says nonchalantly. Shredding his shirt off of the floor, slithering into it brashly. "Like, home?"

A grimace placates on your face, brows weaving together, as you take a forceful sip of your apple juice.

"Do you want me to?" You utter coyly. Heedfully placing your juice box on the bedside table, clutching the sheet to your chest as you crawl across the mattress and kneel behind him.

You rest your chin on his greasy, hulking shoulder, easing your hand up to caress the opposite side of his sweaty torso. Peering up at him through your heavy, makeup crusted lashes, stroking his side nimbly.

"Hm?" You whisper when he only worms into your touch, shifting, muscular thighs spreading. Eyebrows formulating a hardline.

"Yes." He eventually exhales. Cranking his neck, the veins protruding through and bobbing, as he stares at you blankly.

Your hand freezes, expression befuddled and thoroughly embarrassed. "Oh." You murmur shyly, ripping your hand away from his side, lifting your chin off of his shoulder. "O-okay."

You scramble off of the mattress— bleating out a cry of discomfort when your knees buckle, core aching at the movement. The overwhelming urge to cry infiltrates your body, a helix of disappointment wreathing in your chest, a lump building in your throat.

You sniffle, as you hunch at the waist to scoop up your skirt. Wobbling around to collect all of the articles of clothing you had shed in the wake of entering his apartment earlier in the day.

"Don't look like that..." Adam mutters solemnly, shaking his head, flashing you a look of stoicism that you could merely discern. "You're the one who insisted that we can't be friends."

Your lips quiver as you blink back tears, raking in a sharp breath. "W-well... we also agreed that we wouldn't fuck again, and..." you glance around bashfully, clutching your clothes tauter to your bare chest. "I just thought that maybe..."

"Thought what?" He barks, a ripple surfacing in his brow, as he plows himself off of the bed. "You thought you could just keep coming back, and coming back, for my cock? And then what, huh?"

You scoff. "Adam, that's not what this is... I- I lo- love spending time with you," you defend, musing the words, shaking your head. "Please. Don't shut me out. Not again."

His shoulders slouch, lip tucking in on itself. "You shut yourself out," he mumbles in defeat, adjusting the pillows to avoid confrontation.

"Please." You cry, shucking your cluster of clothes back onto the floor, wrenching the sheet tighter to your trembling body. "Stop pushing me away from you. I just..."

You tiptoe, maneuvering your way over to him haphazardly. Gently, you apply a stroke to his earlobe, lips parted as you stare up at him in earnest. "I just want to be with you. For real this time." You state, like it was an allegiance that you were pledging your life to.

"I don't want to fucking share you," he glowers, whipping around aggressively, sending you scrambling back a couple steps. "I want that old man fucking gone."

You nod exuberantly. "I want to be all yours," you admit, smiling coyly when your dedication visibly registers upon his face. "But you have to be all mine, too."

He ponders, a whirlwind of thoughts torpedoing throughout his fogged brain, as he absorbs your words that were uttered so softly and diligently, they were nearly prestige.

"You're mine." He shudders, hand snaking up your neck, caressing your jaw, as if he was deliberately searching for a confirmation.

You smile, circling his wrist, guiding his knuckles to your lips. Peppering them in patient kisses, eyeing him vigilantly. "I'm yours." You whisper through a peck upon his knuckle.

"You're mine." He repeats, more firmly, stepping into you. Broad chest swelling into your breasts, thumb prying at your bottom lip, kneading it around.

"Yours." You rasp, parting your lips, allowing his thumb to slip inside. Suckling on it coyly, tongue lapping at the pad of his thumb.

"Mine." He growls domineeringly, undereye twitching, as he bodies you into the bed. You squeak, back crashing into the mattress, his formidable frame colliding on top of you. "Fucking mine."

His hands grope at your breasts through the sheet, tweaking at your ballooning nipples. "These tits?" He rasps. Striking them forcefully. "Mine."

His hands slither down your body, pawing robustly at your hips, "Hips?" He squeezes them roughly. "Mine."

They trail down, exploring the expanse of your thighs, as he slips them beneath the sheet and spreads them. "These thighs?" He snarls, shimmying his head under the sheet, nipping at the flesh with his teeth. "Also mine."

You suppress a whine when his torrid tongue licks a stripe up your wet slit, lapping at the juices that lingered there from only moments before. He hums huskily, "This pussy..." he croons into your cunt, growling in approval. "Especially belongs to me."

His head prods through the sheet, poking through the nearly transparent material, as he starts to delve into your cunt. Slurping, sucking, licking, devouring. Tongue exploring your folds, lips seeking shelter around your aching bud. He relishes in your navally moans, basks in the wetness that seeps from your core and all over his burning face.

As you start to ascend your peak— a knock resounds from the front door.

Adam never relents, instead he groans into your hot pussy, tongue plunging into your heat, absorbing your juices that coat his tongue. His hands pine your hips to the bed, as he indulges in his meal, snarling and leering into your dripping cunt, tongue flicking and swirling all around to gather every last drop of your appending orgasm.

"F-fuck!" You whisper shout, chewing your lips to restrain all of the moans threatening to spill from your sore throat.

Another knock. This time, it was more feverish and demanding. "Open up!" Ray chirps in benign sarcasm, "not in the mood for patience today!"

You shiver, flopping around, trying to buck your hips up. "Shit, It's Ray." You croak, smoothing your hand over the sheet where Adam's head was bobbing with his lewd work.

"I'm not finished with this needy little cunt yet," you hear him grumble into your folds, plump lips working brazenly at your clit, sending tremors up your legs, and an immense flame of pleasure kindling in your core.

"Oo, there we go..." he chants when he elicits a quiver out of you, "that's right."

Another knock. Another swirl of Adam's tongue.

Your head was reeling with pleasure, legs shaking, toes curling. Clammy fingers clawing aimlessly at the scraggly sheets, moans hitching from your parched throat.

Another hostile knock, just as Adam groans, "I fucking love this pussy—" and sends you into a fit of blinding, blissful hysteria, your cum squirting all over his face, your entire body convulsing and trembling, face scrunched and jaw slack as you moan lewdly and gush all over him.

"Yes," he drawls hoarsely, with the slush of his tongue lapping up all of your juices. "Yes. That's my good girl. So fucking sweet for me."

You couldn't articulate a word he was crooning at you over the vigorous pounding at the door, and the fuddled haze of bliss that pummels your mind.

He wisps out of the sheet, flapping it away, pouncing up with ratted hair, hooded eyes, and your juices gleaming on his rugged goatee and the tip of his big nose. A drowsy grin on his slick lips.

"Answer the door!" You reprimand with a coy smile, when he only squishes your thighs and beams at you with the look of a purely satisfied man.

"Fine," he sighs, looming over to chomp at the flesh of your thigh playfully, before ascending to his feet and rushing through the threshold. Nearly toppling over after the amount of time he spent yearning in your heat.

"Ra—"

"Jesus christ man!" Ray barges through the front door, scoffing. "Was it that hard to answer the door?"

You could discern Adam panting, as he gulps. Slurping on his juice box. "What the hell do you want?" He rasps.

"I mean, like seriously dude." You articulate Ray's lighter strides as he nears the threshold of the bedroom. "It's like a ten-step walk to the door from y—"

He freezes in the doorway, blinking copiously at you, lips quirking and pursing into an awkward line.

"Hi," you muse with a subtle smile through a brisk sip on your juice box. Legs crossed nonchalantly, sheets wrinkled and blanketing your sheeny, spent body.

Ray stutters, pivoting around to face Adam, whose bulky arm was propped on the door frame as he eyed his friend in wry amusement.

"Did I interrupt something, or—"

"Yes." Adam snarfs, just as you insisted, "No."

"Oh... kay." Ray drawls heedfully, eyes flickering between the two of you— sweaty, and clearly strained by a wire of longing that intertwines your gazes. He settles on you. "I was just... stopping by to take your boyfriend to his show tonight."

Adam roars incoherent nonsense, a strident shout reverberating through his apartment as he palms himself in the forehead and grits his teeth. "Godddammit!" He prolongs the snarl, rushing to the closet. "Fuck! Shit!"

You perk up in bewilderment, alarmed. "What show?" You ask, observing Adam as he rummages through his closet.

"The play?" Ray muses, noting your inquisition. "It's tonight. Adam's in it."

You spring up exuberantly, chuckling breathily, beaming at Adam with an impressed grin when he fished out a pair of blue jeans and scrambles to lug them on.

"That's fucking amazing!" You squeal, "Holy shit, Adam. You didn't tell me you were an actor."

He shrugs with his brawny shoulders, tossing you a drab look. "It's not a big deal," he pants, zipping his jeans hastily, wriggling around in them. "I only act on occasion."

A proud smile continues to fester on your lips, "That's still awesome," you murmur gingerly.

"Thanks, kid." He smirks sluggishly, skulking over to you. He ruffles playfully with your hair, pecking your sappy forehead, that glistens with perspiration. "I want you to come."

You pipe up, beaming from ear to ear. "Really?" You chirp, nibbling your lip.

"Yes," he chuckles. You spring up from the bed, using his body for leverage as you sustain the sheet around your body.

"The curtain opens in less than an hour," Ray sighs monotonously, glimpsing his watch. "Would you two hurry it up, before you're late for your own show?"

You nod skittishly as you disappear briskly through the threshold of the bathroom, readying yourself at a collateral speed.

***

A thunderous heap of applauds sweeps over the theater— fond whistles, boisterous claps, and robust chants flooding the impressively substantial crowd.

You were cheering the loudest amongst the rest. Chanting gleefully, clapping your hands hard enough to paint them red in agitation.

Adam was phenomenal. His acting skills were rounded with something appointedly raw, originating from the sheer core of him. Untamed and acute, yet purely etched with a methodical precision that was blurred by his suave, natural groove of things.

The whole clusterfuck of people Adam aquatinted himself with— you, Ray, Hannah, Jessa, Marnie, and Shoshana— were all anticipating the moment Adam would emerge from the stage door he was assigned to escape from.

You twiddled apprehensively with your fingers, avoiding the group of unfamiliarly-familiar people by watching the door attentively. Straying behind as an abundance of actors and actresses file out of the gray corridor.

Adam grunts as he seizes the door open in exasperation— a grin instantly housing on his lips when his eyes flashed to you. He drops his dufflebag of things to the concrete below him, opening his arms, as you dash into his embrace with a chuckle.

He swoops you off of the ground, planting ghoulish, giddy kisses all over your face, spinning you around elegantly. Your hands cup his cheeks, lips seeking out his in the chaos of everyone blabbering and chitchatting around you.

"You were perfect," you whimper into his lips, eyebrows weaving together, as his tongue clashes with yours in an idle battle for dominance. You pull away for air, "So, so good, Adam."

Your lips delve lecherously back into his, and he groans, arms clutching your frame tighter, your legs engulfing his waist as your mouths scrutinize one another's in a dizzying, lascivious kiss.

"My man," Ray jeers, gripping Adam's shoulder flagrantly, patting it aggressively. "That was good, it was good!"

Adam leers into the kiss, lips smacking as they disengaged tenderly from yours. He tosses Ray a glowing glare.

Jessa clamors from the back of the crowd, "I totally agree." She drawls, british accent potent and divine, smile brilliant. "Truly. It was absolutely coruscating, raunchy! I liked it," she cheeses, expressing her words passionately.

"Thanks," Adam responds curtly, voice monotone and bleak. "Thank you all... for coming."

Jessa smacks Hannah tauntingly in the arm, "you liked it, too. Right, Hannah?" She patronizes— behaving as the horrendous friend she blatantly was.

"Yeah..." Hannah breathes sheepishly, eyes glossy, as she blinks and bounces her foot skittishly. "It was... It was nice. Good job Adam."

He nods skeptically, hand rubbing alleviating circles subconsciously into your back. "Yeah," he continues to nod awkwardly. Swaying you around in his embrace. "Thanks. Hannah."

"Can we go now?" Shoshana bleats, whining dramatically, lisping. "It's like totally negative ten degrees below fahrenheit out here, and my skin feels like It's about to flake off."

Jessa lulls her head with a feigned groan, widening her pale blue eyes, grinning connivingly. "Oh, don't be such. A. Puss," she teases through a chuckle.

"No, I'm serious, my flesh is like tingly and—"

"Okay." Adam intervenes, romanesque nose gliding across yours in an eskimo kiss, as he takes vigilant strides away from the group. "We're gonna go... again, thanks, all of you, for coming."

Hannah interjects, "Wait— I thought we were gonna... celebrate. At Ray's?"

"Uh," Adam gruffs out contumaciously, eyes hooded unseasonably. He snarfs out random gibberish, making animalistic grunts.

Hands slithering down your back to grip the backs of your thighs. He acts as if he's taking the offer into consideration, cocking his head vigorously, shifting from hip to hip, rocking you around.

"Might just pound you into that brick wall over there," he coos, murmuring hoarsely into your ear, before allowing his eyes to survey his group of friends.

"No, thank you," he snips dully, eyeing them all tritely. "We're gonna go fuck over there." He grunts, slinging you over his broad shoulder, pointing onward in no particular direction as he shuffles down the sidewalk, and away from the cluster of his now befuddled, grimacing friends.

Chapter Text

A plethora of neon bicycle helmets were mounted to the lengthy wall before you.

