Untitled #4
Grabbing her waist, I pull her back while I push forward, and the angle shifts.
She drops her forehead into her forearms and says oh fuck loud enough that whoever is standing on the other side would know exactly what was going on in here.
Reaching around again, I find her again, rubbing tight circles as her body goes tight.
She is building again, tighter, closer, her thighs shaking against mine, her free hand reaching back to grab my hip, nails piercing my skin as she pulls me deeper.
She’s clenching around me and it’s so Goddamn perfect, I almost bust before her, but I’m a fucking gentleman and want to feel her cum around my cock, so I increase my pace until she’s panting, her pussy tensing and releasing and then she’s coming undone.
Her back bows and she grabs my wrist between her legs, her thighs squeezing so tight on my arm, they’re cutting off circulation.
The groan she makes is short and wrecked and so fucking beautiful, I hear her come apart and I’m a goner.
Four more strokes and I finish with her cum all over me and mine trapped in this fucking condom and I’ve never hated this piece of plastic more than I do in this moment.
My arms don’t move. She doesn’t move. We just stay hunched like that, breathing heavy and letting our bodies come down.
I definitely want to do that again.
Pulling out took every ounce of strength, but I manage to do it, pulling off the condom and throwing it in the trash as she straightens and fixes her thong and pulls her skirt down.
Her eyes are bright and beautiful, her skin is glowing and she’s grinning at me. “Verdict’s in. Perfect size. 100% enough..”
“Just enough?”
She giggles, “Don’t push your luck, you still order the world’s most boring drink.”
Turning to the mirror, she fixes her lipstick while I clean myself up and join her. Looking at the sex written all over her face. She reaches into her bra and pulls out lipstick, and I watch her apply it perfectly because I don’t want this to be over.
“What’s your name?” It slips out before I can stop it.
She caps the lipstick and pushes it back into her bra, looking at me through the mirror. “Luna.”
I look at her arm, at the moth, and then back at her eyes. “That’s not your name.”
“It’s my tonight name.” She turns and leans against the sink, crossing her arms. “You got a tonight name?”
“Quinn.”
“Is that real?”
“Yep.”
She smiles and it’s different to the giant post-sex smile she gave me. This one is smaller. Quiet. She reaches up to touch the moth on my neck and her finger traces the left wing, following the line down. “Quinn, huh.” She says it softly. “I had a really good time, Quinn.”
“Me too.” I draw in a breath. “Can I have your number?”
She shakes her head, looking up at the ceiling.
“Please? I’m not above begging for it.”
“No.” She drops her hand and steps back. “Tonight isn’t real. I’m not this person. I don’t do this, this isn’t who I am, and this is a costume I put on for the one time a year that I don’t have to be me.”
“The paint stained on your skin isn’t a costume.” Neither are the moth’s, but I don’t say that.
She goes still for a second, then puts her hands behind her back. “Tonight, I go home, take the mask off, and I go back to being who I am. She doesn’t give her number to men she met an hour ago, no matter how good the sex was.”
I want to tell her she’s wrong. That I’m not a stranger, not anymore. Not now that I’ve felt what she feels like, not now when I so badly want a chance to taste her, to feel her lips under mine. I want to tell her that I love her wit, that her charm is attractive. That her body fits mine perfectly.
I want to tell her these things, but I’m wearing a mask too. I haven’t taken mine off. I haven’t tried to be vulnerable with her and I don’t have the right to demand that she does, when I can’t.
“Please, just… take mine then.” I try one last time.
She shakes her head and touches the moth one more time before turning and heading towards the door.
“Luna…”
She doesn’t stop. She unlocks the door and opens it. The music is louder now, pounding against me and dark shapes fill the void beyond, dancing, oblivious to what is going on in this tiny space. “Wait. Please.”
She looks back, her blue-grey eyes look sad, her lips downturned almost apologetically. She lifts her hand and wiggles her fingers, half wave, half middle finger and then she turns and walks and the crowd swallows her.
I try to follow, pushing through the door, scanning for her above everyone else, but everyone is in black, everyone is masked. Shoving through bodies, desperation claws at my insides as I look.
Fuck.
Rushing to the entrance, I open the door and the chilly air slams into me, but she’s gone.
There’s no sign that she was even real. She’s just…
Gone.
I pull out my phone and text Iz:
I need to leave.
Iz
You said that two hours ago.
Iz, please. We need to go.
Why, what happened? You good, bro
Me: I met someone
WHAT
WHO
TOLD YOU
She just left.
What do you mean, she left?
Gave me a fake name and walked out, and now I can’t find her
Bro
brO
brOOOO. Okay, we can find her. What was the name?
Luna
Is that a moth thing?
Yep.
Oh fuck… you are so fucked
Yep.
…
Was she hot?
I roll my eyes before replying:
Iz, I swear to God.
Iz
Yeah, yeah, okay, I’m coming. Hold on.
I don’t wait, I just head to my car. I don’t even bother trying to move faster as rain pelts me.
I can still smell her on my skin and it’s driving me crazy.
Throwing my mask in the back seat, I try regain control of myself.
She has to have socials. Maybe I can find her.
While I wait for Iz, I start searching. Luna Portland.
Luna artist Portland. Luna Goth Portland.
Moth sleeve Portland. Thousands and thousands of results, none of them are her because of course it’s not.
My hand clenches around my phone as I take a deep breath.
My phone buzzes.
Iz
I’m in the parking lot, where are you
In the car.
Be right there
He knocks on the window and I unlock the door. He opens it, sliding in, wet from the rain and looks at me.
“So… tell me.”
I tell him most of it. Not all of it because some of it I want to keep for me, but I tell him about the moths and how witty she is, and how her eyes held me captive before she even opened her mouth.
I tell him how frustrated I am that she’s somewhere in the city, taking off her mask and her boots, and her corset and I’ll never get to see that side of her because she refused to give me her name.
Iz is quiet as he listens to me. “You’re going to find her, aren’t you?”
Pressing my fingers to my moth, I close my eyes. Her fingers were here, tracing the lines, her mouth kissed it with the same reverence I wanted to kiss hers and couldn’t.
The same moth that drew her to me as she dissected it. The one I tattooed on myself when I was twenty-eight and going through some fucked-up shit, and the only person who has ever paid attention to it with the same care I did just walked out of my life.
“Yeah.” I finally say with a heavy sigh. “I am.”
Isaiah nods and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Okay.” He clicks his seatbelt on. “Then let’s get home and start looking.”
* * *
If you want more, check out Zya.Hart on instagram. Her debut Stalk You (part of the It’s Giving Stalker trilogy) is on pre-order for October of 2026 and features the rest of their story.
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