zstartrixxx

[zstartrixxx]

𝟎𝟎 | 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄. “𝐈’𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑 [...]”

ᵉʳᶦᶜ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ˣ ᵖˢʸᶜʰᵒˡᵒᵍᶦˢᵗꜝᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

―𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: First impressions last—and those initial moments between you and Eric Love have planted observations that both of you will need to examine carefully in time. ―𝐀/𝐍.: it's truly just a simple prologue to position the characters in their places. ―𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +𝟏𝟖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃. explicit sexual content, mentions of violence (canon to the film); foul language. ―𝐖.𝐂.: 5k

𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔰 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔱, 𝔞 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡! 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢𝔰, 𝔯𝔢𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 <3

"i am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar, i am the son and heir of nothing in particular..." (how soon is now?, the smiths)

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞. The metallic, industrial sound of the guitar hypnotized anyone walking down that long, dark hallway, accompanied by the pounding drums like a heart struggling to beat—broken and dissipating. Just like he felt. Just like he had always felt. The voice began to sound through the speakers, piercing his dazed mind fogged by whiskey mixed with the sedative he’d taken before entering that club reeking of piss and dirty sex. His alert eyes searched through shadows and silhouettes for someone—someone very specific, with a full name, a face he had memorized, and a gaze that haunted his dreams. In his mind clouded by ghosts and voices screaming at him, amid a chorus that broke and slipped into the depths of his being—an “I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does…” that dragged on, already piercing the bodies of strangers dancing pressed together—he saw her.

With dilated pupils, sweating out all the electricity coursing through his body, inhaling the white smoke into his lungs, Eric Love saw you. There was a blue-gray spotlight on you, casting a morbid, raw glow over your form as you danced freely with your hands up, eyes closed, feeling the music penetrate your bones, smiling at nothing, shining like a metal angel amid grinding gears. Eric brought his right hand to his chest, gripping the flesh where the pulsing muscular organ wouldn’t stop pounding, biting his lower lip to hide something.

“Finally found you,” he wanted to hiss.

Everything stopped—or time simply stopped working—for him when you slowed your movements, turning to face him, opening your eyes slowly under that industrial light, leaving him boiling. Your eyes met, and your movements gradually halted, slowing down, the small smile on your lips fading—while Eric’s lips curled upward.

In the background, the chorus echoed in every corner, dissolving into the smoke:

“I am the son and the heir, of a shyness that is criminally vulgar. I am the son and heir of nothing in particular…”

𓈈

The alarm rang loud and harsh, a grating chime that made you fumble for your phone under your pillow, still caught between heavy sleep and waking, finding the cold object against your fingers, pulling it out and causing an even more painful noise in your ears. You squinted at the time—then jolted upright in sudden panic.

It was finally the day you had to attend your first meeting with an inmate at that maximum-security prison, and you couldn’t be late. On weak legs, groping along the icy walls of your apartment’s narrow hallway, you bumped into Smoke, your gray cat with blue eyes, who purred and dragged his thick, fluffy tail against your legs. You stepped into the shower, water warm, almost cold, to wake yourself up. Between scrubbing your body with your favorite passionfruit-and-vanilla soap and brushing your teeth, your mind tried to organize everything you had to do: shower, eat a heavy breakfast, grab your things (already packed and waiting on the couch), hit the road, stop for gas and snacks, and finally arrive at the prison. There, you’d introduce yourself to the superiors—you’d even memorized what to say, reciting each line as you got dressed:

“Pleasure, I’m Miss Smith. I’m the academic conducting the interview project with inmates in maximum-security prisons, studying the behavior of individuals who were transferred early due to aggressive behavior…”

You stumbled over the next line, stopped, clicked your tongue, and started over—until your throat went dry.