You survey Adam apprehensively, toying with the fringe of your flowy, olive boho-esque frock. "You're not seriously making me buy a helmet, right, Sackler?" You muse.

He scratches his goatee, eyeing the vast selection of colorful helmets. "How about we pick one for each other." He chirps monotonously, quirking a brow with a queasy smile.

"Fine," you sigh. Sauntering away from him, fingers tracing the ridges of every helmet as you stroll along the wall, scrutinizing it from floor to ceiling. Taking your options into consideration. Puckering your lips, a taunting smile brushing over them.

You glimpse Adam staring at you in your peripherals, and you pierce him with a playful glare, "no looking!" You quip, shielding the selection you had made, as you crouch to your knees and snatch the helmet off of the bottom hanger.

Adam grumbles aggravatingly, thumping along the aisle, sighing as he scans his options.

He barks out a grizzly, hideous cackle, swiping a helmet off of the wall, cradling it in his brawny arms. Tiptoeing nearer to you with jeering strides, a huge grin plastered on his face.

"I'm scared..." you drawl through a bewildered chuckle, ascending to your feet, catering the helmet you had chosen for him behind your back. Biting your lip as you suppress a smile and peer up at him through the tender veil of your eyelashes.

"I'm satisfied with my choice," he cheeses, opening his arms, permitting you a view of the helmet he captivated in his grasp.

It was a fucking Unicorn helmet.

Garnered in rainbow ribbons, coruscating, kiddish glitters, a teal bushel of hair spiking along the center.

"Looks like we're both gonna look like total idiots," you chime, grinning wickedly at him as you reveal the Minnie Mouse helmet you had picked for him.

It had a real, ginormous, bubblegum pink bow, speckled in polka-dots, the big, circular ears protruding from the colorful helmet.

"You fucker." He tsks, snickering, aggressively trading you helmets.

You shimmy yours over your head, buckling it briskly beneath your chin, beaming up at him as he struggles to cram his head into his own.

He grunts navally, skewering an eye shut, as he tugs and strains the buckles, trying to latch them. "I think my ears are too big for this shit."

You swat his hands away, and he recoils in astonishment, as you work belligerently at the buckles— pulling them tautly, trying to latch the pink plastic clips together.

"I think you look cute," you comment through gritted teeth, pulling harder. "Pink is definitely your color."

He whines. "I detest these fucking ugly things, and their unoptimal design. Feels like it was made for a fucking four year old." He grumbles snarkily, rolling his eyes as you continue to fiddle with the straps.

"Uh, yeah, that's exactly who it was made for." You snort, growling in exasperation when the buckles just refuse to interlock.

"Are you two planning on buying those, or are you just gonna loiter?" The cashier hollers hostilely, barking the words, sneering.

Adam opens his mouth to snarl back, but you beat him to it; "No, we're fucking planning on stealing these ridiculously overpriced helmets," you snap boisterously, sarcastically, "Yes. We're buying them, dude."

The cashier leers, fury flashing upon his face, fumes nearly emitting from his nostrils as he scowls. "Get out of my store." He orders lowly. When you only stare at him completely aghastly, he shrills, "now."

Scrambling to the door, Adam elopes his hand vigorously with yours, leading you to the polished glass corridor.

"Leave the— Hey! Leave the Helm—"

You were gone before the cashier could finish his strident refutation.

"Go! Go! Go!" Adam repeats gruffly, hoisting you up onto the mobile scooter you were renting, hand coasting your hip as he climbs on behind you, kicking the peg stand and zooming down the sidewalk.

"Holy shit!" You squeal, as his bulky arms barbed you into the scooter, his veiny hands wobbily taking control of the handles.

"Nice going, kid." He rasps jeeringly into your ear, chuckling mundanely, steering around a pivotal corner and zilching through the clusters of people congesting the sidewalks.

"D-did we just steal?" You clamor in disbelief over the roar of traffic whirring by exuberantly, tossing the words to Adam from over your shoulder.

The cold wind billows through your hair, nipping harrowingly at your nose, blemishing the tip of it from the immense frigidness of New York's winter. The breeze tousles your hair, swindles with your flowy dress, sending it bunching up your legs— there was a plausible chance you were broadcasting your panties to the entirety of Madison Avenue.

"Yes, we did." Adam confirms through a harbored breath, blurting them in amusement.

"You're going to get us killed!" You heave through a giggle, the air punching through your lungs, as he whips around another slanted corner.

He sends a crowd of people pummeling out of the way, staggering off of the sidewalk, hiccuping in astonishment. Barking out snides, piercing the two of you with abominable glares.

"Sorry!" You squeal out haphazardly, arching your back and prodding your head into Adam's hulking shoulder, blinking at him from upside down. A contagious grin splaying on your lips, as the mouse ears of his helmet flap with the wind.

"We can slow down now!" You insist, laughing breathily, threading your fingers through his over the handles, aiding him in steering the scooter.

He coughs hoarsely, decelerating the speed of the electric scooter— resulting in the two of you just cruising along the streets, swerving around different patrons of the city. Ridiculous helmets mounted to both of your heads, the buckles of Adam's Minnie Mouse helmet flailing into your face.

He leisurely skids to a halt, producing an incessant screech of the scooters brakes. You jolt, as his toned chest collides with your back, tearing an uncomfortable, quiet moan out of you. Adam cackles, sneaking a couple sloppy kisses to your neck as he kicks the peg-stand back up and guides you off of the scooter with a hand splaying on your waist.

You bustle through the nearest corner store, pillaging through aisles and aisles of packaged snacks. Adam departed from you to venture off to the opposite side of the shop, scanning the wall of chilled drinks, as you scouted out the cramped candy aisle.

You scoop up a supersized bag of Jelly Belly's, aimlessly surveying the nutritional facts. Despite the horrendous information you gather, you plop the colorful, overflowing bag on the counter to be rung up, as Adam slides two bottles of lime Jarritos to the cashier.

Adam pays for the snacks— that entail a dangerous quantity of artificial dyes— with a wad of cash he had stuffed into the back pocket of his loose-fitting blue jeans.

You juggle the bottles of Jarritos in your arms, the plastic carry-out bag dangling off of the crook of your elbow, as Adam adjusts your helmet and tampers with his own. Trying to fasten the pink buckle, and not succeeding.

You round the corner where the scooter had been parked, worming your ways through the crowd of liberated, bundled-up New Yorkers.

Finding that the scooter was gone.

"Argh, fuck me." Adam groans enthusiastically, sniveling the words through gritted teeth.

He shreds the helmet off of his head, feathering his fingers through his disheveled, raven mane. You balance the detrimentally neon drinks under your arms, hunching at the waist to one-handedly unbuckle the straps of your helmet and peel it off of your head.

"Well, now what, Sackler?" You pant, breathing in exasperation, as he cradled the helmet to his broad chest.

He slips the helmet back on over his freshly swooped tendrils of hair, adorning it crookedly. "Looks like we're walking." He muses notably, gesturing for his drink.

You comply and toss it to him, in which he snatches it up greedily, instantly popping the cap and chugging some of the authentically lime beverage down.

His other hand seeks out yours. Fingers intertwining tenderly, the heels of your palms molted together. He swings your arm back and forth giddily between your bodies as you explore the finest riches, and slummiest scum piles of New York. Sackler earlier referred to himself as your amateur tour guide, as you were new to the bustle and mercenary cataclysm of the city.

He flourishes here. He's incredibly humble about his disposition as a New Yorker— if you could even bestow that sort of title upon him. He was a man that lived and thrived in the city, but not a man obligated to boast about the status quo or any trivial matter of modern society. He ignorantly hates it all; the politics, the drama, the whole rundown. It is trite and pointless in his eyes— and that was something you had grown to treasure about him.

"One time I built a boat. Nearly sailed it right down this canal," Adam grumbles mundanely, slanting his palm and directing your gaze to the Hudson River's slender, pacified waves. "We were gonna sail it allll the way down that one fucking waterfall and see if we would survive that shit."

You chuckle, eyebrows springing up in befuddlement. "Really?" You beam, head nestling into his shoulder, hand rummaging through the bag of jelly beans planted between his muscular thighs.

"Yeah," he gruffs out, head crashing and nuzzling into yours, as he plops a handful of jelly beans into his mouth.

You were huddling up to shed warmth, observing the tranquil waves that plunge into the pier, and the seagulls that swarm the bay. Delving down and plucking through the cities dry, inhabitable terrain to scavenge for spare food. Soaring with the breeze, clamoring.

"I still want to. Maybe one day we could do it. Just leave everything behind and outlive the sea." He starts enthusiastically, "I would fuck you on that tiny little boat..." he growls, gripping your thigh, squishing the flesh hostilely between the pads of his fingers.

"I want everyone in New York to see these tits bounce," he leers, hand coasting up your body to squeeze your breast through your dress, earning him a stifled mewl out of you. His hand slithers back down, steering around your backside, fondling with a handful of your ass. "And these cheeks jiggle."

You swat him away with a playful grimace and he snickers, spreading his legs, dipping back into the bench lethargically. You fish through the pack of Jelly Belly's, searching precisely for the blues and pinks.

"What're you doing down there, kid?" He mumbles through a dreary smirk, studying you from the length of his nose, as you earnestly pick through the crinkly bag.

"Looking for the blues. And the pinks," you chirp, flashing him a supple smile, before zoning back in on the jelly beans. A divine handful of them were already accumulating in your palm. "They're my favorite."

You continue to organize through them, popping blue jelly beans into your mouth in the tedious process of looming over Adam's lap and pillaging through the bag. The way his eyes burned through your every movement was tactile, like his stare was searing holes through your flesh.

His hand snakes through your hair, and you rasp midchew when he wrenches your face up and smashes his lips urgently into yours. Other hand cupping your cheek as he rewarded you with a patient, leisure, breathtaking kiss, that was unmoving and long and momentous.

His tongue explores your mouth, plush lips maneuvering softly over yours. You unintentionally exchange your jelly bean through the kiss, as you coil your hand around the nape of his neck and skid your fingers through the patch of hair there, guiding his face eagerly into yours.

He pulls away with a labored breath, eyes falling tenderly to your drooly lips. His calloused thumb strokes benignly at your cheek. He gives the half-chewed jelly bean a nibble, licking the flavor off of his lips.

"Yeah... the blue is pretty good." He murmurs absentmindedly into your mouth, applying a string of slow, melodic kisses to your lips.

"Mhm." You moan quaintly into his lips, firmly cupping his cheeks as your tongues clash and lips synchronize peacefully.

The squawk of a seagull swooping down and thunking into the trash can next to you roused a jolt out of you, lips detaching from Adam's. He swivels around, staring at the grimy, fringe-feathered bird.

"Fuck off... little bastard." He sneers at the seagull, lurching in its direction, sending it squaggling and flapping away out of pure terror.

You snort, popping another strictly blue jelly bean into your mouth, chewing on it contently. You radiate satisfaction— from the tantalizing kiss, from the bleak scenery, from the overall marvelous situation at hand. This is the steadiest you had been with Adam, and you would bask in the light of sustaining this relationship with him for as long as it could be shed.

Of course, something immoral would have to plague your fantasizes of a grander existence with the one man you truly desired.

In this precise predicament— it just so happened to be an inquisitive looking Victor Seymour.

The other man you pined for in inclination, and dragged along through the search for release during the journey of the start of you and Adam Sackler's relationship.

He strolls mellowly down the sidewalk, hands crammed into the pockets of his overpriced trench coat, gray tendrils being floundered and abused by the beaches breeze. He minds his business, scanning his surroundings idly, up to nothing other than maneuvering around the pier.

You were oblivious to his brash appearance, up until he was already approaching you.

Your hand strokes at Adam's thigh through his crisp Levi's, eyes dauntingly locked on his, when a hand tapped your shoulder nimbly.

You whip around to come face to face with your boss— in which your hand recoils from Adam's lap out of sheer instinct.

"M-Mr. Seymour," you blubber sheepishly, smiling nervously at him. "Hi!"

He smirks conceitedly. "Hi, sweetpea." He mumbles to you haphazardly, eyes flickering callously to Adam. "Adam. Right?"

Adam's expression was deadpan, although a gleam of disdain twinkles with fury beyond his hazel irises. His undereye twitches. "You must be the one taking advantage of young—"

"What brings you out here?" You intervene candidly, batting your eyelashes, lightly permitting Adam a kick to the ankle.

Victor's eyes linger on Adam, something sinister and unfamiliar brewing in his retinas. Before he softens his stoic expression and croons at you.

"Oh, just my usual walk. I never get tired of the view," he chuckles gingerly. He swoops down to steal a peck from your forehead— and you could feel the negative shift in the energy encompassing you, Adam's body stiffening at your side. "And what brings you out here, hun?"

You open your mouth to chime out any sort of feigned response, but Adam was spiteful enough to blurt out his next words hostilely beforehand.

"She's clearly fucking busy." He snaps, gesturing venomously to himself, sniding the words coldly enough to freeze his own judgement. "Why don't you just go fuck off somewhere."

You internally shrivel in embarrassment, heat rousing on your cheeks and blazing there, nipping away at you with a flame of fear for the outcome of his indignant statement.

