#I’m just. I’m not doing okay and I’m terrified of losing the job I finally got cause god damn it’s hard to wake up at 3 am to walk so long | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

charliemwrites · 3 months ago

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Chapter 4

Content: Threats/Expectation of Torture, Dub-Con, Consensual Non-Consent Elements, Hurt/Comfort

The lines are getting thinner. Day by day, touch by touch. The parts of you that buck and bray against captivity begin to settle into the dangerous clutches of this isn’t so bad.

It’s exhausting to resist, especially when every part of you isn’t unilaterally aligned. The boundary between deep, dark desire and actual circumstance is narrowing into something you can’t discern anymore. Blurring into a strange delirium. Mornings with Ghost’s fingers inside you and afternoons warming Johnny’s cock. Meals prepared by hands that have snuffed as many lives as your own. A voice that once menaced you now lulls you to sleep.

Every interaction is a double-edged blade of seduction and condemnation. You moan at the tug of a collar you’re not free to remove. Johnny leans into the same hand that just bruised his wrist. A dozen scenarios that walk the line, never tipping either of you towards or away from Ghost.

It's things like Johnny waking in the dead of night, screaming. You know what’s going on even half-asleep; the same dream-memories lock you into burning paralysis. He’s clutching at his shoulder, fingers of the same arm spasming. Coughing on phantom smoke, seeing a night sky polluted by columns of flame instead of the ceiling.

“Kit! Kit!” he rasps, painful and terrified.

“Johnny, I’m here,” you call back, heart pounding. “Johnny, wake up! It’s over, we’re okay!”

You tug fruitlessly at the collar, at the chain. It’s useless, you know it is, but you can’t just sit there and watch him suffer again. Hate Ghost and this house and your own compliance with the same fire that nearly engulfed you and Johnny.

A shadow moves at the edge of your vision. Ghost.

You beg him to let you go to Johnny, to let you help. He ignores you for the moment, kneeling at Johnny’s side and rolling him onto his back. Speaks him back to reality, voice low and gravelly, reminding of details he has no right to know – how long you both spent in the hospital, the day of your mutual discharge, the months you two spent in physical therapy.

You want to cry, want to scream, want to be there with them. But Johnny’s finally calming down and you won’t ruin it all by losing your threadbare composure.

The first thing he asks when he’s got his breath, mumbling and fuzzy, “Where’s Kit?”

Ghost crosses back to you, unlocks the chain. You scramble to Johnny’s side in an instant, practically crashing into his chest as he reaches for you. He breathes deep when you gather him in, pressing his wet face to your neck.

“I’m here, I’m okay,” you whisper, shaky hands squeezing at his sore shoulder.

His own trembling, clammy hands paw your shirt up, press to the scarring on your hip. Assuring himself it’s healed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, “I never should have gone in—”

“You were doing your job,” you interrupt. Unwilling to relive the memory again or let him torture himself with it. “And I did mine.”

The cushion shifts behind you. Thick arms circle you and Johnny, guide you back against a sturdy body. Like this, Ghost feels more solid than the ground. You want to hate him. Could – should – blame him for Johnny suffering alone and resent that he comforted him first. You find yourself leaning into his strength and warmth instead.

“Not your fault the intel was bad, pup,” Ghost murmurs, carding fingers through Johnny’s sweaty mohawk.

Eventually, you and Johnny start to doze. Snuggling in with sleepy sighs and the reassurance of the other’s presence. You (or maybe Johnny) might even whine a bit when Ghost shifts as if to leave, clinging onto his sleeve. Either way, you wake the next morning to Johnny sandwiched between you two. For a man who doesn’t even let you see his face, it’s unexpectedly… intimate.

Johnny spends most of the next day in a mood about it – ends up forced to cum scraping his cock against the laces of Ghost’s boots by lunchtime.

And that should be the tipping point, right? Or at least one of them. The awful decadent violating addictive things he does to you two.

You stray too far one morning, thought you heard something in the basement, and he puts you on your knees in the living room. Forces your thighs apart with his boots imprinting the tender skin of your thighs. Grinds the tread against your crotch until you’re squirming and teary. It’s uncomfortable… but also makes you whimper for more, body on fire and apologizing into his thigh just for a bit of relief.

Johnny mouths off for the third time in an hour – was already warned twice. Ghost makes you edge Johnny for two hours, fingers in his hole and tongue flicking over his cock.

“Been gagging for the kitten to do this to you for a while, eh, mutt?” Ghost coos, pinning Johnny’s wrists above his head. “I know it’s one of your favorite fantasies.”

And then when Johnny seems like he’s at the breaking point, Ghost makes you milk his prostate until he loses his voice entirely.

And that’s just when Ghost is in a good mood.

He comes down one morning visibly irritable. Eyes dark, shoulders tense. All his movements are short and quick, almost aggressive. When you try to ask him if something is wrong at breakfast, he grunts at you to shut up and eat. And when Johnny makes a snippy comment about “bad manners,” Ghost forces his jaw open and lifts his mask just enough to spit in his mouth.

Then he storms out the door without another word. Johnny’s left flushed, awkwardly pressing the heel of his hand against the bulge in his joggers.

Ghost returns hours later and doesn’t seem any less moody. In fact, he seems worse now. You and Johnny exchange glances. He’s already cooking up mischief, you can see it from across the room. Never did learn when to leave well enough alone. All it takes is for you to subtly shake your head at his little smirk. That might as well be a greenlight.

“Well then, Ghost?” he drawls.

Ghost, who’s been aimlessly (peacefully) flipping through channels, stops. Not that he was fidgety before, but at the smarmy note in Johnny’s voice, he gets stony. You grimace and shoot Johnny another staying look. Mouthy little bastard you may be, you’ve always had a good sense for when to shut your stupid mouth. Your serial killer kidnapper being in a shit mood is one of those times.

“Ya done sulking yet? Gonna tell us who pissed in yer cornflakes?” Johnny continues, lounging against the wall with his first arms folded behind his head. “You gonna pack your shit in or keep being a bellend?”

You feel the exact moment that Ghost’s patience snaps. The room goes cold.

He drops the tv remote onto the cushion next to him, cracks his neck, and exhales deeply. Then stands and lopes across the room. Not to Johnny.

To you.

“Ghost—” you yelp, scrambling back. Don’t get far. He snags two thick fingers around the collar and jerks you away from the wall.

“Hey!” Johnny shouts. “Hey, yeah radge bastard! I’m the one that pissed you off.”

Struggling is no use, you know that. Still, you jerk and squirm, heart pounding. Draw your fist back, only to have it caught in an iron grip. It’s going to bruise, your bones ache.