A deep breath. You hunted down your pillbox in the kitchen after a heavy breakfast, swallowing the essential pills for your maintenance: anxiolytics and antidepressants. You fed Smoke and Pearl, said goodbye, grabbed your oversized bag and liter-sized water bottle, locked the doors behind you, and took a deep breath with every step down the stairs—feeling that from here on out, you’d experience something that would change your life forever.

And you weren’t wrong.

𓈈

Eric opened his eyes at the blaring wake-up signal.

But he hadn’t even closed them to sleep—in truth, he’d been awake all night—and deep down, he suspected that strange tightness in his chest mixed with the rough gasp of his lungs was a sign of anxiety. Anxious. He laughed to himself as he brushed his teeth roughly, staring at the small, foggy mirror he’d managed to get after many concessions, its edges blurred and uneven, at the possibility of feeling anxious about all this.

His mind was still processing it: just over a month ago, he’d heard rumors in the corridors about a new study program with prisoners like him—and that maybe, just maybe, depending on the final evaluation of these interviews or whatever-the-hell-it-was, he could try for parole or a sentence reduction. Within days, Love was filling out forms with all his information, taking photos, even recording an audio clip for review.

And with unexpected hope—something unnatural for him given his circumstances—he was selected. Simple. He received what felt like an entire book full of rules and procedures for the sessions; he read every page carefully because he really didn’t want to fuck up an opportunity like this. The man felt somewhat reformed, older now than that troublesome kid who’d first entered this concrete-and-barbed-wire Hell, so it was only fair he got one damn chance to prove he was fit to return to society, like any decent man would.

White-knuckling the sink, mouth still full of minty toothpaste foam, Eric’s bloodshot eyes burned with renewed determination:

“You’re not gonna fuck this up, you cunt. I’m gonna pass this test or whatever-the-fuck it is, and I’m getting out of this Hell.”

He spat out the paste, splashed cold water on his face to shake off the sleep creeping in at the edges. But he was used to sleepless nights, used to pushing through the irritability they brought. He’d control it. Surprise whoever was waiting for him in that first meeting.

Beside him, the heavy metal door unlocked, and the clamor of inmates heading to breakfast filled Eric’s ears. He let go of the sink, adjusted his blue hoodie, ran a hand through his short hair as if smoothing it down.

He smiled at himself. A broken smile. A lost gaze.

He would change his life, whether by good means or bad—and God willing, it’d be by good.

𓈈

Your footsteps echoed down the nearly empty vinyl-floored hallway, gleaming from the polish of the mop that had just been used. The sharp, slightly sour stench of bleach mixed with some other citrusy, aggressively green disinfectant filled your lungs, mingling with the gray, dense air of the cigarettes you'd smoked on your way from home to the penitentiary. You observed with mild distaste how gray and overcast the sky was, dreading the possibility of torrential rain later. Not that you feared rainy days—you loved them with your whole being—but this didn’t feel like the right time to experience one. You associated them with a delicate kind of freedom that didn’t fit the situation you were in now, passing through layers of solid iron doors, reinforced security systems, body inspections, and suspicious stares—some laced with hidden desire beneath the brims of caps—directed at you.

You were used to these environments. Your Master’s degree had followed the same path you were on now, navigating maximum-security women’s prisons, encountering all kinds of people, both inmates and staff. But this time, it felt different.

And even though you didn’t really know how to pray, you found yourself whispering "Guardian Angel, my good friend" under your breath as you were led to the room where the meetings with the selected inmate would take place. The air grew thin, the weight in your chest warming your ribcage. Your eyes scanned every corner of the hallway, the cameras capturing your every move. Cardew’s voice vibrated in your ears, snapping you back to reality as she stopped beside a closed door:

"Miss Smith, a few things before you begin your sessions with the inmate waiting for you: All sessions will be monitored and recorded, both as requested by you for your research and for security purposes. Mr. Love has already signed the consent forms regarding his image, so that’s settled. Now, about him…" She glanced sideways through the door’s small glass window before turning back to you, standing there gripping your bag tightly against your legs. "...we’ve had some success with his behavioral progress, but Eric can still be unstable and easily triggered. Be careful with him. We don’t want you leaving here more traumatized than he is." She offered a smile before unlocking the door with a master key and motioning for you to enter.