"I'm so sorry about my friend, sir." You stutter coyly, blinking profusely, extending your hands in surrender. "I just—"

"He's right." Victor states eerily tranquilly, awkwardly pursing his lips, nodding curtly. "You're busy. I'm sorry. I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early."

You perch stiffly, unmoving, unblinking, as he waltz away. Clearly ashamed after the scolding treatment he had endured.

"Did you just call me your fucking friend?" Adam drawls in disgust once Victor had dissipated through the winter fog, voice dangerously baritone and hoarse. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

You pivot to face him, eyebrows cinched together timidly. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to say.” You defend nervously.

“You’re insufferable,” he clicks his tongue incredulously, his facade of decency crumbling into ruins, being refurbished by a slate of rage. “You wanted me to be your fucking boyfriend so badly, and this is the shit you pull?” He roars, voice cracking, expression bitterly confused. A befuddled, angry smile on his lips. “Are you fucking shitting me?”

You scramble over your words, struggling to articulate a single thing that your brain was hot wiring. “I- I panicked.” You gulp down your trepidation, fidgeting with your fingers. “I’m sorry. I’ll tell him everything tomorrow, please just—”

“I’m fucking out of here,” he murmurs, broadcasting solemness on his pale face as he tries to suppress his anger. He snatches up the bag of jelly beans, “I can’t deal with this will-they won’t-they shit. When I commit to something I really fucking commit, and you’re just being an asshole.”

He starts to trudge away, meandering awkwardly through the grass, conveying his cumbersome frame stiffly through the crowds of people. Hunching his shoulders tensely, rolling them apprehensively.

You leap up hastily, “Adam! Wait—”

“Cunt.” You discern his growl as he disappears through the fields of grass, venturing begrudgingly back to the city.

***

After scavenging two subway stations, taking one sketchy uber, and a three block walk through the winter nights menacing frigidness all alone, you arrived back to your apartment. Adam’s door was compressed and jarred tightly when you limped passed it.

You fumble with your keys, clammy digits trembling and quaking with a mixture of shock from the blazing cold, and your rattled emotional condition. You manage to insert it through the padlock, giving it an arduous twist, shoving through your front door with a sigh.

You kick off your Doc’s, shucking off your coat, draping it over the coatrack. You start to skulk around your apartment in your fluffy socks, gliding across the hardwood, shuffling to your bedroom— when a boisterous snore booms from your couch.

You pause, breath hitching, as you turn around vigilantly. Creeping over to the new sectional couch you had invested in— seeing Adam splaying flat on his stomach, black hair oozing into his face in inky tendrils, as he snores and pouts deliriously in his slumber.

You had no clue how he managed to barge in, or why out of all places, he chose to result in bombarding yours. You presumed he locked himself out of his apartment again— just like he happens to do at least once a week, always ending up snuggling up in your bed on those reoccurring occasions.

You frown dolefully, trying to disregard the heavy boulder of guilt that smothers your chest, as you round the back of the couch. You unfold your spare, fluffy throw-blanket, ruffling it out, before draping it across his slumbering frame. Listening to his snores, as you softly pack the blanket into his figure, tucking him in.

He looks domestically at peace like this, hands innocently crammed under his chin, long legs sprawled, barefeet dangling off the arm of the couch. Stomach flush with the couch cushions, throw pillows throttling his face.

You take your time to admire every refined feature of his sleeping face. Eyelids dancing, plump lips forming a swollen pout, a dimple surfacing between his brows with every snore he fumes out.

You press a pliant kiss to his forehead, lips lingering there, as you relish in the warmth of his skin. Knowing this would be the last moment of tranquility that you endured from him before things fell apart all over again.

Chapter Text

The thunderous clattering of pans chafing emerges from the opposite side of your bedroom door. Paired with a heap of those gruff, baritone, firm shouts that the familiar voice occupying your apartment was barking out.

Your eyes flutter open briskly, and you squint to accommodate the suns pristine glow.

Only to see a figure looming over your curled frame, that was compact beneath the wrinkled sheets you twined yourself in.

You shriek, a petrified scream shredding through your throat, as you stagger away from the slim figure— an alarming panic surging through your veins.

"Hello." The woman greets, expression clogged with hysteria, brown eyes bulging, bushy brows cinching together. Her crooked, cigarette-stained teeth grit obscenely as she grins. "You must be Adam's girlfriend..."

"Y-yes," you blubber absentmindedly, thrashing off of the bed, bunching the sheets around your frame as you scramble away from the bizarre woman. "And who the fuck are you?"

She scoffs, her overwrought, unhinged grin strengthening. She places her hands on her hips, "You didn't tell you're little play-thang about your big sis?" She jeers with a hooty twain, calling the words through the cracked threshold, jutting her hip.

"I thought I told you to go home, Caroline." Adam glowers, storming through the door. He shoots you an indignant glare, before prowling to the maddened, lanky brunette. "Now is not the time for you to make a fucking appearance. I don't have time for your bullshit, right now."

You gulp, eyeing Adam vigilantly, as he slovenly engulfs her forearm with his hand and directs her resentfully away from your bedroom.

"What's going on?" You muster the courage to speak, voice timid and thoroughly sheepish at the idea of your own bewilderment. "This is your sister?"

Adam spears you with another cold, daggerish look, disregarding you.

"Oh, come on, little brother!" Caroline shrills, giddily, her face flushed with enthusiasm. "At least introduce us!"

He whips around to sneer at her, "Fuck off, okay? Just fuck off somewhere." He snides venomously, yanking her by her wrist— she refutes his belligerence and plants her feet to your floor, asserting herself.

"You're really gonna leave me to be homeless?" She pouts, her squealish voice being filtered and masqueraded by faux disappointment. "I have no where else to go, brother."

Adam sighs, chest swelling, as an array of abysmal emotions dance around his retinas. It was distinguishable that he was pondering in this moment. His moral compass was pointing towards an alleviating direction, but his uncertainty on his sisters ludicrousness was refusing to reside.

"I invited you into my home once," he starts, hefty with disappointment, eyes trained on the floor out of fear of confrontation.

"It was Hannah's fucking apartment, not yours!" She stabs accusingly, scrunching her nose defensively. "Can't you do one good thing for your sister?"

He rummages through his back pocket aggressively, fondling out his tethered wallet. He shucks out a stack of cash, "You want money? Hm? Do I need to pay you to stay the fuck away from me and my..." his eyes flicker to you, and a sinister gleam kindles in them like a fire of fury. "Friend."

You deserved that— doesn't mean that the blatant burn didn't sting any less.

"I don't want your money," she prolongs a raspy scoff, bluffing, waving her hands in feigned dismissal— pffting through her lips and exaggeratedly rolling her eyes. "I just want your company. What happened to us?"

This ignites a famished blush across his cheeks, jaw clenching, her words evoking a savage rage out of him. He tries, earnestly to contain the beast— you can see the fiery pique in his eye, the fuming anger that radiates from within. He was on the verge of shattering.

"Caroline." He bites through barbed teeth, grinding them together brashly. "Choose a better day to interfere with my fucking life. Please. Don't do this now." He drawls, exasperated.

"What could possibly be more important than your sister, Adam?" She scowls, snapping the words tetchily, bitterly, clicking her tongue and patronizing him with her hands plastered to her hips.

Wordlessly, his eyes scrape over to you— deadpan, hazel, glistening with a dark twinkle that could only be discerned as raw, rightful contempt. He strains his jaw, nostrils flaring acutely, eyebrows rippling with the wave of emotion that threatens to submerge him.

"Ah, I see." She antagonizes, creeping over to you prudently, narrowing her eyes into slits as she scrutinized you from head to toe. "Your friend here is more important to you than your own blood, huh."

As the proximity between you decelerates, you feel the overwhelming urge to shuffle back. A poignant, musty stench seeps through her ratty clothes, fuming from her tousled brunette hair that was nappy and cinched into a poofy, half-up half-down do.

This woman was bat-shit. Considering the fact that she was related to Adam— you were honestly, whole-heartedly unsurprised.

"You know. He liked me first," she flaunts, with a corrupt hum, smirking, jutting her hip in a little rumba dance as she cha-cha's away from you like a completely unhinged, ballistically insane twerp. "Like. Romantically."

"Fuckkking, shit, Caroline!" Adam roars boisterously in disgust, snarling the words. "You're fucking insane! Get outta here!"

You were... aghast. She was the most flagrant, bombarding, depraved person you had ever encountered. And she was zilching and discoing around your apartment.

"I... what's going on..." you stutter, befuddled, mind warping around blankly.

"She's lying, baby, okay?" He insists, a grimace placated upon his face, as she swirls around him, cheesing with her nightmarish grin. "Would you fucking stop it? Just... go wait back at my apartment. I'll talk to you about this later."

Caroline's face warps into a nasty grimace— you could sense that she was about to fuss. She sulks, considering him, crossing her arms defiantly, before obliging to his forceful requests.

"Fine," she snaps, slurring the words dauntingly, impaling you with her gnarly look of disdain. "I'll be waiting, little brother."

She stampedes out, pattering through your apartment in her thrifted wedges, waddling. She slings a patchy, jean-stitched purse over her dainty shoulder, growling as she shreds the front door open and stomps away torridly.

You release the strained breath you had been harboring— a boulder unsmothering your chest. A rope of tension wires the two of you together, rooting you apprehensively in place. All you could do was drink in each other's bewildered, trepidated dispositions.

Adam gruffly clears his throat, awkwardly stroking at his goatee with his curled index finger. "Sorry about her." He grumbles begrudgingly, maneuvering to shuffle out of your room. "I should go."

"Wait," you interject, bleating, extending your hand out of sheer instinct. "We should really... talk about what happened yesterday, babe."

His shoulders slouch slovenly, defeatedly, as he exhales a long, crestfallen breath. "There's nothing to talk about, kid." He murmurs solemnly from over his shoulder, demeanor dejecting, loafing body radiating dismay. "I can't put up with any of this shit anymore."

He starts to skulk through the threshold.

"At least let me explain myself." You beg assertively, adjusting the wrinkled, oversized T-shirt he had loaned you only a couple nights before.

You urgently dash to meet him, standing only a couple tantalizing feet away— you could see the glimmer of admiration in his gaze that threatened to spark but never fully ignite.

"Kid," he spews in exaggeration, laughing bitterly, shaking his head. "You're not fucking listening to me. I said I don't want to talk to you. I don't want this. I don't want you."

You flinch, blinking copiously, as your breathing unsteadies and pulse skyrockets.

There was a beat of silence. Nobody moved, nobody spoke— you weren't even sure if anybody breathed.

Then his lips crashed into yours— robustly, aggressively lapping over yours, tongue exploring regions of your mouth that elicited stunned moans from the depths of your throat. His hands were planted on your biceps, squeezing roughly, pinching the flesh, as his lips unethically devoured yours.

He pulls away, breaths jagged and tainted with malice, honey-speckled eyes roaming your frame out of pure fervency.

"Fuckkk you." He rasps, growling the words desperately, grimacing at you accusingly. "Fuck this shit."

You clasp his cheek before he can fully whip around and abandon you to wallow in the wake of his harrowing unforgiveness. Caressing the apple of his famished cheek tenderly, smiling that sad, doleful smile of yours, that spoke hundreds of desolating languages without you needing to transmit a single word.

"Don't give me that look." He whispers, bottom lip quivering, as he avoids your penetrative stare.

"Don't leave me." You mimic his gloomy, chagrined tone, whispering the words back, slithering your other hand around the nape of his neck. Threading your fingers through his black, wavy tendrils.

"We'll destroy each other." He says, tone mundane, words a raspy murmur. His lip twitches and coils in on itself somberly, emotion flickering in his golden irises, brows threatening to weave together. He looks away.

Your thumb unresides to trace the curve of his lips, gently exploring the design of the plush, rough mouth you had accustomed yourself to gravitating towards. You gently urge his attention back to you, lifting his chin amiably.

"I'm not afraid of a little destruction." You mumble sheepishly, lips quirking into a faint, jeering smirk.

"That's great, kid." He muses, unfazed, unentertained— clearly growing resistant to your bewitching coerces. "But I just found myself again, after years and years of an endless cycle of absolute bullshit. And I'm not putting myself back into that place for you."

You scoff, trying to maintain a placated, pacifying expression. "Do I hurt you that bad, Sackler..?" Your voice cracks, vanquishing the facade you were encouraging yourself to withhold.

He ponders, calculating his response meticulously. He grants you an uneasy, reluctant, stiff nod. Eyes fluttering shut, as he swallows, adam's apple bobbing.

"I would never... intentionally hurt you. You know that, bear?" You frown, heart lodged in your burning throat, pulsating incessantly.

"That's why it hurts." He admits, compressing his lips together. "You're fucking good. You make me feel things... dangerous things... you make me wanna..." he trails. "Tie you to the bed and leave you to rot for fucking weeks, make you nothing but a hole to destroy with my cock."

He continues passionately, unabashedly, "But you also make me want to keep a tiny picture of your fucking cute-ass face in my wallet at all times. And you make me want to wear one of those matching, cheesy couples T-shirts— and I usually want to fatally injure someone if they wear one of those stupid fucking things." He whimpers the words boisterously, continuing on his rampage.

"You make me wanna go back to all of my old ways... all of the ways I had worked so hard to shove aside, so I could finally be an adult and focus on myself."