“Fucking do it,” Ghost growls, lower and rougher than you’ve ever heard. Beyond the balaclava, his gaze is burning coal. “See what happens, kitten.”

When he releases your arm, you can’t bring yourself to follow through. All your strength is just in keeping your spine straight. The unspoken threat – his sharp-toothed, blood-hungry encouragement – leeches all but survival from your body.

No praise comes for choosing the wise path this time. You tremble in its absence.

The chain slithers away. Even if you thought running would do any good, you can’t collect your legs to try. Ghost doesn’t ask (or demand) that you do. Hand still hooked in your collar, he starts dragging you along, crawling on hands and knees at his side.

Johnny is still protesting, volume and desperation rising like a tide, flooding the room with impotent panic. You can’t make out individual pleas, the crashing waves of your own fear too loud in your ears. Ghost’s silence is roiling, violent.

You get halfway down the hall before realizing your destination. The inconspicuous white door looms ahead, sinister. You can’t swallow the scream that tears from your throat.

“No, no, Ghost you promised!” you cry, bucking and thrashing.

You manage to slip his hold and fall back, twisting and scrambling to escape. Just stumble halfway to your feet, about to cross the threshold back to the den. See Johnny’s huge, regretful eyes and blanched face, mouth parted as he strains towards you.

Then cruel arms circle your waist and yank.

“No!” you shriek, kicking at air. Ghost doesn’t even grunt with the effort of hauling you down the hall. “No, Ghost, please!”

The locks are open you realize as cool air rushes past. Your efforts double, but he easily drags you down a set of wooden stairs. All you do is earn a threatening hand around your hitching throat. You sob as shadows swarm, hiccupping that he promised over and over.

Your feet brush cold, flat concrete.

The basement.

He drops you onto something hard, flat, and wooden a few feet above the ground. Your legs hang over the edge, feet swinging. A table. Ghost’s black silhouette blots out the meager light daring to peek in from the hallway.

“G-Ghost,” you choke out.

You expect to be shoved down, tied prone and helpless. Wait for the bite of a blade, the prick of a needle, the cold kiss of a gun. Brace yourself for it, scrabbling for any of the stoic demeanor you once armed yourself in.

You nearly scream again at the touch of warm hands. Not a tight grip around your throat, or a brutal fist to your face, or even strong fingers breaking yours. It’s the firm (but not painful) press of a palm over your mouth and its twin spanning your hip.

“Take a deep breath.”

You peer through watery eyes, trying to find his. With the light behind him, even his gaze is obscured. All you have his voice. Low as it is, he seems… calmer than you expect.

You obey.

“Another.”

You breathe in slowly, exhale evenly.

“Good.” Relief makes you so dizzy that your eyes flutter. Ghost shakes you a bit. “Listen, little one.”

You blink up at him, take another breath, and nod for him to continue.

“I need to get some frustration out and the pup needs to learn a lesson.” He sweeps his thumb over the curve of your hip. You shiver, confused and still frightened, but still trained to react to his touch. “You just need to put on a good show, yeah?”

You try to speak, but his hand doesn’t move, so you settle for making a questioning noise.

“I’m going to torture you,” he explains, as casual as telling you what’s for dinner. “And you’re going to convince the mutt that you hate it.”

His hand slips from your hip to your groin, rocking meaningfully. Tentative understanding dawns with a golden ray of hope.

“The alternative is that Soap takes your place,” Ghost muses in your silence, mistaking it for reluctance. “I won’t be nearly as… humane with him.”

You protest wordlessly, shaking your head.

“No?” he mocks. “You’ll be good for me, then? Let me use you to teach that brat a lesson?”

You nod. Guilt gnaws at you for getting off (literally) so easy when Johnny is up there out of his mind on fear and his own guilt.

That sentiment doesn’t last long.

Ghost rips your clothes away with a growl, leaving them in tatters beneath you. You yelp, genuinely shocked. He moved so fast. There’s nothing teasing or seductive about him, not this time. None of the patience or measure from every previous encounter.

Sharp teeth scrape your jaw, beneath your ear, over your collarbones. Harsh fingers pinch and twist your pebbled nipples until you arch with a shout. He forces his big body between your thighs, grinding your quickly warming groin against unforgiving denim and the bulge hidden beneath.

“Stop, stop!” you cry, half-meaning it, head spinning. “Ghost, please!”

He doesn’t. If anything, your pathetic pleas spur him on.

Your underwear is discarded with another tear of fabric, exposing you to cool air and a mean man.

Ghost’s mouth closes around you, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You scream. High-pitched, wounded. Would jackknife right off the table if not for the merciless pin of your hips. Sounds claw up your throat and leap from your parted lips. You’re not in control of them, not with the way he’s slurping, growling, just the faintest hint of teeth to keep your voice octaves too high.

“No, no, please stop!” you keen.

He shoves two fingers in your gaping mouth, gags you on them until you’re coughing and gasping wetly. Awful, desperate sounds. You throb.

Those fingers circle your hole.

“Don’t!” you wail. “Please, Ghost, not that. I can’t—”

You shriek as one finger pushes inside. Nothing slow or gentle about it, a firm and unrelenting push. He doesn’t wait for you to recover or catch your breath. That single finger pumps in and out of your uncertain body, mechanical. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels dangerous. You squeeze your eyes shut and beg again for him to stop.

In answer, he pulls away long enough to spit directly on your twitching, sensitive hole. Then wedges the second finger alongside the first. This time your scream ends on a sob as his fingers pet your walls. It’s not quite painful, but it feels like it should be. It’s too much. Your body doesn’t sing, it screams for him.

Ghost has already mapped out all the places that make you shake and cry and beg. He seals his mouth around you again, and you’re gone. Bawling and kicking at air, he forces you over the edge faster than anyone ever as.

He works you through it, sticky wetness dripping down to ease the stretch of a third thick finger. Worse still, he doesn’t even slow, keeps going like you haven’t cum at all.

“It hurts!” you sob. “Please, it hurts, I can’t!”

He uses his free hand to toy with your nipples again, adding another layer of overwhelming sensation that melts your brain. The overstimulation almost burns, you can’t tell if it’s ice-cold or white-hot. Just know that your nerves are shot, and yet you’re still rocking into his touch just that slightest damning bit. Because it’s not just too much, it’s not enough. You’re stuffed with his fingers, but you ache for more, for…

“Please, Ghost,” you breathe, hushed and desperate. “Please, fuck me.”