You gathered all your courage and composure, stepping into the square room with ice-white walls, a chrome metal table, two simple chairs, and a man with his back to you who didn’t turn to look over his shoulder. His posture was relaxed yet stiff, dressed in a blue hoodie and matching gray sweatpants. His hair was short, neatly trimmed on the sides, emphasizing his slightly prominent, pointed ears with reddened cartilage edges. His hands moved restlessly, both cuffed on the table.

You knew him—from the photos sent to you, a few profile and frontal shots, and his file containing basic details like his full name, date of birth, and parents’ names, along with additional notes that had contributed to his selection. You knew his face: angular and sharp, marked by faint lines of heavy expression, eyes burdened with having seen too much too soon, lips pressed tight.

Eric Love.

You wanted to say his name aloud for the first time, to hear how it sounded in your voice, how it fit when spoken clearly—but the woman behind you was quicker:

"Mr. Love, please behave for your new psychologist. She’s not here for fun—you know the consequences otherwise." She waited for his response, a guard armed with weapons and protective gear appearing beside her. You blinked slowly, watching as the man finally turned his head to glance over his narrow shoulder, a strong profile with a large, upturned nose emerging before his murky blue eyes flicked back to the woman. The corner of his lip twitched, revealing sharp canines:

"Yes, ma’am Cardew, you can trust me!"

"Good. Miss Smith, he’s all yours."

She winked at you before closing the door behind her with a hollow thud.

You shivered, inhaling the cold air of the small room as you walked to your chair, scanning the space: two rectangular windows with bars inside and out, two camera angles in opposite corners, a ceiling fan above the pale light. When you finally sat across from him, feeling his eyes dissecting you piece by piece, you got your first proper look at him.

Face to face, top to bottom, you saw your newest research subject—the life-changing study standing before you. Or rather, the one that would change yours. A wave of nervousness rushed through you, making your right eyebrow twitch slightly as you raised it at the realization of your PhD and all the bureaucratic hurdles you’d overcome to get here—a detail Eric subtly caught, suppressing a smirk.

You placed your bag on the table, offering him a polite smile, extending your hand (your palm slightly damp):

"Mr. Love, pleasure to meet you. Miss Smith—"

Your voice came out strained.

Your arm hung suspended, waiting for reciprocation. Eric just sat there, staring with genuine curiosity, tilting his head back slightly. You forced your plastic smile wider, stretching your hand further until his warm palm clamped around it:

"Pleasure. Call me Eric, none of that formal shit, sweetheart."

"Miss Smith, please…" you reinforced sharply, dragging your chair a little too abruptly. Eric noticed how your expression closed off at his informality before a fake, accommodating smile reappeared:

"I’d prefer we keep the formality of surnames. At least mine, if you—or rather, Eric—prefer to be called by your first name."

"Couldn’t give less of a fuck if you call me by my last name, first name, whatever… Like, seriously, who gives a shit." He shrugged, rolling his shoulders, glancing away dismissively, performing this irreverence you found too theatrical. You mentally noted that detail, sitting fully on the hard chair, shivering again at the cold surface against your legs—even through your slacks, the fabric was thin enough to let the chill seep in.

As you pulled out your materials—his file and your tablet for notes—you felt the weight of his eyes on your movements. Occasionally, you studied his hands twisting against each other under the cuffs.

"Does that bother you?"

"Hmm?" His voice rumbled. Your eyes met over your materials. This time, your smile was genuinely charismatic, receptive, as you gestured toward the cuffs:

"The cuffs, Eric. I asked if they bother you."