You gulp, trembling at his downcasting brutality, transparency. At his adulthood. Tears were strolling down your cheeks— you could feel the slick ribbons coating your skin now, as they dribbled down swiftly.

"And fuck, kid, you're pretty when you cry." He whines huskily, thumb brushing away the salty marks of your tears.

You chuckle solemnly, cracking a timid grin. It falls just as abruptly as it had plastered itself to your lips. Even though you were still trying to absorb his flagrancy, processing his words, he continued.

"You make me want to go to fucking rehab." He remarks, wriggling his brows, faux smile ghosting his still-wobbly lips. "Not because you make me wanna drink," he hums in disapproval. "Because I can't get enough of you, and I'm afraid that if I let this addiction fester for too fucking long, I'll be in worse condition than I had ever been in before."

"I..." a nearly indistinguishable sob wracks through his lungs, "I think I..."

"I love you." Both of you blurt exasperatedly in unison— the tension instantly dissipating, being replenished by a cloud of serendipity that clogs your judgement and coaxes the pain of all his previous words away.

He snarls, grizzling out a satisfied snicker, lunging an attack on you with his body and his lips— it was his love language, the only form of affection he was capable of displaying. And you accepted it, because it was all you knew how to take.

He pounces on you, applying ferocious, eager, sloppy kisses to your lips, guiding you to the bed. Shredding off one another's clothes, not animalistically, but with tamed inclination. Meeting one another's endeared, depraved, lost gazes, as you transferred patient kisses, bodies slowly delving and rolling up into one another.

You didn't fuck— you made love.

Everything you originally wanted to articulate in meaningful words, was easily broadcasted through the sways, and rocks, and grinds of your mingled bodies. You endured a release; not only a lascivious, sexual release, but a release from the chaos that anchored you.

Your humid, sweat-sullied, convulsing bodies lay unreposefully on your mattress, that had shifted over to rest crookedly. Still mounted to the floor, anticipating the moment it would be propped by the bed-frame Adam had guaranteed you months ago.

"I should really get going now..." Adam breathes, knuckles grazing your cheek, as he strokes dewy strands of hair out of your flushed, overheated face. "I need to take care of my sister."

You nod drearily, as exhaustion overworks your body, puppeteering your weak limbs. You hum groggily in acknowledgment, eyes fluttering shut, as you prod your head deeper into the warmth of the sappy sheets.

"I understand." You whisper haphazardly.

"But I think we should take a break from us for a while." He adds, grunting as he extends to his full height, briskly shimmying into his shirt. "It's what's best. For both of us."

Your eyes snap open, as you spring up discombobulatedly. "I thought... I thought we worked things out..." you mutter sheepishly, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles.

He sighs. "What I said doesn't matter. You're unstable. You'll never make this work."

You recoil, embracing your nude body in the wet, sticky sheets, shaking your head in disbelief. "I'm unstable? I don't understand, I thought..." You blink profusely, befuddled.

"You're fucking sick." He snaps. You wince, as he clips the words furiously, desperately. "You're making me sick, too."

You glower, heart shriveling in your chest. "I'm making you sick?" You shrill, tears stinging your eyes, brimming your eyelids that burn with the urge to wail. "I moved to New York to heal. But I met you, and all you've done is hurt me. You fucked someone else, and then blamed me for moving on!"

He snivels wickedly, growling in disbelief. He stomps his foot down, shoving himself into his jeans. "You call fucking the boss healing? I call that being a fucking whore." He spits venomously, fingers working brashly at the zipper. "You gave yourself away to a fucking pervert and you're trying to make me feel sorry for you."

You scoff, "Is that what you're mad about? Huh?" You demand hoarsely, voice cracking, as you stagger from the bed to shout in his face. Jabbing your finger into his broad chest. "Huh? You're upset that I fucked some old man who treated me better than you ever could?"

He clenches his jaw, barring it stoically, rooting himself to the floor as you attempt to shove him out of your way.

"It makes you angry, doesn't it." You chirp coldly, "To think about his hands all over me... about his cock insi—"

He launches the nearest object he could retrieve across the room, shattering a blue, porcelain vase you had molded years ago in a tacky pottery class.

"Shut up." He hisses. A warning.

"No, no." You protest, chuckling manically. "Hannah was right about you. You're a narcissist." You sneer inimically, as his chest expands with his labored breath. "You can't stand the thought of me being happy without you, even though you're proving to me that's the only way I ever will be. You are such, a d—"

His hand engulfs your jaw, squeezing it hostilely, ramming you into the wall. His clipped breaths trickle across your face, his eyes flickering between yours, as if they could discover that your words were satire and that the truth was burrowed down deep in your gaze.

"I said. Stop. Talking." He growls.

You inhale sharply— and that's when your sanity shatters, your morality bursting.

"You're a dick, Sackler." You affirm, giving his chest a final shove, craning your quivering chin defiantly. "You're the sick one. You're the one who needs to grow up. You're a cheater, and a liar— you're a sociopath. You think you're so deserving of this whimsical life you've mapped out for yourself. But if anything, you deserve to suffer here, with me, because you're the biggest fucking asshole. And I'm one too."

He opens his mouth to respond, and you continue, following the path of ferocity that the heartbreak was carving for you.

"Fuck!" You sob in exasperation, body recoiling, qualing into his broad figure. Your knees buckle, a gauge tunneling in your gut, your tear-slicken face smothered by his T-shirt. "We deserve to be together, Adam. Even if it hurts— especially if it hurts."

You tremble in his compressive, suffocating embrace, as he holds you to his chest, where his heart pounds incessantly. He was speechless. Tongue-tied. Silent.

The wails that tore through your throat were meaningful, primal, muffled into his shirt, that you fisted with your clammy hands, wringing out the fabric with your shaky fingers.

Deep down, he knew that you were right. He did deserve to be harnessed to something that would only torture him back— because he was a master tormenter, and effortlessly, elegantly so. He was a beautiful liar. Just one formidable, ravishing deception.

But his ego was a tumor that sustained his mind— he could never be flexuated into the villain he proved that he contained the power to be. Adam was always the victim. He was the one always at stake. He could perform a masquerade, he could guard himself with feigned, faux, fragmented empathy, but he would always be his only true priority.

He knew he was the one in dire desperation of help, he knew that his proclivity and longing for another drink, another dose, another hit, was at the mercy of his hands. But he could only bring himself to blame you, because he would never harbor the strength to surrender to his own neglection. He would never admit to his own colossal faults and fatal flaws.

His cumbersome figure moves awkwardly to accommodate your overbearing grasp. He tries to peacefully maneuver you, shuffling across the bedroom, sustaining his hold around your wracking body.

Delicately, he splays you on your sheets, grimacing when you cling onto him out of sheer desperation. You knew he was going to leave, you could discriminate that aura that radiated off of him whenever a panic surged through him and he was obligated to flea. But you didn't want him to run away this time. You didn't want to let him walk away from the rift that vanquished the two of you— not this time.

"Don't leave," you plead, voice hollow and grave, nearly emotionless.

He doesn't respond.

His thumb ghosts your knuckles, caressing benignly, as he gently pries your hands off of his shirt, forcing your wrists to the mattress. He settles them there, surveying you carefully. He retreats when you prove to be obediently calm, letting him release you, only quivering and sniffling and observing him with deadpan, watery eyes.

He tenderly urges you to lay back, ruffling with the sheets, sprawling them across your body. He fluffs out the comforter, smoothing out the creases, draping it over your frame that twitches and rattles with unwarranted emotion.

"Please don't leave me." You whisper through a soft cry, fingers pinching into the comforter, restricting the sheets to your chin like a sheepish child.

After adjusting the blankets and ethically tucking you in, he rounds the crooked mattress, approaching your window. He tweaks the blinds, drawls the curtains, restricting the suns frivolous, morning rays from splaining through the window.

He never answers.

He only looms over you cautiously. Scrutinizing you with those glossy, golden eyes. Placing a skittish kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger there for what felt like minutes, before finally taking a step back.

He disappears through the threshold before you could even comprehend, or calculate, what the objective of his tenderness was. Was it a wordless forgiveness? Agreement?

Or was it a goodbye?

Chapter Text

A gust of wind whips you with it's humidity, conveying a scent of mildew and ensuing rain throughout the city, as appending thunderstorms brew overhead.

A few pallets of rain dribble down your trench-coat, cascading into your eyes, as you squint to peer through the panes of glass that were blurred with beads of rain. It patters softly, a peaceful sprinkle, quaint and pebbling on bypassing cars.

The gallery was illuminated by an artificial glow that beamed through the windows— two familiar figures waddling around inside, one of them yapping spitefully at the other, sauntering around as they both worked leisurely to clean up the elegant, spacious foyer.

You harbor your breath in your lungs, turning the consequence over in your head, before shuffling through the entrance.

To appease the trepidation twiddling in your gut, you chose to check out the recently featured gallery that one of Hannah's dearest friends invested copiously in; just to indulge and ease your stress. You were an advocate for art— and mentally critiquing some modern paintings as opposed to replaying the harrowing turn of events with Adam seemed like a strong diversion.

"I'll be with you in just a moment," whom you knew to be Marnie acknowledges idly, arduously stacking unpacked boxes.

"I've got this," Jessa ensures with a pale smile, strutting over to you bleakly, clad in a flowy-fringe gown and mismatched, patchy shawl, that trailed her free-spirited, bohemianesque ensemble.

When she sees you, she cracks an amused smile, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. She cackles, jutting her hips, tilting her head. She surveys you through narrowed eyes, smirking.

"I've seen you before..." She beams, wry smile strengthening, voice low, as she continues to survey you and decipher her recollection.

You open your mouth to shoot back a response, but she vigorously snaps her fingers, eyes lighting up with familiarity.

"Aha." She explains dully, nodding to herself in confirmation, smirk lingering. "I do believe we have met before." She drawls her accent nearly playfully, although the monotony of her tone merely breached that.

"I thought I told you I would be handling customers," Marnie snaps, striding over briskly, portraying her controlling demeanor.

The slender, infuriatingly chiseled-face of Marnie flickers with disdain. She flashes you a venomous look upon encountering you, crossing her bony arms defiantly.

Jessa blinks, pondering, before extending your name in bewilderment. You nod in approval, smirking at the way her British equities accentuated your name delightfully.

"I know who she is." Marnie grits. Forcing a customer-service oriented smile. "Hannah's shitty replacement." She adds, mumbling snark under her breath.

You scoff, nibbling your bottom lip to suppress the wail of amusement you could feel bubbling in your chest at her blatant comment.

"Well, I wouldn't say shitty." You jeer with a feigned frown. "Maybe slightly less mentally ill, yes. But shitty? No, I haven't stooped as low as her quite yet."

Marnie's expression contorts into an aghast wince, her eyebrows springing up, lips parting in disbelief. "Uh, well." She implicates, offended, eyes bulging. "It's a matter of perception, I guess."

You grant her a contemptuous grin, flashing your pearly teeth. "I didn't really ask you how you perceived me, though. I actually came here to support your growing business, but you know, I don't mind a little nip at my ego." You shrug, gliding away from them in one suave movement, smirking contently as your eyes scan the promptly mounted paintings.

Jessa emits a small, satisfied chuckle, radiating the notion that she was impressed. "I think I like this one, Marn." She quips darkly, elbowing her glowering companion playfully.

"I'm sure you do. Because you're a terrible friend." Marnie jabs accusingly.

"Oh, please." Jessa drawls bitterly, waving a hand of dismissal. "Everything's always about Hannah."

Marnie scowls, rummaging aggressively through one of the boxes. "It's not fair. She talks about you all the time. Jessa wears this, Jessa smokes that." She blabbers indignantly, crumpling the newspaper that was wadded within the box.

"But guess who's there to pick moldy popcorn out of her hair when she freaks out and has a manic episode? Me." She points belligerently to herself, eyes cold, glossy and expanding wide. "While you're out taste-testing hors d'oeuvres in some foreign country, I'm stuck taking care of her. And I'm still the second choice. It's bullshit." Her voice cracks, as she manages the words through a single strained breath.

A prolonged scoff rolls off of Jessa's tongue, as she nonchalantly hoists her arm up on one of the intricately architected beams, calmly leaning into it. She was purely mollified. "You give yourself too much credit." She states blankly, crossing her arms. "I know it's hard because she's a spoilt little baby, but Hannah is a grown woman. She doesn't need a good friend, she needs a Xanax and a new hair-stylist."

You suppress a smile, a snicker crawling up your throat, as you maneuver around the foyer and analyze every painting— snooping in on their rather entertaining conversation, quelling the urge to glance at them.

"I've never really understood why she idolized you so much. All you've ever done is tear her down," Marnie grumbles matter-of-factly, dramatically rolling her eyes and skulking passed Jessa to scoop up another box.

Jessa shrugs smugly, snaking her hand into one of the tethered pockets of her shawl, untucking a pack of cigarettes. She releases a lighter, popping the cigarette into her mouth, lighting it briskly.

"Maybe it's because I have an excellent ass. And smell like a field of daisies." She inhales a heap of smoke, smothering the air with the stench. "Maybe she likes the thrill of knowing that one day she might be able to say that her dearest friend washed up dead on the shore in Bolivia somewhere. It would finally give her something good to write about."