He pulls away with a filthy pop. “Fuck you?” he repeats. There’s a malicious smirk in his voice.

“Please,” you confirm, “please, I want it. D-don’t you want to…?”

He doesn’t answer – not with words. A noise thunders from his chest that raises goosebumps, freezes your blood, and burns through you like wildfire. You don’t know if you’re afraid or aroused, can’t tell if you want to run or bare your throat. It wouldn’t matter regardless. Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

You yelp as Ghost slides his fingers out agonizingly slow, pressing against your walls the entire way. His shifts, tugging your ass to the edge of the table and bowing up over you. Sharp teeth nip at the edge of your collar as the blunt head of his cock rubs against your aching entrance. Anticipation and trepidation chase each other through your veins, leave you shaking so hard you’re surprised the table isn’t rattling.

“Relax,” Ghost rumbles in your ear, “or don’t. Won’t make a difference to me.”

There’s nothing gentle or gradual about it, no consideration for his own size or your body’s limits. Just a hot, unrelenting press. You keen as your poor, oversensitive hole yields beneath the onslaught. It burns, you can’t breathe, he doesn’t let you adjust even once the flared head is tucked snuggly inside. Just keeps cramming his fat cock deeper and deeper.

You’re lightheaded when he bottoms out an eternity later. It feels like all the air has been forced from your lungs, like there isn’t room for anything but Ghost. And then he rocks back and slams home again.

This time, the table does rattle.

You grip desperately at the sides, nails scraping. He fucks into you viciously, teeth glinting in a half-feral snarl. There’s no consideration for your pleasure, but he still sends your eyes rolling back with every thrust. You’re too gone, dumb on ecstasy, probably drooling.

A rough hand shoves your thigh back, bending your knee to your chest. His cock rams into your g-spot and your voice breaks on the wail that follows. He shortens his thrusts, half pulling out before plunging back inside, ruthlessly abusing that bundle of nerves, snarling as your walls flutter and spasm.

“No, no, no, not again,” you babble but it’s too late.

The pleasure rapidly overflows into a mind-numbing orgasm, whiting out everything but the exquisite torture of Ghost pounding you through it. This time you can’t even muster the ability to plead or squirm. Even your body seems to surrender to his will, going limp and pliant through waves of overstimulation.

“Not yet,” he growls. “One more, and then you can pass out.”

He snakes his free hand down between your bodies. Tears stream down your temples. Helpless, wordless cries spill from your raw throat, high and sharp. Another orgasm builds frighteningly fast, crackling along your shot nerves until you blow like fuse. Blinding ecstasy cracks up your spine, envelopes your mind, and leaves everything dark.

You wake in the bathtub.

It’s a slow, reluctant crawl back to consciousness. The lights have been dimmed to something soft and warm, filtering through a curtain of curling steam. Like this, the bathroom is a dreamlike blur, all hazy lines and twilight shadow. Water laps at your collarbones, not quite scalding, just the way you like. It’s quiet save for the gentle swish of movement along the surface, and slow breathing by your head. Someone is drawing a cloth gently along your heavy body.

A low, gravelly voice coos, “Back with us, kitten?”

You roll your head, blink syrupy slow at the dark specter of Ghost knelt at your side. His sleeves have been drawn up past his elbows. One arm supports your neck and head, protecting you from the cold, harsh side of the tub. The other disappears beneath the surface of the water, working slowly back and forth. A reaper paying dues.

“Maybe,” you hum.

He makes an amused noise. Not quite a chuckle, but close.

“You can sleep again soon,” he replies. “I think the pup has suffered for long enough, though.”

You jolt, the cotton candy haze dissolving into bitter ash.

Poor Johnny, thinking Ghost was doing something awful to you. Hearing your screams and cries and begging, only for Ghost to bring you up some indeterminate time later, unconscious. Guilt threatens to swallow you whole.

“Easy now, precious,” Ghost soothes, a hand between your shoulders as you sit up. “Take it slow. I wasn’t gentle with you.”

That becomes evident as you abandon the weightless solace of the hot water. Aches immediately bloom throughout your body, concentrated around your hips and thighs. Your lower spine is sore, a muscle in your thigh feels strained, and your hole…

“Christ,” you whimper, nearly slipping.

Ghost catches you, scoops you out of the tub altogether, and waits for you to steady your fawn-weak legs on the bathmat. You lean into him heavily, soaking wet patches like blood into his sweatshirt. You’ve paid your way like this – imaginary cuts at Johnny’s expense.

You can’t look at Ghost’s egregiously fond gaze without nausea bubbling in your empty stomach. A yawning pit grows there, hollowing you out. You can’t face the mirror either.

Ghost doesn’t interrupt your flagellation. Buffs you down with a towel in silence, polishing the monument he’s built to his own deprivation. Couldn’t have shaped it without the raw material there though, could he? Statues don’t form without a block of unformed marble, can’t make granite of limestone.

He dresses you in one of his hoodies and fresh underwear before returning you downstairs.

The state you find Johnny in breaks your heart. Tear-streaked, puffy-eyed, lips bitten bloody. His hair is tangled and disarrayed, bruised hands limp in his thighs. Though his head is leaned back against the wall, there’s no ease in his body. His jaw is so tight you worry for his teeth, brows furrowed tight. A crumpled ball of tension and regret.

“Johnny,” you say, voice splintering. The shards rain down, popping the bubble of bleak silence suffocating the den.

His eyes fly open. You dart to him, throwing yourself into his arms before he can process what he’s seeing. Press yourself close and tight, eyes stinging at the exhausted tremble in his body. Johnny’s never been anything but fire and stone to you. Warmth and heat and energy, strength and support even with the cracks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you warble. “I’m so sorry.”

He nudges you back to scan you with glassy eyes, like he’s seeing a miracle right in front of him.

“You… you’re okay,” he rasps, voice shredded to wisps.

You nod, bowing your head in shame. “He – we…” You can’t find the words to explain, don’t even know how to begin. His hands keep drifting over your arms and hands, eyes flicking from your face to your neck to your bare legs.

Ghost chimes in. “Told the kitten to put on a show or you would suffer.”

You want to wipe away Johnny’s half-dry tears, offer the comfort he’s been deprived of. Cowardice grips your arm, suspends it in midair, whispers poisonous doubts about your welcome.

But Johnny presses his cry-flushed cheek into your palm, shuddering through a dry sob. He leans his weight into you, and despite the fatigue, you stay the pillar you’ve always tried to be for him.

“You both need water,” Ghost rumbles, and turns for the kitchen.