Eric froze for a few seconds, processing his name spoken so casually by you, momentarily freed from the tension and wariness he felt. He was still on edge—this was all new to him, at least being interviewed by a woman. He took a deep breath, straightening in his chair, lifting his wrists slightly as he quipped in an amused tone:

"Well, you get used to ’em after a while, don’t you?"

You stifled a chuckle, finding his delivery oddly funny, already typing a quick note on your tablet: "Eric Love adores the cuffs." You promptly erased ‘adores’ and replaced it with ‘tolerates’ before your voice cut through again to hold his attention:

"So you don’t mind being locked up, cuffed, or anything like that?"

"Not now..." He clicked his tongue, tilting his chin up slightly as he eyed you through half-lidded eyes. "Look, Miss Smith, I’ll be straight with you—I think both of us are here for personal reasons, and I don’t wanna screw things up for myself, much less for you—" He paused for a second, flushing at his own phrasing as you leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched at him. "—I mean, I don’t wanna cause you trouble. More than I already did back in the day, y’know? I just wanna be as honest as possible. I already know how this therapy bullshit works. And I’m better! Mrs. Cardew or any of my little fag friends in here can vouch for me—I just want my chance to prove I’m fit to live in society. That’s it... So yeah, of course it bothers me when I can’t move around. Sometimes with the cuffs, I can’t even scratch my own damn ass." He let out a rough, nervous laugh, watching you carefully, his hands clasped together on the table.

You stared at him with disbelief, arching both eyebrows before letting out a dry:

"Do you always act like this... like some kind of jokester?"

"Only when I'm nervous, miss... And to be honest, I'm fucking nervous right now..." He nodded, emphasizing his words. Your hand was already jotting down notes about this first impression, all while his attentive gaze followed your movements. Then you asked:

"And may I know the reason for your nervousness... Eric?" You lifted your eyes, noticing how quickly he avoided your stare—the tip of his nose turning pink, then his cheeks, even the edges of his ears. Interesting, you noted.

Eric kept his clouded eyes fixed upward, where the flickering light made him blink repeatedly. He sucked in a sharp breath before finally tilting his head toward you, hands tightening around the cuffs.

"You want me to be honest?"

"Yes... Of course, Love. Please." Your voice softened, deliberate. "I want what we build here, starting today, to be a relationship founded on honesty. You have my word—everything you say to me will be carefully analyzed for my thesis, nothing more."

"Hmn... I see. Will I be credited in this damn thing?" He leaned back further in his chair, giving you a look from under his chin, which was slightly tilted upward. You nodded in confirmation:

"Of course. Properly credited... Now answer me: why are you nervous?"

"It's just... being here with you, Miss Smith. I'm not used to being around women..." His eyes slid slightly along the curve of your neck, catching a brief glimpse of your collarbone where your shirt dipped before snapping back up—to your lips, glistening faintly with pink gloss. "...Not even the staff get too close to us. And for good reason."

"I see—" You jotted down what he'd just said, feeling a genuine question rise in you, one that made you stare at him with the urge to dissect him right then and there: "—You just told me you don’t have much contact with women... How long have you been locked up, Eric? Just so I can confirm my records..."

"Let me think..." He braced himself against the table, lifting his fingers with difficulty—the cuffs made the whole thing look almost comical. "Got arrested at ten for killing that son of a bitch... Deserved it... Then got transferred here at nineteen... Been about four years since then..." He fixed you with piercing crystal-blue eyes, flashing a yellowed grin that revealed uneven teeth—sharp canines, squared front teeth—his voice laced with something almost like pride: "Thirteen years, ma’am. Thirteen years dealing with a bunch of troglodytes who sometimes don’t even wipe their damn asses right."

"Enlightening, Eric." You stifled a chuckle. "And how did you end up here? Honestly, the documents they gave me weren’t very specific, and since this is our first meeting, I wanted to lay all our cards on the table, if you catch my drift."