Marnie scolds her with a hostile glare, "You've got to be kidding me." She snarls slowly, gaze intensifying and stance shifting with ferocity. She waves an abundance of smoke out of her face. "You're an animal. Who smokes in a building?"

Fingers slithering along one of the golden-brimmed paintings, you chirp, "I do, sometimes. If the windows open."

Marnie stiffens, barring her jaw, not even attempting a rebuttal. She only jostles with the hefty box, pillaging through, ruffling out different articles of tiny, pristine sculptures.

"Yup." Jessa exhales a pudgy O of smoke through her scarlet-painted lips, lethargically waving her cigarette at you, smirking. "I definitely like her."

***

As you were planning to depart from the dignified Gallery, Jessa ended up inviting you to tag along on whatever whim she was exploiting. She was a walking, no, wobbling disaster, and you had never connected this deeply with anyone... anyone other than Adam.

"So. What did he do." Jessa remarks, eyebrows shooting up in acknowledgment, lips battering the edge of her shrinking cigarette.

The unkempt sheets of the bed she utilized wrinkled beneath your head as you angled it to face her, hands clasped apprehensively over your abdomen. Apparently, the apartment she had walked you to belonged to a middle-aged addict she befriended in rehab, and now both of them wasted away and indulged in any substance of ecstasy they could retrieve between these very cigarette-stained walls.

"Is it that obvious?" You sigh sheepishly.

Her lips quirk up, tattooed forearm slithering below her head to prop it up, as she shifts to face you. She smirks around the rim of her cigarette, nodding, squinting her eyes.

"Yeah." She replies cooly.

You swivel around, mimicking her gesture, resting your jaw in your clammy palm as you face her earnestly. She extends her lavishly decaled, inked-up hand, holding her cigarette to your lips.

You take a hit, humming gratefully around the slender cancer-stick, eyes creasing in the corners as you bask in the instant buzz of peacefulness.

"Well," you start, exhaling the vapor from the corner of your puckered lips, as she takes it back into her mouth, watching you attentively through the haze of smoke. "Do I start from the beginning?"

She tosses you a wry, mundane look, rolling over on her stomach, gingerly flailing her legs. "I'm an awful listener, so it doesn't really matter." She drawls the words leisurely.

"He got me kicked out of AA when we first met. Followed me home. I was brand new to New York, like I fucking moved into my apartment less than a week before my first meeting, so he offered to help me unpack." You grimace as you reminisce.

"I'm assuming he went through your underwear." She comments blankly.

You chuckle, nodding robustly, grinning widely. "Yeah." You breathe. "And then we hooked up a week later after he practically forced me into a friendship. It was..."

"Weird." Jessa chimes. Dabbing the bud of her cigarette out onto a random, crinkled Rolling Stones magazine she had splayed on her bed.

"Kinda, yeah. But a good weird." You admit coyly, cheeks famished with embarrassment.

"I totally get that." She agrees, her accent the curvature to her bleak words, as she restlessly rolls over on her back and drapes her forearm over her forehead. "I feel like there's not a single thing that a man could do to me in bed that I wouldn't find somewhat arousing."

You bark out a guttural laugh, giggling profusely, tumbling back down to sprawl yourself out adjacent to her. She turns to face you, tucking her hands below her cheek, curling her legs up, poking you with her knees that emerge through the slit of her long, free-spirited dress.

"I think that's why me and Adam worked out for as long as we did," your laughter dies, simmering to be a lingering flurry of amusement. "We loved the stupidest shit about each other. We couldn't get enough of how... messy we were together." You glance at her, noting her deadpan expression, shaking your head exuberantly. "It's stupid, I know."

She blinks. "I don't care enough to offer you advice more than once, so. Sure. It's extremely stupid." She murmurs, eyes fluttering shut, craning her forehead and leaning it slovenly into your shoulder. "Continue." She sighs.

"I think Hannah was right about him." You blurt, twiddling with the hem of your shirt, staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

"Which part?" She answers drably, smacking her lips, adjusting her head to follow suit and stare at the ceiling. "The sociopathy or the bizarre kinks?"

"Both." You whisper, chewing your bottom lip, brows knitting together.

"He fucked another woman." You add.

"Hannah." She states without clarification.

"What?" You ask, bewildered, face skewering up in absolute confusion.

She turns her head to stare you straight in the eye, long tendrils of hair framing her pale, constructed face.

"Hannah." She repeats exaggeratedly. "He fucked Hannah."

Your pulse skyrockets, cheeks flush, jaw clenching tautly at her flagrant statement. You knew her to be brutally honest, so instinctively, you trusted her blatant implication.

"I don't know why, so don't ask." She simplifies sharply, pivoting her head to observe you, shrugging as she scans you. "I truly don't get it." She exclaims, baffled. "You seem pretty fuckable to me."

You scoff. "I would like to think so," you defend, dropping your gaze to scrutinize your own frame.

There was a long pause, as you absorb this appalling information, digesting the fact that you had been confronted by Hannah after she had been unbeknownstly fucked by your man. Even from the beginning, It was clear that a sliver of Adam would always belong to her. At the start, you thought you could dismiss the pain of being the second choice. But there was something so substantially agonizing about it now that you just couldn't shake.

"I think we should raid Jaspers stash." Jessa abruptly springs up, whipping her head around to face you with wide, nearly giddy eyes.

"Of weed?" You exclaim, smirking.

"No." She pffts, brows cinching together, as she flops off of the bed and struts away nimbly, rummaging through the top drawer of the desk that was situated against the wall furthest from the unmade Queen-sized bed. "Coke."

***

You and Jessa shrill the lyrics to Promiscuous in unison, winding around together on her bed, jumping boisterously on the creaky bed, screaming songs from the 2000's hits playlist you formed one night whilst drunk and particularly nostalgic.

"I've never done coke before!" You shriek, slippery hands eloped with Jessa's as you skip around the bed, both sweaty, barefoot, and flapping around in your dresses that ranged in similar bohemian style. "This is fun!"

"I can't believe you were a coke virgin!" She shouts over the rigorous music, wincing, cackling as you basically hop around in a game of ring-around-the-rosy. "I am so honored to share this life-altering moment with you." She laughs manically, jerking you around, flinging you in the opposite direction of her as she tumbles off of the bed.

She fiddles with the stereo, jutting her hip and flopping her mouth at you in feigned astonishment as she turns up the music.

You danced for hours, draining yourselves of all vitality, until both of you were fatigued and malnourished from the lack of hydration and the befuddling side-effects of the drugs that were now wearing off after consuming you with a captivating exhilaration for hours on end.

"I think I should go home now," you pant, gulping down your saliva that felt thicker than molasses as it clung to your throat.

"You should stay here." She mumbles, exasperated, tousled head burrowed into one of the pillows that had been shed of its pillowcase, for some reason. "Jasper would just adore you," she tries to broadcast enthusiasm, but her features only twitch and her eyebrows only wriggle drearily.

You hastily collect your scattered belongings off of the floor, including a pair of earrings you were originally garnered in. You tore them off after they clashed with your face for the umpteenth time as you scampered around.

"No, I really think I should—"

A thunderous, gurgled snore emanates from Jessa, drool already spilling from her lipstick-smudged lips, legs tucking in on themselves.

You sigh, using the cognitive portion of you that lingered in all this chaos to snatch one of the sheets you had shredded off of the bed to drape it over her slumbering frame. You do a quick survey of the disheveled floor, making no notes of anything that belonged to you, and exited through the hideous green door you remembered entering the studio apartment through.

***

The commute home was nightmarish. The stations were congested, subway completely packed full of New Yorkers. You spent the twenty minute ride sandwiched between a musty hobo fiddling with the banjo and a six-foot platinum-blond that reeked of all things Bombshell Beach.

You had never been so alleviated by the mildewy-smoke scent that your apartment complexes AC unit conveyed.

But alas, it smelt like home.

Trudging up three flights of stairs, you articulate a primal sound of exhaustion, nearly a moan, upon encountering your hall.

You instantly spot a crinkled, colorful plastic bag resting by the foot of your door.

You approach heedfully, eyebrows weaving together. You hover over it, examining it, noticing the bright candies it stored. You hum, delighted, scooping it up to retrieve the content within the bag.

It was a bag of all pink and blue Jelly Belly's. Packaged in plastic, tied together slovenly,
sloppily, with a scarlet ribbon, a tiny note latching to the string.

Your favorites :)

Was all it read, in a kiddish scribble that could only be identified as Sackler.

Your lip quivers, as you try to disregard the image of him meticulously picking through an entire bag of jelly beans and collecting only your favorites to leave as a gift at your doorstep. You could already picture him growing infuriated over the patience (that he lacked) that the arduous task entailed.

You fist the bag by the makeshift, plastic handle, searching your coat pocket for your keys— only to find you weren't even wearing the coat. The coat that you had left your keys in.

"Motherfucker," you whine, kicking the door once, plopping down with a burdening sulk. You bunch your knees to your chest, sighing. Eyeing the bag of jelly beans in consideration, knowing that if you nibble on the candies Sackler had provided, you were accepting an apology.

You unbundle the bag regardless, ruffling through to pick at the first blue jelly bean you encounter. You sigh dramatically as you pop it into your mouth, chewing lethargically, gradually craning your head back and resting it on your door.

There was a long period of silence.

Appeasing enough to zone you out, ease you into a pacifying trance.

You were staring incredulously at the door located straight across from yours, when the tiniest creak of rusted hinges startled you out of your trance, a squeak emitting from your lips as you jolt.

A person down the hall shuffles into there apartment, hands preoccupied with compact reusable grocery bags, pushing through their front door. They slam it shut behind them, not even acknowledging you.

Your eyes gloss over and maneuver around to survey your surroundings, turning in the direction of Adam's apartment.

You flinch, nearly shrieking this time, when you see Adam silently sitting at the foot of his door, back smushed and head resting on it, mimicking your stature. He just stares at you, elbows perched on his knees.

"Jesus," you nearly gasp, awkwardly averting your gaze, crumpling the jelly beans shut. "You scared the shit out of me."

He looks away bashfully, shifting around, poking his cheek with his tongue. "Sorry." He mumbles haphazardly.

The words that accumulate on your tongue sting at the back of your throat, yet you broil in silence. Time feels as if it ticks tediously. No one speaks, yet no one resides.

You glimpse him in your peripherals, shuddering when you notice him already staring at you, head perched on the door and angled to face you, as he watched you with deadpan honey-speckled eyes.

You make the first move. Collecting the bag of jelly beans he rendered you—out of confrontation or something completely satire, you could not differentiate— ascending to your feet, creeping over to him vigilantly.

He scoots over to allow you room, eye's never straying away from the wall rooted before him, as if the drab design was worthy of scrutiny.

Your legs resume there previous position, bunched to your chest, your knee grazing his.

The silence straining you two grows deafening. Now, all you can hear is the dull and distant thump of his pulse as it rumbles in his chest, and the laboring breath that he quells.

Wordlessly, you extend the opened bag of jelly beans, offering him one.

He reluctantly complies— still, neither of you averting your gazes to one another— and dips his hand into the bag, fishing out a jelly bean.

He pops it into his mouth, with a painstakingly slow chew, as if he was unsure of the taste.

You charily lower your head on his shoulder, feeling the broad slab of muscle flex beneath your temple, as his body stiffens and his chewing seizes.

He hesitates, before he lowers his head on top of yours, twiddling sheepishly with his long fingers, wrists dangling off of his knees.

A beat.

"Hey, kid." He breathes softly.

Chapter Text

It was a gloomy New York afternoon.

The wind howls ominously into the polished, floor to ceiling glass-panes encompassing Mr. Seymour's office. Synchronizing with the rain that thunders into the window, spewing into it solemnly. The clouds strolled gray and hefty, the air congested with a balmy twain of early summer.

Your eyes bleakly survey the scenery the window bestowed, zoning in on the droplets of rain that slowly cascaded down. Your boss quelling soft, breathy mewls from you, as he plants tender kisses to your neck and strokes his hand up your thigh.

"Mm," he hums contently, vibrating against your pulse, as you cradle the back of his head and stare, unblinking, avoiding the tribulating thoughts that ricochet throughout your mind.

Victor had you perched on his desk, hands exploring and roaming your body, slithering up your blouse to cup at your breast. This rouses a blissful squeak from you, as you jolt with the confrontation of his finger tweaking your blossoming nipple.

Your hand salaciously glides down his Brioni-clad shoulder, nails raking into the Tweed material. You sniffle, blinking away the appending tears that start to prickle at your irises, scooping up his head in your hand and forcing your lips on his own to masquerade the dejection surging through your veins.

He muffles a groan into the kiss, as you plunge your tongue into his mouth, passionately etching your lips onto his own.

Your lips untangle with a sticky smack, "Darling," he rasps into the kiss, as your lips collide together only to shred apart again, "Is something wrong?"

You shake your head briskly in refutation, ladling his cheek, steering your body into his, breasts smothering into his chest. You lock your legs around his torso, ravenously expediting his mouth with yours, hoping to vanquish the pain sprouting in your chest with a dose of fervency.

He engulfs your jaw with his gentle fingers, tearing your lips from his, as you whine sheepishly. Tears were beading at the tips of your eyelashes, your mascara progressively starting to smear, bottom lip quivering when his eyes scan your face vigilantly.