Left alone, Johnny doesn’t emerge from the safety he’s found in the hollow of your throat. You cradle him with all the tenderness you can muster, sifting gentle hands through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” you whisper finally.

He lets out a sigh and hugs you closer. “Nothin’ to apologize for, Kit. Not mad at ya for protectin’ me. ‘Specially when I put you down there in the first place.”

“I don’t blame you for anything. I wouldn’t have blamed you even if he had…” You shake your head. “Well, regardless, it’s on Ghost for losing his temper.”

He doesn’t respond. You’re not surprised, but your chest squeezes. Johnny’s a proud man, but he’s got a guilt complex a kilometer wide – especially for people he cares deeply for. He’ll be haunted by this for a while.

“I’m just glad you’re alright, luv. Don’t care about a damn other thing.”

You tilt your chin to press kisses to the crown of his head – until he finally peeks out for you to trail more down his ruined face. The kiss starts gentle, warmth and love and reassurance pouring into him from your mouth. Johnny shudders in a breath, cups your jaw. His control slips, mouth parting on desperation and relief, lapping comfort from the edges of your teeth and curl of your tongue.

You only part when Ghost returns, nudging the two of you with his knee. He doesn’t insist on separating you far, though. Just enough to bestow you and Johnny with full glasses of water. You sip in measured doses while Johnny chugs to the bottom in a few noisy mouthfuls.

As he does, you note the awful marks on his hands. Bruised and bloodied knuckles, blisters forming on his palms. Your eyes dart to the wall – sure enough, red stamps like smashed grapes, centered around the wall anchor for the chain. You follow the trail back to his collar, spot the angry skin peaking past. At least there isn’t blood.

Ghost notices too.

“We’ll have to take it off for the night.”

To your surprise, something like reluctance flickers across Johnny’s face. There and gone again, but definitely there. You say nothing; you’d have the same reaction.

Ghost disappears again – this time you hear him rummaging in one of the cabinets. While you and Johnny wait, you exchange chaste, gentle kisses while you burrow into his side.

He returns with a first-aid kit. You’re surprised when offers you a roll of bandages. “A hand for each of us.”

You hum in agreement, get to work dabbing the split skin with antibacterial.

“Can I jus’ ask why, Ghost?”

Ghost doesn’t even glance up. “Why what, pup?”

“Why take it out on Kit? Why not just give me a thrashing and call it a day?”

You frown. Don’t like this line of questioning, or the guilt still staining his words. But Ghost answers without hesitation.

“Because you told me, yeah? Your worst fear is the kitty suffering for you again,” he explains. “No better way to punish you.”

That’s no shock to you; the sentiment is mutual. It’s been damn near written on both your faces since you woke up here, and Ghost isn’t a stupid man. He had you made long before then, you’re sure.

But Johnny’s sudden silence strikes you like a cord out of key. No mutters of annoyance or even snarky comebacks this time. Just a silence that drags your gaze from the careful winding of gauze.

He’s not looking at you, though. He’s staring at Ghost, abject horror graying his skin.

“Riley?”

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Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #scottish cabin in the woods #scitw #serial killer au #serial killer ghost #mind the warnings

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zomtart · 2 months ago

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Chapter 1: Morphine and Lavender (Frank Castle x Fem Reader/OC)

okay this is terrifying but hi I am going to share some of my writing! this is just a snippet I wrote cause Frank is always on the brain. thank you tuna team for the encouragement <3

content warnings: hospital, canon-typical violence/gore, mentions of needles, language

word count: 1.1k

Frank was beginning to think they had left him in there to die when he heard a knock. A young woman opened the door with a huff, brushing her hair out of her face before giving Frank a curt nod.

“Alright, hi, sorry, I know I’m not your assigned nurse but everyone in my unit decided to take lunch at the same time, so you are stuck with me at the moment.” she mumbled, barely looking up at Frank as she wheeled her computer stand to his side. She stayed outside of the duct-taped line, but it didn’t seem to bother her much. In fact, she didn’t seem bothered at all. Frank’s eyebrows furrowed together as she pulled up his medical sheet, searching for his name.

“Okay, you are Mr…Castle?” she asked, the sound of her mouse clicking echoing in the small hospital room.

He blinked, dumbfounded. “...yes ma’am.”

She nodded, her relaxed (but rather exhausted) expression staying constant even as she said the name that was headlining every newspaper in New York.

“Mr. Castle, could you give me a pain rating on a scale of 1-10?”

He blinked again. He felt like he had fallen into some sort of alternate universe. His assigned nurse hadn’t talked to him in the few days he’d been here, much less give him treatment he’d give another patient. An innocent patient.

“Mr. Castle?” she repeated.

“Right--uh…five.” he said quietly.

At that, she raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down slowly. She eyed the numerous bruises, cuts, and scars he was no doubt covered in, and asked, “That your final answer?”

Something like a smile itched at his lips, but he forced it down. “...yes.”

She shrugged, typing something into her computer. “Alright, well at least the painkillers are doing something. I’ll make sure to get a refill for that--” she paused as she looked at the full IV bag of morphine, following the IV down to…the floor.

She grabbed at the IV, looking at the wire and then back to Frank. “Did you yank this out?”

“No, ma’am.”

“The fuck?” she murmured, before understanding seemed to dawn on her. The cuffs, the bright red line of tape, the bruises on his face. Frank waited for disgust, for her to become terrified, for her to spit in his face. Instead, she stubbornly set her jaw and walked back to her computer.

“Who the hell is your nurse?” she sounded furious, but it didn’t seem aimed at him.

Frank, through his confusion, could only shrug.

She rapidly typed at the keyboard, eyes running up and down the screen. Then she stopped scrolling, eyes narrowing. “Did he have blonde hair? Eagle tattoo on his forearm?”

Frank vaguely remembered the eyes of an eagle staring back at him as he faded in and out consciousness from the pain, a man with blonde hair sneering down at him. He nodded.

“...motherfucker.” she all but growled, and the sound turned into a jagged laugh. She threw her hands up. “Aaron. Of course it--god fucking…damnit--”

Frank felt he was obligated to ask, or maybe his curiosity got the best of him. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

She laughed humorlessly again, words tumbling out of her mouth. “Oh yeah. I’m just peachy. I haven’t slept in two days, haven’t been in my own bed in almost a week, and all because I need to take extra shifts. Why do I need to take extra shifts? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I decided to move to New York fucking City where an apartment room costs more than an arm and a leg! And just when I think--oh just when I think I’m gonna get that promotion? No. No, I lose it to Aaron, who won’t even do his goddamn job correctly!” she finished with a burst of gusto, before collapsing down into a chair.