"I’ll tell you, but first I wanna level this conversation." His tone was casual, but his eyes flickered slightly as he searched for a cooperative expression. You set the pen down on the tablet, adjusted in your chair, and nodded, offering him a small, encouraging smile.

It was important to show him you were receptive—were receptive—so that he, as your patient, would feel comfortable enough to open up. There was a curiosity in Eric’s expression:

"What the hell is a girl like you sniffing around a place like this for? What’s your deal with this... this whole thing?"

"Oh," you stammered, caught off guard. Love wore a smug little grin as he watched your reaction. You placed the pen on the table. "Well... I have a deep interest in studying how individuals like you, incarcerated for so long, behave over the course of their journey... Especially when they come from a very specific social background." You spoke carefully, now observing how his expression stiffened, his jaw locking, eyes narrowing. His hands had gone still. Love let out a heavy breath:

"Specific background? What the hell do you mean by that, miss?"

"Past traumas. Parental relationships. Sexual contexts... Look, I’m here to help you, above all else. Even more than my research, I want to help you, Eric." You leaned forward as if seized by a dread that didn’t fit the situation, touching his hand—feeling skin too soft and warm beneath your slightly sweaty palm. He looked down at your hand, the sudden contact, pupils dilating before lifting his gaze back to you.

You tensed, fearing he might just snap, triggered, and lunge at you right there in the cramped confines of that little room that now felt like it was closing in.

Then Eric shrugged, flashing that crooked grin again, his voice eerily calm:

"What was the question you asked me earlier, Miss Smith?"

You smiled in instant relief, gave his hand a light squeeze, then straightened up, clearing your dry throat. You adjusted the pen in your hand, tapped the tablet screen, and smiled at Eric Love—who smiled back.

A silent, mutual contract had just been established between the two of you.

With luck and the right approach, you’d have the best possible experience helping this inmate with whatever his future intentions might be.

And with all this, you’d have the finest doctoral thesis to deliver.

𓈈

With a sharp metallic click, Eric found himself back in his cell—cold and empty, though at least without the handcuffs restricting his movements. He sat on the narrow mattress bed, gazing at the window where pale light from a cloudy afternoon filtered in, his thoughts racing in such disorder that any logical sequence was impossible. He thought of his father and the last letter he'd received, certain phrases etched in his mind like "I'm so proud of you" or "Your birthday's coming up—how old are you again? Twenty-four or five? Anyway... I just wish I could be there to hug you and wish you the happiest birthday in the world!"

From that letter his mind jumped to the violence inflicted upon him, all he had suffered—the physical and mental pain, the state of imprisonment, losing so much when he could have simply been living his life. Memories filtered through red, the pungent smell of iron and dirty water in his nostrils... Then suddenly, a whisper in his heart—an isolated sensation of wholeness and near-happiness, accompanied by a powdery floral scent and an angelically soft voice that called him "Eric" and held his hand, smiling at the painful history of a boy who at ten had been forced to extreme measures to rid himself of a tormentor, and who since then had been isolated from society.

With you lingering in his thoughts, Love stood and grabbed his pack of cigarettes and lighter, trying to light it with rough flicks of his thumb—failing as the kerosene had run out. He tossed the lighter on the small table and burst out of his cell, passing other inmates and climbing the stairs to Tyrone and Hassan's cell.

"Hey man, what's up?" Hassan asked casually, sitting at the table playing cards with Tyrone. Eric shrugged, pointing to the cigarette between his fingers: "Need a light. Just got back from that session and need to clear my head..."

"Oh yeah, that session with the psychologist—you, the most messed up of us all, actually got selected! How was it? She hot?" Hassan laughed. Tyrone grabbed his lighter and handed it to Love, rolling his eyes: "Has, don't be a dick to Love..."

"Yeah man, don't be an asshole. And show some respect to Miss Smith—" He placed the cigarette between his lips as he sat on the bed and lit it: "—she's very... very" he searched for words between puffs under his friends' curious gazes: "beautiful."