"Talk to me." He insists, thumb swiping a tear free from your cheek that tingles coyly.

You smile meekly. "I'm sorry..." you mumble, extending your hand to plant it to his chest. "I want you."

You were fibbing straight through your teeth; you wanted his body to tame the tremoring remorse, agony, that the man you truly wanted rooted inside of you.

You maneuver to seek out his lips again, but he dodges you, softly clasping your hand that splayed on his chest. "What's wrong?" He demands benignly, although the impatience was leisurely starting to worm its way into his tranquil tone.

You sigh defeatedly, eyes flickering between his irises that gleamed a natural, pale-blue, mirthy with concern.

"We can't do this anymore." You blurt, hiccuping on your unabashed words. "I can't do this anymore."

He blinks. Rendering you nothing with his expression, other than a glint of bewilderment sheening across his features.

"Okay..." he responds slowly, drawling the word, as if he was meticulously calculating your statement in his mind. He ponders, and it's tactile, the way he turns everything over in his brain, nitpicking and prying.

You reach out to cup his cheek but he recoils, slipping out of the space between your legs he had originally encompassed. He awkwardly slips his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched heedfully, as he rounds the opposite side of his desk.

"Victor—"

"Mr. Seymour." He corrects, appointing you with a look that could only transmit contempt, as he shimmied down into his leather chair.

You gulp. "Mr. Seymour..." the title felt foreign on your tongue, as you hopped off of his desk and pivoted around to face him, defensively crossing your arms over your now wrinkled, disheveled blouse. "I'm really sorry, it's just—"

He waves a hand of dismissal. "I have work to tend to. As do you." He persists, scratching the back of his neck in palpable annoyance, shifting in his seat and reaching for a pen.

You scoff. "Please, just let me explain. Don't do what he—" you cut your blabbering short, instantly skewering your eyes shut, wincing at the words you were about to incite.

Victor nods to himself. "Right. I understand," he snivels bitterly, plowing out of his seat, marching to the door. He peels it open aggressively, gesturing for you to exit.

You flush bashfully, face twinging in humiliation, as you glance at him and shuffle over to the door.

"Have a great day, miss," he muses your last name sharply, slamming the door behind you once you'd scampered out.

You waltz your way through the line of coruscating cubicles robustly, stifling your tears up until you reach your desk. You heard a few grumbled, "whores" as you wisped by, but that was nothing new. The whole office was well-aware of you and the boss— it didn't take much evidence to unveil that.

You reside in your cubicle for the remainder of the day, pouring your pint up, pernicious emotion into the article you'd been assigned for the week— with the bosses liking in you, he equipped you with all the zesty topics— which you had a feeling would only last until the end of this week, and then you'll be back to writing about the stock market or failed Amazon truck-delivery endeavors.

As the end of the day approaches, you begin collecting your belongings and gathering your bearings, when your cellphone began to ring systematically in your purse.

You frown, sauntering your way to the elevator as you rummage through your bag to fish it out. It was Ray. Your eyebrows furrow, as you bring the phone to your ear swiftly.

"Hello?" You drawl, jamming your finger into the glistening lobby button.

"Hey, Kid," that was Sackler's voice, baritone, chirpy and awkward. "Uh, I just wanted to let you know that um... a pipe or something bursted at your place, and they're taking a hell of a long time finding somebody to fix it."

You groan in exasperation, "What pipe?"

He suppresses a chuckle, and fails miserably. "Plumbing." He chides bemusedly— and you could practically hear him shrugging.

You sigh, nibbling the corner of your lip, as the elevator chimes an exuberant ding, indicating you've descended to the lobby.

"Is there a lot of damage?" You ask, already flinching in preparation for his response, as you clack through the modernesque, bustling lobby, escaping through the spiraling, golden-trimmed doors.

There was an idle moment of reluctance.

"Well," he huffs in amusement, voice a little hoarser than before as he continues through a gruff, "Let's just say we'll be spending a lot of time together again."

***

Sackler was already hovering outside of his door when you ascended the last flight of stairs winding to the third floor. Hands crammed awkwardly into the pockets of his boot-cut, dust-scuffed Levi's, stature cumbersome, hair disheveled. Sweat glistening off of his brow— and the hulking breadth of his shiny abs.

You pucker out your cheeks, harboring your breath apprehensively. "Hey," you blurt hoarsely, lips quirking into a taut smile, as you nervously adjust the strap of your purse.

"Kid, hi," He breathes urgently, crouching over to smother you with a one, sticky-armed hug, nimbly pecking a platonic kiss to your temple. You tense in his grasp, chuckling, eyes wide and dilated wearily.

"You can come in, I'm just workin on some shit," he sniffles, using his brawny forearm to swipe his glimmering nose clean, flexing his yellow-glove garnered hand.

You glimpse your apartment— a plethora of plumbers stampeding in and out of the ajar door, trudging muddy Timberland-prints across the mahogany floors, tarnishing your rugs and stomping chunks of dirt throughout the entire third floor. Lugging equipment on their shoulders, hauling around buckets of slushy water.

You nod, creeping into his apartment, where he was already tasking himself with unlodging a crooked nail out of a slab of plywood with the hook of his hammer, grunting through clenched teeth.

"Help yourself," he rasps, slovenly gesturing to the chaotically scrambled, displaced kitchen.

"Yes, sir." You mutter jeeringly, allowing your bag to slither down your shoulder and thud into the floor just adjacent to one of his barstools, kicking off your stilettos heedlessly.

You sigh blissfully, rolling your ankles, wriggling your toes, as you patter across the kitchen, instantly rummaging through his fridge. You fish out a canister of leftover cheesecake that he had stuffed into the back of his fridge.

You whip it open, delving straight in with your fingers, collecting a dollop of the goopy cherry frosting and bringing it to your mouth. Moaning dramatically at the euphoric flavor of sugar.

You climb the Island, perching yourself there, swinging your legs back and forth as you sloppily scooped chunks of the cheesecake out with your finger and licked it off leisurely, watching Sackler as he worked unethically, but vigorously.

The muscles in his back strained, the divots wiring together, solid flesh housing a brawny curvature, as he shredded two slabs of wood apart with ease. Splinters soaring around him, pocking his skin, clinging to tendrils of his hair.

He dares a glance at you from over his shoulder, lips agape as he pants and considers you earnestly. He blinks for a moment, before dropping the strips of wood with a thunderous clap, pivoting to approach you.

He treads towards you in his bulky boots, breathing gutturally. Ripping his gloves off, tossing them to the floor, allowing them to pile up near your rain-slick stilettos.

"At least save some for me," he quips, mumbling, as he worms into the space between your legs, that you had subconsciously created when he started to approach.

He dips his finger into the plastic container, bringing a portion of cheesecake to his mouth, sucking it off diligently. Eyeing you as you mimicked his action, staring back at him pretentiously, licking your finger clean.

"Good, isn't it?" He whispers, bringing up his calloused thumb to swipe off a trail of cake that had been lapping at the corner of your lips.

You gulp, cheeks famished scarlet, as you nod and swiftly flick your tongue over every finger to ensure they were all cake-free. You shove him aside, not capable of bearing the proximity, hopping off of the counter. You maneuver to shuffle away from him, but he captures your wrist first, bearing your wrist high over your head.

"I wouldn't walk around completely barefoot, babe," he warns jarringly, jaw clenching when he lets the last word slip so effortlessly (and mindlessly) from his plump lips— that were begging to be kissed. His voice sheepishly drops a few octaves, "There could be shards of wood, or whatever."

You stutter, blinking copiously, letting out a shaky breath. "O-okay." You respond charily, tiptoeing across the creaky floorboards. You leave him in the main foyer, seeking out his bathroom.

You seal the door cautiously, observing yourself in the mirror. Your eyeliner was smudged, mascara smeared (from the rain or the brutal rendering of today's dejecting battles, you had no clue) hair frizzing spastically. You feather your fingers through it quickly, wisping it out of your face, pouting at your reflection.

A shower would suffice— hopefully it would do a substantial job in quelling your trepidation, and your hunger for the man just opposite of the clearly stitched-up bathroom door.

The dress you garbed was strenuous, clinging onto every ridge of your skin, where the rain had seeped through the floral material. You sputter curses as you wriggle free from its restraint, body jiggling, as you tear it off of your head, allowing it to slam into the tile with a soggy slap.

You slither out of your water-sullied undergarments, letting them scatter on the marbled flooring. You hobble to the shower that you'd accustomed to on your stays with Sackler, drawling the curtain open gently, fondling with the handles.

Water spews from the showerhead, clapping boisterously into the porcelain. You wait, hugging your bare, goosebump speckled body, as the water warmed significantly.

You spring into the shower, sighing richly when the water caressed your work-stressed features, cascading down your tense flesh. Soaking your hair, painting your flesh with ribbons of hot water, steam eluding from your skin.

It was peaceful, quaint, despite the occasional roars of Adam as he fucked something up, aggressively hammering into every object that embraced him.

You hum drearily, scrubbing his sudsy, masculine soap into your scalp, swaying to a volatile song beneath the harsh dribble of water. It smelt of cedarwood and familiarity. The scent of him seeping into your hair molecules, weaving into your skin.

"Need company?"

You shriek, jolting, bracing your clamoring chest with your hand as you force the curtain open to glare at the instigator of your alarmed reaction. Sackler hovers there with a lopsided grin, already fumbling with his belt.

You scoff harshly, brows pinching together, mouth parted as a faint smile ghosts your lips. Your eyes flicker over his frame, considering. The inner turmoil shrilled no, the angel on your shoulder bleating absolutely not, the part of you that refused to comply commanding yes.

Shrugging, you smirk wryly. "To save water." You quip, flinging the curtain back shut.

You have to stifle a laugh when you can articulate the way he shreds his clothes off giddily, nearly staggering over his own feet as he sloppily shucked off his jeans.

He jumps in, already clustering the shower with his colossal size. He stands there, butt ass naked, a crooked smile plastered on his lips.

At first, nobody spoke, as you rotated positions beneath the heap of flowing water. Whenever he was the one standing beneath the showerhead, you were left to shudder in the corner, as his bulky frame hogged all the heat.

Eventually, you were having a contest to see who could balance a bar of soap on their head for the longest— apparently having a despicably lanky height meant you were extremely balanced, because the bar of soap remained latched to his head untouched, no matter how roughly you plowed yourself into his body.

"That's not fair!" You giggle, giving his chest a steady shove, whining when he barely wobbles at the action that took you arduous work. "You have an advantage. You're a lump of muscle."

He chuckles, cocking a bemused brow, peering down at you divertingly. "Give up yet, missy?" He teases, poking your waist, tickling you nimbly.

You squeak, thrashing when he snickers and pulls you into his frame, your slick body's rubbing together as he tickles you.

You could feel... it growing. Throbbing into the curve of your ass, hot and heavy, twinging with a festering need, as your laughter simmers and his fingers stop their assault. Instead, his hands start to creep around your hips, cupping them tenderly, stroking the sudsy skin.

You shift discreetly, the tip of his length gliding down your ass, both of you emitting labored, hesitant breaths. You feign bewilderment, although you purposely arch at the waist to allow him better access to your cunt, slightly spreading your legs.

His cock caresses your folds, and you suck in a sharp breath through your nostrils, hand instinctively colliding down on his, holding it steady around your hip.

It all happens so quickly, raunchily, wordlessly.

One of your hands still draped over his, the other plastered to the wall, he pounded his cock into your pussy ravenously. The wet collision of skin sent a squelching smack resounding around the bathroom, his snarly grunts coinciding with the hitched breaths and bleating moans you emanated.

Your dripping breasts clap together, water soaring and flinging off of your rocking bodies, his hips cracking into your jiggling ass with a ferocity that could embellish them red. His hand that you clung to desperately coasted your hips back into his manic thrusts robustly.

His other hand was wreathing your soaked locks back, craning your neck back hostilely, steering him into your needy cunt. He sputters groans, not growling a word, only relishing in the warmth of your pussy, basking in the pleasure his unabashed pumps rendered him.

He slams you face first into the wall, and you croak out a moan, as his body molds with yours, chest puffing into your back, cock still plunging into your core, hips still drilling into your ass. His mouth accommodates shelter in your hair, panting into your ear, face smothered by your wet tendrils. His hand smacks into the wall just above yours, other hand steering your hips back harder, as both of you start to ascend your highs.

You whimper, clamoring out moans, refusing to scream his name or slur out a single word. Adam's hand that was plastered to the wall snakes down to rest on top of yours, fingers threading through yours, squeezing roughly enough to pop a blood vessel.

He hissed in pleasure, a guttural, wolffish sneer into your ear, when you barred his walls and squealed out a wanton moan, going limp beneath him as you reach your orgasm and cum around his cock. Clawing aimlessly at the wall beneath his hand, frothing for air.

Sackler seethes, clutching both of your hands harder, nestling his face deeper into your hair, as he fucks himself through a strenuous orgasm, rutting his hips up into your cunt.

You both remain like this, bodies latched together with the bawdy remnants of sex, fusing with the tiled wall. Panting, hiccuping, limply conjoining. Both of you just relishing in the shame— silencing the notion that you had seriously fucked up.