She just sat there for a minute, face buried in her hands, and Frank wasn’t quite sure what to do besides give her the grace of silence.

The absence of noise was quickly interrupted by her pager going off, and she reluctantly held it up to her vision before sighing and putting it back at her hip. It seemed to snap her back into reality, and she stood up and smoothed down her hair.

“I’m…very sorry about that Mr…” she glanced up at the computer again. “...Castle. I’m--that was unprofessional, it has just been a…very long week.”

Frank’s eyebrows furrowed. “...you really don’t know who I am?”

She grabbed some gloves from the table and snapped them on. “Someone very humble, I see.”

That got him to laugh, a low rumble that made its way out of his throat. He…couldn’t remember the last time had laughed. It felt nice. Familiar, even after all this time.

She shook her head with a small smile, grabbing the IV and sterilizing it. “No, I do not. I’m not even sure what day it is, to be honest.”

He nodded, stretching out his arm for her and making a fist. “But you…I mean they told you…somethin’, right? A warning?”

“I vaguely recall being told to stay behind the red line besides when absolutely necessary, yes.” she said, readying the needle. “Small pinch.”

He stared, barely registering the sensation of the IV. “...so you…then why would you…?” he tried to find the answer in her face, but all he could see was concentration on her task.

“Why would I…?” she repeated, waiting for him to continue. With the IV in his arm she took her gloves off, typing something on her computer.

“...I don’t know, you’re just being awfully kind.”

She pursed her lips, a hand going to her hip. “I’m not being kind, I’m doing my job. I took an oath to help people, no matter who they were, and that’s what I’m doing. Simple as that.”

He grunted absentmindedly, his eyes flitting to the window. Ten stories down, New York raged on, lights flashing like fireworks. “Doesn’t seem simple.”

She shrugged. “It is to me.” she started wheeling out her computer. “I’ll be back to check on you in a couple hours. Hopefully that IV will help. If that dipshit comes in here again, you tell him about nurse malpractice. You have constitutional rights, even if you are off robbing banks or whatnot.”

With that, she was gone, the faint scent of lavender left in her wake.

Frank blinked. “...robbing banks,” he mumbled before closing his eyes, letting the numb embrace of morphine lull him to sleep.

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle x oc #the punisher #daredevil

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raainberry · 9 months ago

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Corrupt Kisses

« silly series - 12 »

synopsis - is corruption really a crime if it’s Sana’s kisses?

wordcount - 725

A/N - finally fought back writers block, we cheered🥳 (i am losing)

You never found your name special until you heard Sana say it. There was something behind the way she sounded it out; a feeling, a meaning. It felt as though it meant something to her. Something bigger than you could ever understand.

You knew it had something to do with the obvious love and affection she felt for you, yet you couldn’t quite tell the reason. Why she felt this way about you was beyond you, but you’d be a fool not to accept it.

You just hoped her love ran as deep as yours did for her, and it seemed like it. Especially when she left those sweet, soft kisses all over your face for whatever reason.

The small glimpses of happiness you caught on her glowing features felt unreal. Your heart fluttered at the sight every time, confused and unable to process how such beauty was reserved for you and only you.

That feeling, along with the overwhelming amount of love pouring out of her lips in those moments, often made you dizzy. The only thing you could grasp and distinguish was her giggles, her voice as she teased you about how you loved it despite all your grimacing and whining.

“Y/n…” Sana sung, dodging your hands and arms as you tried to push her love away. She managed to steal a few kisses here and there, weakening your defense, but you held up.

All those kisses were all fun and games until she used them against you, baiting and bribing you on the regular over harmless and ridiculous tasks. Last time she did, you found yourself carrying her home on your back for several blocks. She was well aware of her power, you enjoyed it, but maybe it was time for restrictions…

“Can you please help me?” She whined through giggles as you crossed your arms over your face. That way she couldn’t numb your common sense with that sweet love of hers.

“You’re so foul, Sana, using my love for your dirty jobs!” You wiped her kisses off your cheeks and she scoffed.

“I am not using you! I’m just asking you to do me a little favor.” She argued, playing with the collar of your shirt.

You sighed, dropping your arms below your nose to peek at her. Her eyes immediately met yours, abandoning the fabric between her fingers in order to put her full focus on that pout you couldn’t say no to.

“That’s the same thing.” You pointed out, taking her aback.

Had she lost her charm? Why didn’t it work? Did you fall out of love? Her thoughts were far from reasonable until she felt your hands cupping her face, lightly squishing her cheeks together and smiling at the sight of her. “Admit it.”

“Only if you actually help me.” She said, still pouting but in an angry way now, letting you know she was set on making you fold.

In a way, you could understand her dedication. She had gotten herself in a bit of trouble by hosting the latest get together with her friends. Her living room was a hot mess, to the point your jaw dropped when you walked in moments ago. You guessed it hasn’t been long since she woke up when you saw her bedhead dragging a trashbag, lazily pulling and grabbing whatever waste was closest to her.

“Last time I helped you it took us hours, I’m not going through this again!” You told her as your mind flashed back to the terrifying memories of that one day (also known as Sana’s birthday morrow).

“But it was different, that was like the whole apartment…”

“That’s not at all why it took us hours.” You reminded her, and a smile creeped on her lips as she remembered the numerous ways you’d gotten side tracked.

“Okay, but it won’t take long if we actually stick to cleaning up.”

“No kisses, no snack breaks, no breather, nothing.” You warned and she shook her head, agreeing to the conditions.

“Only cleaning up, I promise.” She said before stealing a kiss from your lips. “Starting from now.”

You could only blink and stare as she slipped away from your hold, her melodious giggles letting you know how proud she was of herself.

“I can still leave and let you deal with this alone, you know?” You said, trying to erase the blush from her kiss.

“Sure you can, but you won’t.” She smiled, sure of herself.

And she had every reason to be.

#twice x reader #sana x reader #sana imagines #kpop x reader #twice imagines #sana fluff #twice sana #minatozaki sana

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skzdarlings · 1 year ago

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part vi: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 9500 words)

Graduation approaches. There will be a ceremony in the afternoon then a dinner and dance, hosted in a hotel ballroom. It is nothing so luxurious as your father’s soirees, but it is a milestone that should be filled with meaning and memory.

You do not go.

You close this chapter of your life while vowing to never forget a moment of it. Jisung and Hyunjin both impacted your life for the better. Though you will not put them in danger by association, you hope they will find happiness. They will both be better in the long run.

You look at Felix and wish you could grant such a freedom to everyone.