He laughed with his friends. Tyrone put down his cards to face Eric: "So you're telling me this motherfucker not only got six months of exclusive sessions, but with a beautiful woman? Damn! So how was this first meeting?"

"It was good... We got to know each other. I talked about my fucked-up childhood, my relationship with my dad, how he disappeared when I was a kid... My mom and all the shit I heard and lived through by age ten. That kind of stuff..." he said, pocketing the black lighter.

Tyrone nodded: "And her? What did you think of her approach...?"

"With how horny our friend here is, I wouldn't be surprised if he wants her to 'approach' him completely," Hassan joked, laughing loudly. Love took a deep breath, his expression tightening slightly—there was genuine discomfort hearing you referred to in such... inappropriate terms.

But he ignored it—he wouldn't lose his composure over something so pathetic. He took another drag, extending his arm to crush the cigarette butt in the plate they used as an ashtray, looking at Tyrone: "I thought it was fucking great! She listened, was attentive... Just a sweetheart!"

"'Just a sweetheart' —I can't believe Eric Love is in love..." Tyrone said with a huge grin, lightening the mood and drawing casual laughter with his wordplay. Eric laughed, feeling warmth spread through him as Has joked about how Love might turn into a crybaby if he kept this up over you.

"And this was just the first session, man! Imagine a month from now!" Has nudged Tyrone's shoulder as they lit another cigarette. Eric joined the banter: "I'll propose to her!"

"Fuck man, if that actually happens I want to be your best man..." Tyrone said, with Hassan agreeing.

Eric burst into loud laughter, imagining what you would think about all this.

You.

𓈈

You arrived home as dusk was falling—having stopped by a friend's place first to clear your mind after your first session with Eric Love. You were still reeling from the man's life story and slightly amused by the sweet irony that you both shared the same birthday: March 21st. He would be turning twenty-five, having lost a youth that seemed to have incubated so many things in him—including his slight awkwardness around you, making strange comments as if anxiously seeking your approval.

You greeted your cats with affection, kicking off the shoes that had been pinching your feet all day. Grabbing some frozen food from the fridge, you heated it in the microwave while retrieving your tablet and a new black hardcover notebook for free-form observations.

With a black pen, you inscribed "Eric Love: Notes" on the cover and dated the first page. Before sitting down to pour out everything you'd observed about the man for your study, you fed Smoke and Pearl who meowed joyfully around your legs. With your warmed-up meal and a citrus soda, you settled at the table by the window, taking deep breaths to organize your thoughts for the first entries.

Powering on your tablet to your draft notes, you chuckled at a crossed-out line: "Eric Love loves the handcuffs," with "loves" scribbled over to read "tolerates." Laughing at yourself, you began outlining the framework for understanding who Eric Love truly was.

"...is a maximum security inmate since age nineteen. Underwent inclusive group therapy with psychologist Oliver, who generously granted me an email interview and provided insight into Love's behavior, describing him as 'an emotionally immature young man with aggressive tendencies that have been addressed through intensive therapy, showing him gentler, more honest ways to manage his temperament.' Oliver believes he shows potential for eventual societal rehabilitation. During our conversation, I noted a shyness in him—he can't maintain eye contact for more than ten seconds, and nervously laughs when intimate topics arise, such as: whether he's had sexual experiences, if he misses physical intimacy, or if he hopes to see his father again. On this last point he was particularly vague, stating (direct quote): 'Maybe one day I'll see that old bastard outside these bars?' suggesting little hope for his father's release...I believe as our patient-therapist relationship develops, he may open up more..."