Adam leisurely glides his hand down your arm, lowering it to your hip, as he releases a primal sigh and begrudgingly eases out of you. He says nothing, as he slips out of the shower and retrieves a towel for himself, briskly feathering it through his damp, coiling hair.

You follow suit, fidgeting with the handles of the shower, before slithering out of the bathtub. Adam holds out the towel, opening it for you amiably, draping it over your shoulders and giving your arms a swift knead to warm you up.

"I'll leave something out for you to wear to bed," he mumbles subduedly.

He was gone before you could even register everything that'd just occurred.

Chapter Text

Sweat accumulates on the nape of your neck, stragglers from your tousled bun lapping at your sun-blistered skin. Glistening in luminescent droplets under your eyes, accompanied by a smudge of streaked mascara.

"Fuck." You drone sluggishly, rolling your eyes, bundling up your hair with a clammy fist, fanning out the moisture pooling at your neck.

The air-conditioning unit supplying the abundance of apartments acclimated to the complex had undergone some... turbulence. It exploded. Now, you were baking in the May-platooned sun that gleamed through Sackler's opened window, the breeze anything but alleviating— it was just as balmy as the humidity engulfing New York.

"It's hot as dog shit in here," Adam growls, grimace sour, as he surges through the door in earnest, shirtless-determination. Perspiration soaring down his brawny torso, glimmering off of the curvature of his frame, the divots of his pecs. A brown, crumbled bag perched to his hip.

"Get naked," you demand, slurring, gesturing at him with ferocity from your position upon the couch— garbing only your undergarments, sprawled, legs spread, one dangling over the plush cushions of his mustard-canary couch.

Adam slams the crinkled bag upon the coffee table, glass rattling and slithering from the tawny bag. "Don't gotta order me twice," he rasps. A bottle of virgin Peach Daiquiri clanks onto the table, and you manage a dreary smirk, slinking up your legs to allow Sackler space to sit atop his couch.

He plants himself there with a hoarse grunt, and your legs instantly collapse into his lap, your supple, sweaty skin smearing over his thighs, hulking and meaty. His digits fumble with the buttons of his khaki shorts, unfastening them hastily, slick fingers perspiring the zipper.

You extend your hand, grappling at the bottle of Daiquiri. Virgin. The bottle nearly seared your palm, broiling. You hiss, recoiling, spearing Sackler with a glare as he snickers at your astonishment.

"Nothing like a scolding glass of non-alcoholic daiquiri," you quip bitterly, scooping it up regardless, popping the cap and taking a swig.

Sackler maneuvers to apply a kiss to your neck; you dodge him belligerently. He groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, nibbling. "Let me cool you off," he insists, muttering, teasingly licking at the sweat swarming your collarbone.

You suppress a shudder, shouldering him off of you gingerly— your glare was potent enough for him to brush off of you, although begrudgingly.

His plump lips downcast into a pout. "Do I have to beg?" He teases sinisterly, with a ardent quiver of his lips. "Please oh please, let me touch you." He mocks monotonously, exaggerating, extending his hand to you.

You swat him away indignantly. "The heat must be making you delusional," you murmur, draping your knuckles over his forehead, sweeping his disheveled hair back— unveiling the subtle wrinkles burrowing through his sun-kissed skin.

His hand engulfs your wrist, "There's nothing delusional about wanting to fuck you, babe," his canines twinkle as he grins wolfishly, and nips at your finger with his crooked teeth. "Everybody wants a piece of that ass."

A raw laugh emerges from your lips, a rowdy cackle, shoulders bristling at the amused echo resounding within your chest. "I do have a rather shapely ass," you agree resolutely, jeering, inclining your head to observe him.

His fixture on your face appeared marveled; as if he was fascinated by the sweat that beaded on your brow, the hints of physical exasperation that branded your skin.

"You're strange," you implicate. "Weird."

He blinks, chafing a chaste kiss to your knuckle. "I am?" He urges.

"Yeah," you breathe, infatuation weaving into your pacified tone. "My weirdo, it appears." You slump, crashing your head into the plush cushions that encompass you, sighing. "It seems that no matter how badly you hurt me, I find myself in your shitty ass apartment, instead of my shitty ass apartment." You ramble, scrutinizing his ceiling absentmindedly.

He swallows, his honey-speckled gaze trained on you penetratingly, his spectacle nearly daggerish. "Shitty," he tuts snarkily in agreement, nodding. "You're only here 'cause you have no other choice," he mutters solemnly, glancing at the wall that bordered your apartments. "The plumbers won't be done for awhile."

Humiliation flares across your chest, blazing  humidly in your cheeks. You sheepishly shift your gaze to the window, muddled with pollution and the splintering heat.

You stifle a scoff. "I could've been sleeping in a multi-million dollar mansion stocked full of Italy's finest wines if I didn't fucking love you," you snap, shifting on the pillows to spear him with a glare, retreating from the slouch you'd drooped into. "You fucked everything up, you fucked me up." You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, rubbing ardently.

Adam's breathing escalates, "I did?" He rasps, although it was clear he wasn't confused. He was fully aware of the pain he curated.

"Yes." You groan, hands flopping to your lap waspishly. You squirm regressively when you noted the expression he adorned. Hurt. "No." You correct, "I fucked up by letting myself love you," you mumble, shaking your head.

"Do you love him, too? The old man?" He shoots, snatching the non-alcoholic Daiquiri from your grasp, chugging relentlessly, his brows furrowed as he narrows in on you.

You flinch. "Him and I are through." You glower assertively, gritting your teeth. "And I never loved him. He provided me with the validation that you couldn't give me," you remark honestly.

"You always say you're through with me," he motions to you with an oceanic wave of his calloused hand, that glides elegantly through the air. "Yet you keep coming back," he states, although his tone wavers with inconfidence.

"I'd much rather be hurt by you over and over again before be with anybody else painlessly."

With that, you ascend from the couch, standing sheepishly. Adam's hand encases your thigh before you can scramble off.

He eases up his hefty grip vigilantly, lugging you into his lap. Keeping a brawny arm secured around your waist, shifting you to rest manually on one of his bulky thighs. "Do you mean it?" He ponders aloud, tone inquisitive, airy with the previous delight he'd shedded.

"Mean what?" You blink, bewildered.

He clenches his jaw, the tendons flexing, as he averts his gaze with a singular, strenuous scoff. "That you're through with that... with that other man," his expression sours, tone terse and gruff, as he gripes the word as if it singed his tongue on its way out.

You suppress a smile at the tactile jealousy that emits from the pores caverning his unconventionally beautiful face. "Yes," you confirm, stroking his beard idly with your nails, humming. You analyze his lips, and they twitch in inclination beneath your observation. "He knows what it is that I truly want," you comment, "who I want."

Sackler gulps, adam's apple bobbing, as his eyes flicker from the curve of your lips, to the arch of your nose, to the breadth of your eyelashes. "And that is?" His eyebrows elevate lightly, gaze haphazard, plagued with desire. He asks as if you hadn't already presented it blatantly enough.

Your virtuous smile morphs into a devious grin. "I love you." You mutter, feathering your fingers through his sweat-slicken locks. "You, you, you." You puncture your words through pliant kisses that you pepper around his face.

His hands plaster to your hips, roaming up your waist, as your lips seek refuge on his. Dancing together skittishly, tongues clashing for access into one another's wanting mouths.

"I love you—" he grunts, panting into the feverish kiss, hands exploring your body as you maneuver to fully straddle his hips and gyrate your hips atop of his. "I love you. My sweet thing," he rasps, drugged on the concoction of desire and lechery your lips inject him with.

"My girl," he growls, kneading your ass cheeks, embarking his nails in the flesh as he spreads them, nagging at your bottom lip with the ferocity of the aggressive kiss. "Mine, mine, mine." He mimics, trailing dozens of kisses around your sweat-sullied face.

"Yours," you confirm, chuckling, steering your face away briskly. He whines as you pull away, embracing you with a steel hold. "And only yours. With the exception of a few fictional characters," you quip, booping his romanesque nose.

He nips at your finger animalistically, and you squeak, giggling apprehensively. "Hey," you chirp, shooing him. "Don't bite, you asshole." You scan the mark blossoming on your knuckle. "You've got some sharp ass teeth, you fucking goon."

Adam snickers. "That's my girl— insulting me whenever you get the chance."

You nestle into his body, your cheek lapping to his prominently refined collarbone. He looms over to fidget with the solo-cup of water you'd been sipping on before he arrived, savoring the cubes of ice that survived the blistering heat.

Then, an evaporating block of ice is bracing the back of your neck. You shudder, as it begins to melt on impact, his finger doodling ribbons of chilled water down your back. You sigh contently, as the water quells the sweat speckling your back.

His finger dips back into the water; tracing the curve of your spine, soaking it with subdued precision.

"Adam?" You murmur into his shoulder.

He leisurely draws a heart on your back with the water gracing his fingertip. "Hm?" He hums drearily.

"Promise me this isn't gonna end badly again."

His finger was cooler, damper, as he meticulously wrote "I love you" in sloven cursive on your back, unsure if you'd even noticed the way his endearing message felt as he dragged his digits across your skin.

"This isn't going to end badly." He assures, tone brittle, breath balmy, as it caresses your hair.

City ruckus reverberates from beyond the window, the floundering giggles of children and the chime of a bypassing Ice-cream truck booming from the glass.

"Adam?"

"Hm?" He absentmindedly toys with a droplet of water that resides on your shoulder blade.

"Can you let go of me before I have to jump out of that window to make it to the ice cream truck in time?" You muffle into his chest.

He laughs. "I'm much sweeter than ice cr—"

You were already trampling off his lap, shucking on your jean-shorts and throwing one of Adam's rugged, wrinkled T-shirts on. "Adam!" You insist seriously, sprinting through the threshold, barefoot and sweaty.

He follows, begrudgingly, stomping tediously down the stairs as you squeal and hop down every three steps, dashing for the main entrance of the complex.

The ice-cream truck was already zooming away when you arrived downstairs, and he has to stifle his laughter at your outrageous reaction.

"Motherfucker!" You screech, a riotous groan escaping your throat, as you throw your head back in rage. "Are you kidding me! How is anyone supposed to be that goddamn fast!" You pivot to face Adam as he hovers at the foot of the stairwell— he was chuckling, watching as you blinked at him in genuine bewilderment and irritation.

"Kid..." he drawls, grinning expanding. "I have a whole tub of ice cream upstairs."

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes pretentiously, jutting a hip. "I thought you didn't like ice cream." You accuse, tapping a foot.

"Well, you do." He shrugs.

You smile.

He gropes the back of his neck sheepishly, cheeks flushed scarlet— he was flustered. "I have three tubs, actually," he mumbles, eyes darting away from you. "I wasn't sure which one you liked."

You cackle, racing over to meet him. "All. The answer is all. Ice cream is ice cream," you say, interlocking your fingers with his.

***

He rummages through the freezer, yanking out a frostbitten tub of Neapolitan ice cream. Shards of ice glisten off of the lid, the wearing corners. He frowns. "It looks freezer burnt," he drags disappointedly. "I bought it for you months ago."

You snatch the tub out of his hands, peeling the lid off cynically. "Like I said, Ice cream is ice cream." You quip, as Adam fetches you a spoon, handing it to you swiftly.

You scoop out a bite; moaning at the flavor that relinquishes on your tongue. You shred through a couple chunks, strawberry ice cream leaking down the corner of your lips, as Adam watches with lewd appeal.

"Must be pretty damn good." He exclaims, eyebrows elevated, eyes nearly bulging.

"Sackler, you're drooling." You tease, swiping off a dollop of ice cream from your lips, holding it out for him to suck off. He does, licking it up obediently, quarreling you with an enchanted gaze. "Just know, that right now, you are my second favorite thing next to this ice cream."

Chapter Text

2 months later...

"I don't wanna!" Sackler drones stridently, donning his signature pout, squirming to no avail beneath your hips, as you straddle his costume-clad thighs. "It's slimy." He swats brusquely at the beauty blender you lift repeatedly to his face.

"Aw. Poor baby." You croon in a noncommittal hum, angling your head docilely as you dab concealer into the bruise encompassing his left eye. "Only you would get into a street fight the night before curtain call."

His pout solidifies, expression a sloven sulk. He drums your thighs out of boredom, grumbling snark as you batter his skin with the sponge. The uproar of the festering crowd filling the cavernous auditorium carries in a heap of clamors backstage.

"There." You murmur, tongue poking out as you immersed in concentration, applying the finishing touches to his deadpan face. "Good as new, bear."

Leaning back, you survey your work, smoothing out any smears or creases that lingered— his honey-speckled eyes gleam under the dressing rooms fluorescent glow, analyzing your every, absentminded movement. Absorbed by the sheer authenticity of you; the natural allure you emanate.

"Thanks, baby." He mutters passively, chafing a pliant kiss to your wrist as you brushed tendrils of his inky, raven locks out of his lightly-chiseled face.

"Mhm," you chime, floundering through your make-up bag, rummaging through in search of setting powder— he groans when you fish it out, head lulling dramatically as he howls out in protest.

"It's just to keep it from smearing off," you placate, chuckling at the childishness he bears.

You stipple your brush through the translucent powder, a natural ripple furrowing your brows as you blow off the access. Dabbing it with a feather-light swoosh across his features, his eyelashes flutter appeasingly, a dreary smirk plastered to his lips.