You let yourself mope for a few days and Felix does not intervene, only checking in now and again to see if you need anything. You have not talked about what transpired between you, but that was to be expected even without any distractions.

He extends comfort in a platonic sense at best, more professional than ever with how he hovers in your periphery, ensuring you are safe but never crossing a line. He will embrace you when you have a nightmare, but he is much more stiff than he used to be. He does not touch you with his gentle caresses, only holds you with a perfunctory grasp. You think if this entire ordeal with Jisung had not happened, then he would have stopped altogether by now.

The night of the graduation, you sleep restlessly and wake in an emotional fit. You stare at Felix across the bed, your tumultuous emotions flickering between sadness, anger, and longing. You don’t know what to do, and it isn’t fair, and you want him so badly.

You dig your fist into the mattress and press your face into the pillow, fighting down a scream. Your shuffling wakes Felix who whispers your name. He moves closer then reaches the rest of the way, touching the back of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“No,” you say, muffled. You thump your fist against the mattress. “I hate you,” you say, because you don’t hate him at all. He’s all you have left yet it does not suffice to say there is only Felix, because even if you had a world of options you would still want him. He is singular in both charm and peculiarity. You do not hate him, but the threshold of the opposite looms with a terrifying danger for you both. What happened with Jisung would be miniscule in comparison to the consequences of this affair.

You know that, and yet.

You want to close this space for good. You want to throw caution to the wind and indulge your most romantic desires. You want him to want it too.

“Do you hate me?” you ask, turning your face but not meeting his eye.

“I—” He clears his throat. “I’m just… doing my job. I can’t have feelings one way or, uhh, another.”

“That’s not a no,” you say, lifting your gaze to his. He is propped up on one arm, staring down at you, blonde hair in a dishevelled mess around his face. His gaze drifts and you feel you are losing him. “Felix…” you say, imploringly.

“You have no idea,” he suddenly says, his tone almost vicious. “No idea… what it does to me when you—when you—when you look… at me… like that.” He falls onto his back and covers his face with both hands.

He always looks so skinny in his baggy sleep shirts, all sharp lines jutting out of the fabric. It completes his lie: the too-happy, naïve boy who is all smiles all the time, with nothing to see beyond the surface. No one would guess what he is capable of doing. Even you had not fully realized the breadth of his person until you witnessed it with your own eyes.

His mind seems to be following a similar path because he says, “You saw me kill someone.” He rubs his forehead like a migraine is settling there. “You shouldn’t look at me like you do. You shouldn’t—I don’t understand—how you’re not ever afraid—of him—of me—”

“I’m always afraid,” you whisper the admittance. You continue to look at him even while he stares up at the ceiling, his arms crossed protectively over his chest. “Just not of you,” you say.

He closes his eyes. He breathes out through his nose.

“You’re supposed to be,” he says. “That’s why I—that’s why I exist, yeah? I was raised to be this… thing. People are supposed to be afraid when they see who I am. Even your father is scared of me. And if he didn’t—if he didn’t have me on this—this fucking leash—” He sits upright, practically snarling as he speaks. Only experience in tempering his emotions brings him back down to calm, simply glaring across the room through the dark.

You wait to see if he will say more, your attention caught by what he let slip. Even your father is afraid of him, despite having him lashed to a tether of some kind. You want to know more, but you do not want to take what he does not willingly give, even though you know he will answer any question if you push. He made that promise a long time ago.

You are both almost nineteen. You have spent a quarter of your lives together. Those years, his present, and his future are all ensnared, and you cannot find it in yourself to forcibly rip his past away too.

You sit upright as well. He still does not look at you, gaze faraway. You twist the blankets in your lap, itching to reach out and smooth back a messy strand of his hair.

“You’re not just a thing to me,” you say.

“I know,” he says softly, still looking to the side. “Sometimes I wish I was just a thing.” He tips his head, staring into the distance as if he can see a memory playing out in the dark. “Sometimes I wish… it was that easy. That I could… put it all somewhere. Stop feeling. Stop being. That’s what I was supposed to be. If I could��if I did—I wouldn’t be here at all. But also…”

He trails off and his mind drifts. You tug at the blanket again.

“But also?” you ask.

His head turns to you, though his gaze is lowered, down to your fidgeting fingers.

“But…also…” he says. “I wouldn’t want that. If I had never… been someone. If I had never known…someone…”

He meets your gaze now. He has not looked at you with such direct intensity in days and it feels like basking in the sun after so much shadow. Your expression must return a similar ardor because his lips part with a deep exhale, his body instinctively tipping towards yours like it so often does. He maintains enough mental faculty not to fall all the way, holding himself back, only looking at your face. He lingers on your mouth.

“I understand,” you say, tingling with the effect of his gaze, tangible as a kiss.

“Yeah?” he says, his voice rough.

You feel a bit fuzzy, distracted with the energy between you. You only loosely cling to your own train of thought but you manage to say, “Yes. Making sense of the good in the bad. Both shaping who you are. The people you know… changing you for the better.”

“Jisung,” Felix says, ruminating on your words. Then a flicker of displeasure creases his brow as a thought occurs to him. “Hyunjin,” he says. “They were both… part of your good.”

“Yes,” you say, watching him pull away into his own mind.

“You liked Hyunjin a lot,” Felix says, clearing his throat. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure—”

You roll your eyes even while a smile breaks onto your face. There is something so charmingly childish about the clear jealously that is suddenly plaguing him. It isn’t dangerous dramatics or dark pasts – just one boy glaring at the recollection of you dating another boy.

You push the blankets off your lap and move so you are kneeling at his side. He looks away but that is fine, because you tuck his hair behind his ear and lean in to whisper, “I didn’t like Hyunjin half as much as I hate you.”

He clenches his jaw. His shoulder twitches with a little shiver. A smile tugs at his lips.

“Oh,” he says. “All right.”

“All right,” you repeat in a mockingly deep voice. “That’s his reply – all right. This is why I hate you.”

“Mmm?” He tips his head, smiling at you. “Is it?”

You feel flushed. You sit back again, poking at the covers. “Among other things,” you say.

He laughs but tries not to, the result a very low chuckle that he unsuccessfully tries to hide behind his hand. You shove his shoulder. He sways dramatically like it was a hard hit. He is still chuckling when you lay back down, arms stubbornly crossed.

He lays on his side and props his head in his hand. There is space between you but you can touch his face with a simple stretch. You trace your fingertips down his jaw and it smooths out his laughter, expression softer. Your heart is thundering when you touch his lips, just a light touch. It should be inconsequential when you consider what you have already done, but it feels substantial as anything else. You wonder if this sensation will ever lessen.