𓈈

The corridor was strangely empty, bathed in a gray fluorescent light leaking from the lamps. You walked toward the meeting room, clutching your bag and an enormous folder full of papers that swayed with each step, your heels echoing through the space. You hated when places felt this inhospitable and nearly vacant—it felt more like an abandoned prison than one overcrowded with inmates. At the door, as expected, Cardew waited with a closed expression, shadows darkening her eyes. She held the door open without uttering a single word as you stepped inside the room, illuminated by a hanging light with a thick rubber cord. Your eyes scanned the corners—this time, there was a potted plant. And Eric Love leaned against the far wall, hands behind his back. Behind you, the door shut with a metallic echo, firmly locked.

When you looked at him—dressed in black sweatpants and a hoodie, head bowed, staring at his feet—you felt a mix of fear and anticipation. You smiled, your mouth aching with tension.

"Eric, are you okay?"

"Smith... Glad you came." His voice was deep and nasal as he lifted his face, revealing ugly wounds—abrasions around his right eye, a cut splitting the bridge of his nose, and a half-open split in his lower lip, left corner. Immediately, you dropped your things with a dull thud, your legs carrying you to him, your frantic hands cradling his face.

"What the hell happened to you, Eric?! Tell me everything!"

He stared at you intensely, then smirked, bringing his hands—previously tucked behind him—to your face, simply pressing his lips against yours. You tasted blood and guilt flooding your mouth, a primal desire swelling around you as everything else faded to nothing. In the blink of an eye, it was your tongue dominating his, setting the rhythm of the wet kiss, pulling him closer, pressing your body against his, spinning him until his back hit the table. You laughed in amusement as your hands gripped his wrists, pinning him down, your thighs forcing his knees apart, your other hand sliding between his legs, feeling the rigid length straining against the fabric. Your dominant grip tightened around him while your other hand kept his wrists locked—Eric was so pliant, so passive beneath you, his submission radiating through his entire body. The thought of having him at your mercy like this made you throb, and you whispered:

"This is how you like it, huh? Tell me..." You squeezed his cock, drawing a low groan from him, yanking his arms down, pressing your mouth to his ear before biting hard. He gasped in pain and pleasure as you repeated the words.

When Eric turned his face to you—tears in his eyes, a wicked little smirk on his lips—you narrowed your eyes, blinking rapidly as an alarm blared, drowning out everything. It was so infuriating, tearing you away from him. He stared back at you with that same expression of pain and pleasure, tears still glistening but a wide grin just for you. The alarm kept ringing, deafening.

You blinked again—this time, your eyelids felt lighter, a thin layer of daylight touching your face, bringing you back to full lucidity.

You had woken up.

Your breath was heavy, sweat clinging to your skin—and an intense, unmistakable wetness between your thighs. Beside you, your cats slept curled in the blankets. You turned toward the window, watching the pale sun rise between gray clouds. Between your legs lay your tablet and Eric Love’s file.

A crushing wave of guilt seized you—bitter, yet laced with something temptingly sweet—as you realized you’d dreamed about the inmate. And that absolutely could not happen. Never. Not in dreams, and certainly not in real life.

'Oh, what an utterly vulgar shame this is.'

You thought as you kicked the file aside, Eric’s photo staring up at you.

'What an utterly vulgar shame I carry inside me.'

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: hope to see you in the next chapter! ;)

[zstartrixxx]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐖? ♰ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

ᵉʳᶦᶜ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ˣ ᵖˢʸᶜʰᵒˡᵒᵍᶦˢᵗꜝᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

[𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒]

―𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 [𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐝]: Eric Love is a ticking time bomb in every sense: aggressive yet violently shy, crudely vulgar yet heir to a fragility he hides behind scowls and a hardened gaze. A psychologist in her late twenties, in her first year of a Ph.D., focused on studying the behavior of inmates in maximum-security prisons—specifically those who went through the "starred up" process, like the intriguing case of Love. A woman of apparent confidence and self-assurance, she takes on the heavy work of interviewing men and women with dark pasts for her analytical and scientific research. Love is just another name on her list... Until she actually meets him and realizes he has much more to offer: a personality that balances sarcasm with undeniable shyness. Eric ends up unsettling her more than he should—unlocking a dark side she hides behind good manners and rigid personal boundaries. Both of them a little lost, somewhat lonely, with a shyness that borders on vulgarity. Heirs to their parents’ traits, heirs to nothing but themselves. ―𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 [𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥]: i think this will be the longest fanfic i'll ever work on (at least one in the x reader model); being the only jackie fanfic i'll be working on from now on (apart from others already planned and in progress for the remmick), i believe the updates will be quite spontaneous: i personally intend to do an update practically monthly (for several reasons), but in exchange i'll take advantage of the time and focus completely on the chapters. i also leave here my deep desire to explore eric love beyond sexual limits and everything else, as well as telling you that probably, just probably, the ending won't be one of the best. [subject to updates and/or changes | updates will be duly signaled soon…] ―𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 [𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥]: +𝟏𝟖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃. angst, angst/comfort, emotional trauma (parental and romantic relationships); mention of violence (canonical in the film) [but not with/between the characters! for the love of god, i say no to the romanticization of violence!]; age gap; power relations, domination and submission & BDSM (consenting!). exploration of the characters. slow burn (slower dynamics), dreams and monologues. [the list may be subject to additions and/or changes] ―𝐖𝐂 [𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥]: 5K

𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔰 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔱, 𝔞 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡! 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢𝔰, 𝔯𝔢𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 <3

──𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒:

𝟎𝟎 | 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄. “𝐈’𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑 [...]”

[...]

──𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

[𝟎𝟎]

──𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐘:

HOW SOON IS NOW? fanfic poster

──𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐒:

chain divider by: @bernardsbendystraws strain purple divider by: @dxstoeskyvjbess main eric love/jack o'connel picture in the poster: @scrprints other eric love's pics: here (fold in pinterest) fanfic trailer: starred up (2013), dir. david mackenzie

𝐙𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐗𝐗𝐗 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓

[zstartrixxx]

sorry folks but i'm in a deeply brainrot hole for robert pattinson and this mf is consuming me like a disease that boils my blood and poisons me in its charm.

but... next year he gonna star in "the odyssey" and apparently he will be the god hermes. i probably won't have the structures for such an act!!!

even if he only appears for 5 minutes

[zstartrixxx]

TENET (2020) dir. Christopher Nolan

[zstartrixxx]

ROBERT PATTINSON as Neil TENET │ 2020

[zstartrixxx]

i’ll never stop the lighthouse posting

[zstartrixxx]

ALSO!!! i just i wanted to say that it would be a dream for robert pattinson to work with robert eggers again, 'cause what these two managed to do in this film is simply INSANE.

[zstartrixxx]

simply obsesses over how beautiful and yet viscerally rigid and contorted his body is in this scene in "the lighthouse" (2019)... THE ACTOR YOU ARE ROBERT PATTINSON!!!

[zstartrixxx]

he's a jerk in the movie, toxic as fuck, but he still serves beauty and that's so sad to me because i cannot don't notice this.

[zstartrixxx]

fear is a tool. they think i'm hidding in the shadows. but i'm the shadows. i'm vengeance.

zkkaitopia on tt.

[zstartrixxx]

i'm going to make an au!coraline with some robert pattinson character (two actually—i already have the alternative version in mind).

[zstartrixxx]

oh, azazel...

[zstartrixxx]

I have the sudden urge to draw Remmick from your Battinson fic omg

OMG I SAY!?!?!?

idk exactly what to say but i'm happy that this madness in the form of """fanfic""" has touched you in this way my darlin', i think 😭🫂🙌🙂‍↕️

[zstartrixxx]

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[zstartrixxx]

[zstartrixxx]

I love making these, so fun to draw and play with all the brushes.

[zstartrixxx]

to be beautiful to the point of inspiring writers, artists and mangakas to create characters based on my appearance and presence.