"It's nice," he observes sheepishly, and you hum pacifically back, feathering his hair out of his forehead as you skim your brush over it gingerly.

The door inclines open briskly, and you shoot the director a scathing glare in the broad mirror engulfing the wall behind Adam. He disregards your disdainful expression, appointing your boyfriend.

"We're on in fifteen." His snarl is brusque, tongue clucking to the roof of his mouth, tone earnest. He slithers away just as quickly as he'd barged in, and your smile resurfaces.

"You got this, baby. Okay?" You cradle his cheeks and force his gaze to meet yours; enthusiasm blossoming gleefully across your features. "I'm your number one fan. Remember that." You implicate, keenly aware that despite his alleviated facade, internally, he was wreathing in panic.

He grins— that stupid fucking grin— and steers you in for an exuberant, grateful kiss. Your arms seek refuge around his neck, breasts smothered by his chest, as you devour one another with lewd vigor.

You jerk away belligerently, giggling, as he peppers wet kisses all along your face, his lips luminous with spit. "Prove it," he insists, gruffing into the pecks he applies scantly.

"That you'll kill this, or that I'm your biggest fan?" You smirk prudently.

"That you're my biggest fan..." he leers, snagging at your earlobe with his exceptionally chiseled teeth, growling. Fingers biting into your supple flesh, exploring the breadth of your ass with eager-enlaced palms.

He glimpses the clock mounted to the alabaster dressing room wall, fuming a lustrous breath through flared nostrils when you gyrate your hips into his pelvis— spurring the bulge tinting his unyieldingly compact pants.

"You should prove it to me after," he rasps, wriggling beneath the pressure you ground into his dick, his hands grappling your waist in a conjunction of protest and inclination. "We don't have time to start something we can't finish."

You scoff, descending from his lap, situating on your knees below him. His hazel eyes blaze, a fire of tantalization igniting across his features. He husks a throaty hiss of approval when your hand slithers up his thigh virtuously, fumbling with the zipper securing his ensemble.

"I bet I could make you cum twice before you're expected on that stage," you mumble provocatively, humming salaciously, cocking a bemused brow as you unlatch his belt without a dose of fervency in your tedious handiwork.

He huffs, chest heaving with his inarticulately labored breathing, "Right. What are we betting? I'm looking forward to what you may owe me once you l—"

A grunt pummels through his lungs, as you fist his swollen cock and swipe your tongue across the head, collecting the pearl of precum that glistens off the tip. "Hm," you hum, sending vibrations through his already pulsating shaft. "I think you're underestimating the power I have over you."

The assertive pull of his lips falters, another disgruntled noise fleeing from the innards of his throat. "That's not fair," he mutters, fingers weaving through a cluster of your hair out of instinct when you suckled on the tip unabashedly and beamed Bambi eyes at him— doe and righteous. "Fuck, you're killing me with those pretty little eyes, kid."

You grin perilously, jaw unhinging to endure the massive girth of his cock, welcoming the throb of muscle and strain of veins upon your tongue— drool puddling with the brutally lewd bobs of your head, tongue working him to a point of agonizing need.

"Such a pretty boy," you purr, drool gleaming off of your swollen, cum-battered lips. Pumping the base of his shaft that you couldn't breach with your mouth, you suck and devour the rest, tongue exploring every flicker of muscle. "God, I love your cock."

He moans— an undeterred groan that broils at his tongue, unrestrained and guttural. "You do? You love my cock?" He pants rabidly, tone hoarse and primal, face skewered with the pleasure he was trying to suppress to save his blistering ego.

"Mhm," you massage his balls, and he howls, head lulling brashly as you continue your endeavors on his dick. "It's mine. You're mine. My good boy, hm? Are you my good boy, bear?" Your tone was docile, delicate, despite the corrupt lasciviousity of your words.

Another whimper, a rumble from the cell that cages his desire. "Yes," he gasps, sustaining a lung wrenching breathing pattern, his face taut and hued a gnarly green from his attempt at leashing his need for release— he was not your good boy— he was your stubborn boy. "I'm your good boy..."

"You're disgusting," you ridicule, and his cock leaps with a scathing intent of release, another whine droning from his lips. Even his hips stutter, threatening to buck— but you pin them down and spear him with a glare that robs him of his already sparse breath. "So filthy for me. You don't care that you're gonna be all flushed for me on that stage, do you?"

His breath hitches, eyes skittishly flittering to the door— darting back to your earnest gaze when you nip at the head of his cock. You acquired your habit at biting from him. He shakes his head briskly, dearth breaths hurdling from his agape lips.

"Such a dirty boy," you leer, spitting scornfully on his dick, painting it with dollops of saliva using your tongue. When you reer back and reward his cock with a thunderous slap, white ribbons of cum spurt out in hot tendrils, his resounding moan reverberating through the room.

"Fuck, baby." He cries, head thrashing back, hands flailing to seek salvation as you pump his sticky cock to aid his orgasm.

Before he's fully finished, your tongue is finding refuge upon the tip of his cock— he recoils, thrashing, airy refutations falling in pleads for both mercy and more departing from his lips.

"What's the matter?" You croon with false sincerity, pouting, pumping the base and hollowing your cheeks to suck lewdly. "Too much?"

He whines, "Please."

You tsk, rolling your eyes indignantly, peeling back to strike his regrowing cock once more. "Pathetic." You snarl, aware of his already established endearment for humiliation, particularly involving bashing his lewd disposition. "This pretty cock loves when I use it..."

"It does, it really does," he babbles brusquely, nodding in conformation, flashing you a meaningful look through the haze of desire poisoning his dazzling eyes. "This cock fucking belongs to you," he seethes, spit lurching from his barred teeth, words passionate.

"And it cums for me when I say it does, too." You glower, flicking your tongue over the sensitive spot where the tip meets his shaft relentlessly, animalistic gurgles bubbling in his chest. "Cum in my mouth, please, bear."

He does— both hands ladling your skull as he bursts through the barrier plastering him back, his hips bucking ravenously into your face, cock plunging into your mouth, railing your throat. "Yes," he groans, drawling it out with a baritone volume that raptures the entire dressing room.

After, you crawl back into his lap, fastening his pants with an accomplished smile. Sweat illuminates his forehead, mirroring the spit that twinkles upon your plumped lips— that he kisses without regard to the amounts of cum he'd deposited into your mouth.

"You better get out there," you muse through a strained chuckle, drumming his chest, peeling away. You ascend from his lap, unhooking your leg from his thigh, toppling off of the chair he was perched on. "They can't start without the star of the show."

He huffs, arising to shuck on the remnants of his ensemble, legs shaking with the extortion your clearly bomb head game had promoted. "I am not the star, I'm not even a side character." He swivels, and you straighten his tie, beaming as he adjusts the disheveled cap he was assigned to garb. You wipe the glint of saliva off of his lips, the perspiration glowing on his brow.

"To me, you are." You assert, eyes gleaming mischievously. "Now go."

He nods subtly, pecking your forehead, scrambling through the threshold ecstatically.

***

"Mint?" Hannah's voice was plagued by vigilance, hesitance, as she gestured at her canteen of Altoids. When you only grimace, considering, she adds, "You don't have to, you know, I just thought I should—"

"Sure," you appease, gifting her a hospitable smile.

You would tolerate Hannah Horvath. Not only for the sake of tonight, being a substantial chance at Adam's career ascending and all— but for the sake of her importance to him. Despite your rightful disliking in Hannah, she would always be a part of his life. You would endure what you must to be rewarded his unwavering love; even if that meant pulling a charitable masquerade.

She grants you a broad smile, dumping a plethora in your hand, and you mumble your thanks. She then renders an exceptional amount to her new boyfriend. Her focus averts back to you, a glint of serenity glowing in her eyes.

It was a mutual understanding that conveyed without word— she was no longer a problem. For you, or for Adam.

Adjacent to you, just opposite of Hannah, was Jessa. Perched next to her was her rather ravenous friend, Jasper. Both of them were boisterously British, dilated pupils skimming the stage that was coruscating with lights and the vibrancy emitting from its prosperities.

Sandwiched between a cluster of people you'd grown to accommodate— instead of loathe— you allow yourself to feel immense... happiness. Although unreliable, these people were the embrace of a family. Although your love was raunchy and taxing, the man you love was on that stage, imperfect in every perfect aspect.

You smile subconsciously, nestling into your seat, relishing under the stages tokenizing sheen— noting Adam's flushed cheeks and post-orgasm dazed glow as he performed on stage with vibrant restoration and satisfaction.

***

After Adam's marvelous performance, Hannah's boyfriend invites the gang over for celebratory nachos and a round of triumphant beers. You and Adam politely decline, earning you a couple flagrant insults from Jessa and a doleful clamor of disappointment from the rest— but drinking was off limits for the both of you, and munching on stale chips was a habit the two of you had acquired on your own time enough already.

Due to Adam's tactile exhaustion— in the slump of his broad shoulders, and the dreary leisurity of his blinks— you originally considered ordering take-out and residing at home for the evening. Just you two, a box of General Tso's, and an unfitful nights sleep. But he insisted, enthusiastically, that you celebrate at your place; the Diner.

It was breaching eleven o'clock, the cities ruckus boisterous with the nighttime buzz. The streets roared with life, the skyscrapers colossal and bright with fluorescent luminosity. All upon the opposing end of the glass pane stretching between you and New York's nightly chaos.

The waitress casts the two of you a baleful, wryly amused look; haggard and dusted in her weathered uniform, curls bouncing as she sauntered to the kitchen and informed the staff of your order— that she hadn't needed to take, considering her familiarity with your appetite for pancakes.

You and Adam came here so often, that your dismantling desire for pancakes was permanently engrained into the middle-aged waitresses' brain. Pancakes and a chocolate milkshake to share; with the heart-twined straws that she'd designed for the two of you on your first "date" here before.

She'd made it a habit to garner your milkshake with the evidence of your love— similar to the straw, it was flexible, and constantly bending. Despite how simple it was to mold and manipulate into whatever shape desired, It remained at bay. Always. As you would with Adam, and he with you.

"I'm really proud of you, too, you know." Adam comments abruptly, intoning over the gurgled sip of your milkshake he indulged in.

He wasn't the only one embarking on grand achievements in the past couple months— you'd been offered an astonishing promotion. Victor gifted you the grant with the investigative colony of the office, that you'd originally enrolled for.

That meant you were stationed three floors above him, alleviated from the tension that tethered you from the aftermath of your strictly-situational affair. He was grateful for the distance, for the opportunity at rewarding you one last glimpse of happiness that he'd conveyed, and you were grateful for the opportunities his selflessness warranted.

You get paid double— making yours and Adam's bills a breeze, and your shared apartment donned by luxuries you could now afford without turmoil.

"You are?" You beam bashfully, completely opposing earlier's facade at dominion. Taking a ginormous bite of your fluffy, whipped pancake.

"You're the man of the house," he pledges jeeringly, a grin expanding across his lips when you snort and nearly wretch on your half-chewed pancake.

"True," you affirm, as he swipes whipped cream off of your lips and watches you wriggle around in your absentminded dance; the food happy dance. "I pay more of your bills than you do, Sackler."

He chuckles, gathering a dollop of whipped cream and booping you on the nose, leaving a streak of sugar and swirl of white. "Thanks for taking care of me, baby." He quips, reclining his head as he observes your faux scowl with another rowdy laugh.

"That's about to change real soon," your smile morphs from playful to dignified, fingers subconsciously rearranging your silverware, as you use your napkin to dab the drying chocolate off of his dimple. "You're gonna be famous one day, I can see it now."

"Pfft. You're only saying that because you're my biggest fan, remember?" He remarks, waving a hand of dismissal.

Your fork clanks into your porcelain plate, and he flinches at the serious crease burrowing between your brows, as you scrutinize him, offended. "Adam! I'm serious!" You exclaim, aghast. "If you think I'm bluffing, then who was that agent that pulled you aside at the end of your performance tonight, huh?"

He shrugs haphazardly, suppressing a smile. "I don't know... they offered me a part in a, uh. Pretty big movie, or some shit." He mumbles, suddenly coy, twirling the heart-shaped straw around apprehensively. "But I'm not fucking doing that shit unless it's filmed in New York. No fucking way am I leaving you."

A proud grin splits your face. "That's incredible, babe!" You render him a brisk, bro-like shove, giggling in disbelief. "You have to go, you can't just shove that aside!" You insist, and he already starts profusely— no, aggressively— shaking his head in protest. "Besides, I can work remote... if you have to travel, I'm coming with you."

He beams— not only figuratively, with his exhilaration for your compliance to his progressing career, but literally— the blue-hued lights flickering from the Diner's disheveled sign circles like a halo around his head, glinting off of his raven hair, his heavily cosmeticed yet sweat-sullen face, his piercing copper eyes.

He's beautiful.

Adam's hand tenderly cradles your cheek, thumb caressing the skin diligently. "I swear, woman. I'm going to fucking marry you one day, fuck the prettiest babies into your cunt." He expresses with an ugly laugh, a hideous cackle that could shatter your eardrums but boost your spirits to their full, happiest extent.

He was a beautiful liar, yes— but for the first time ever, his words rang true.