He takes your wrist and moves your hand, his breath fluttering over your fingertips. He swallows hard.

“I’m a bad person,” he says. “I’m not supposed to care about being bad. But I do.”

“You’re not a bad person,” you say. “Because of the things they make you do? How can you say that?” From the moment he walked into your life, Felix has done everything in his limited power to provide relief. You did not always appreciate it, but it did not stop his efforts.

“I am,” he says. “I’m selfish. I let myself forget… so many things… when you look at me.” He lays down on his back, curling one arm under his head. “You know, I’ve been trained to withstand torture,” he says, casually despite the ripple of horror that moves through you. “But they didn’t prepare me for, uhh, you doing that… thing with your eyelashes, when you want something. Or when you, you know, stick out your lip like this—”

He pouts and it makes you laugh despite everything.

“I don’t do that,” is all you can say.

“Sure,” he says, with a little smile and eye-roll. “It’s more effective than a bullet. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Duly noted,” you say dryly. “You know for such a well-trained whatever-you-are, you just made a pretty dumb mistake.”

“Oh?”

You roll onto your front so the lengths of your bodies are pressing along the side. You rest your chin in the cup of your hand and smile your most innocent smile.

“Yes,” you say. “It isn’t very smart to tell an enemy your weaknesses like that.”

“My enemy,” he says like the word amuses him, corners of his lips ticked up. He moves quickly, leaning into your space so surely that you can feel his breath fan your lips. “Is that what you are, then? My job. My enemy.” He laughs the word, then whispers with a teasing smirk, “And my sweetheart.”

“Sworn enemies,” you somehow manage without even a stutter. You take his teasing further and say, “You can even tell my daddy. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“That isn’t a joke,” he says, tone serious though his soft expression betrays him.

“Who’s joking?” you say. “We’re just two enemies, sharing a bed. I hate you, and you—”

“Yes?” He has a cocky look on his face, playful as it is. “What do I do?”

You narrow your eyes in a theatrical glare, then you just smile.

“You...” Your voice comes softly, your knuckles brushing his jaw. “You know what it feels like to be inside me.”

Your heart thumps erratically at his drastic shift in expression, the laughter replaced with shock then obvious vexation, dark eyes slanting in warning. You just smile like it is of no concern to you at all.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur. “I’m just saying. Sweetheart.”

You roll away, leaving space between you again. You wriggle your hips more than necessary and your shirt predictably rucks up, your shorts similarly loose and high around your thighs.

Your heart is still racing even though you got the last word in. You breathe to centre yourself.

Then he grabs you by the neck and tugs you back across the bed. It is a showy demonstration but a gasp bursts past your lips, your hand instinctively clutching his sturdy hand. It is your turn to be beyond surprised when he presses right up against you from behind.

“Don’t play games that have no winner,” he speaks into your ear.

“Who’s playing?” you reply, grinding back against him.

He exhales, an exasperated sound that has you giggling. You yelp when he rolls you onto your front, all but planting your face in a pillow before abruptly letting you go. You lift your head as he swings out of the bed.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

“The bathroom,” he says. “Don’t try to leave or I’ll tell your father, yeah?”

He is grinning with his victorious retreat. His alleged training is good enough that he dodges the pillow you chuck at his head.

Your father returns home the next day. He never had any intention of attending your graduation, agreeing with his own late father’s assertion that a high school graduation was a juvenile joke celebrating mediocrity.

Felix already reported that you did not attend so there is nothing more to say on the matter. The subject of graduation merely broaches the topic of post-secondary education. He calls you into his office and presents you with a folder detailing the next step of your education. You will attend his alma mater, a prestigious university that did not require your application as he most certainly just paid for your admittance.

“And,” he says, “I am generously giving you one more opportunity to prove you are not the unfledged adolescent you have insisted on presenting.”

This opportunity is online summer classes to pre-emptively advance your position in the program. As if it matters where you rank in the scheme of things; your life set in stone.

“Fine,” is all you say. The wounds from the incident with Jisung are still fresh so you do not have an argument inside you. It would just be for the sake of itself anyway, as it is not like you have anything better to do with your summer.

You still complain to Felix. You find him in the gym, working up a sweat. A captive audience for your lengthy complaint session.

He runs a self-made obstacle course while you inexpertly pummel a punching bag to let out your frustrations. Eventually he takes a water break and wanders over to you. You crinkle your nose and pretend to be disgusted with his appearance, but in actuality a hot, sweaty Felix reminds you of that cramped car and all the heat between you.

He tips his head back and drinks his water and your eyes follow a drop of sweat as it licks down his neck. You look away when he stops drinking, when he swipes a hand across his forehead.

“Careful,” he says. “You should tape your hands first, yeah? You’ll hurt yourself.”

You slap the punching bag and smirk when he frowns at you.

“Not funny,” he says, and takes your hand to inspect it. He is smiling despite his words. When he catches your eye, he tries to quell it, but his gaze is tender as his touch when he massages your hand. “Just remembering,” he mumbles. “First night here. You and that… what was it? Eggplant?” He shakes his head. “I was, uhhh, not prepared.” He laughs. “I clearly didn’t know what I was getting into.”

“Yes, I’m sure I came across as a very intimidating adversary,” you say dryly.

“Yes.” He laughs, a sharp breath. His eyes flick up to you. “Like no one I’d ever met before.”

You feel bashful under his gaze. You look down at where he is rubbing your hand, so very careful with the amount pressure he applies. It is still hard to reconcile this soft-touched boy with the violence that has evidently puppetted him for all his life. It seems impossible that he could be a cog in that machine, not with hands like this, not with a touch so delicate in its gentle offer of solace.

He mentioned being trained to withstand torture, a training he must have received very young because you met him at fourteen as a fully formed soldier ready to follow orders. To this day, you remember his unblinking neutrality as he pressed the tip of that blade into the back of his hand. Yet now he holds your hand with such loving attention, so much humanity in his affection for someone else, even where people apparently tried to scrub it out of him.

It is too much to think about right now. You pull your hand away and don a faux-haughty air, flicking your wrist at him, fingers wiggling.

“Kiss it better,” you say with a supercilious tone. “Or I’ll tell my dad you let me get injured.”

He blinks at you, maybe perplexed with the sudden shift in tone, but then he just laughs and rolls his eyes.

“Mmm. Right,” he says. But he checks the door is empty then takes your hand. You realize this is a stupid ploy because it backfires the moment his lips brush your knuckles. He looks up at you, his soft bottom lip resting on your skin. Then he straightens, pats your hand, and smiles an annoyingly perfect, professional smile. “There,” he says. “Job well done?”

“As always,” you say, unsteady.

He breaks the tension by stepping away to fetch a towel. He dries his sweaty neck while asking more about your meeting with your father. You start complaining all over again, giving the punching bag another good slap. You rant about his usual tyrannical nonsense, but also complain about the graduation affair.

“They’re usually a big deal, yeah?” Felix asks. He is doing some cool-down exercises and you try to not to stare at him. “Why didn’t he want to go again?”

“Some stupid bullshit he parroted from his father, because he’s never had an original thought in his life,” you say. “It is a celebration of mediocrity. I will only attend your graduation from a valuable institution with an education that has been obtained through true work. As if he’s not paying to get me into university, and as if I won’t be walking out of there with a degree even if I sleep through every exam.”

Felix laughs in a humourless, distracted way. You look over and watch as he swings his water bottle up and catches it again.

“His father, huh?” he says. He shakes the water, absent-minded in his distraction. He walks backwards then takes a seat against the wall where he looks at you again. “This, uhhh, this everything in the family goes back far, huh?”

“Old money,” you say with an eye roll. You cross the room to join him on the floor. “Far enough.”

“Did you know him?”

“Who? My grandfather?” You slide down the wall and sit beside Felix, your shoulders touching. “Yeah, I mean, he died when I was about ten or eleven. You know him too.”

Felix looks at you in bewilderment and you laugh.

“He was the same as my father is now,” you explain. “If you know one, then you know the other.”

“That must have been…” Felix searches for the word but there is very little to sufficiently summarize that household.

“Yeah,” you say with a snort. “It was.” Your grandfather was a tyrant as sure as your father is now. You cannot say if he was worse, being so young when he ruled this household, but you remember he occupied the same untouchable sphere of power. Your grandfather looms in your memory as a grim figure as dark and intimidating as Mister Miroh. He was on the offense at all times, ambitious and striking out at whim. Your father, perhaps in response to his own father’s iron fist, has always acted on the defense, holed up in his castle and building his walls high to seal in everything of value. He attacks in retaliation or proactive defense.

Neither ever permitted being contradicted or disobeyed.

“I see,” Felix says. He looks like he wants to say more, brow still furrowed in contemplation, but then he just sighs and rests his head against the wall. “Are you sad about your graduation?”

“I just hope Hyunjin looked out for Jisung. He’s all I’m sad about.” Picturing your best friend in a corner of a ballroom with no one paying him any attention is too devastating to think about for long, especially knowing about his home life and how alone he felt before you.

You take a steadying breath.

“He just deserved better,” you say.

“So do you,” Felix says, only just above a whisper. He pats your knee and you react predictably, all your nerves alight beneath his hand.

But he does not linger long enough for that warmth to spread. You are not alone, after all. There are footfalls overhead and your father is tucked away in his office.

That night you have a bad dream. It is nothing so terrifying as a nightmare, featuring no guns or tyrant patriarchs. It is just a miserable dream.

You are at your graduation, wearing one of your many evening gowns. There is nothing so special about dressing up given your forced lifestyle, but the party is not about the gown or a date or anything else. You are looking for your friend. That is all you want, but you can’t find Jisung anywhere. You turn many corners, passing through the lengthy shadows of hotel hallways and school corridors, but there is an eerie emptiness to all of it. Finally you find a door, beaten and weathered. You step through knowing there is nothing fancy waiting on the other side of it.

You find yourself on the roof of a ramshackle house. Jisung is perched on the edge, dressed up in a blazer and tie but with his signature backwards cap. He is gazing up at the stars. You sit beside him, filled with so many things you want to say and yet nothing comes out. Time feels warped in your dream and you feel like you sit there for days, months, years, the sky dark, the world quiet.

“I’m sorry,” you finally say.

It feels unreasonable to ask for forgiveness, even if you did not willingly abandon him. You still feel the ache of guilt for having roped him into your life in the first place, but you feel especially guilty for not regretting those years. You do not want to live in a world where you never met him. To have never been someone, to have never known someone.

You know he feels the same way. He said as much during your goodbye.

In the quiet, he hugs you, wrapped up comfortably like that last night at his house.

Somehow that is the moment you become aware it is just a dream, that this is your own mind consoling you, but it is meaningful that your subconscious summons your best friend for that much-needed hug of reassurance.

It seems ridiculous that you, of all people, should think they have the best understanding of love, but perhaps it is the long absence of it that allows you to recognize when you have it. You have witnessed every elaborate gift and gesture in the world, but you are quite certain there is no grander demonstration of love than someone holding you for an hour with no other motive than to simply be there, seeing and being seen.

When you wake, it is with such an ache that you find yourself clutching your chest. Your uneven breathing wakes Felix. The moment he touches your shoulder, you roll into his arms and let yourself cry. He doesn’t ask what it is about, drawing any number of conclusions, but he holds you until your tears turn to sniffles then stop altogether.

You get drowsy in his arms. When he thinks you are asleep, he tries to lay you down on your side of the bed, but you are conscious enough to stir and cling to him. He laughs under his breath.

“Full house,” he whispers. “You need to sleep over there.”

You look at him morosely, blinking back tears. He sighs, letting his head droop, then he gives you a pointed look. You are surprised when he flicks his thumb over your bottom lip, drawing attention to the fact you are pouting.

“Told you,” he whispers.

“Hmmph.”

He rolls away but you follow, wrapping around him like a clingy koala bear. He chuckles and shakes his head, but lays on his back and allows you to rest your head on his chest. You nuzzle under his chin, hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm. He rests a hand over yours. When he breathes, you watch the rise and fall of those hands.

It is a comforting embrace. This bed has often felt like a world away from reality. You stare at those hands, his kind touch. You cuddle closer, secure with the weight of his arm around you.

It sets your brain in motion, compiling these feelings with everything he has told you and everything he has done.

Before you can stop yourself, before the insanity of such a statement dawns, you say, “Do you think we could make it if we ran away together?”

He goes very still, even his breath slowing. His heart beats a steady staccato under your hand.

“Felix,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, sharply, like the instinctive hiss of pain when unexpectedly struck. He shakes his head, coming back to himself. “No,” he says again, softer. His voice breaks as he lowers it to a whisper. “No, I’m sorry—I’m—I told you—you know it’s not that simple—”

You know he’s right. Felix is obviously very competent but he is still just one man, and your father would not let you slip through his fingers so easily. This is disregarding all the technical logistics of running away, like money and food and a place to sleep.

But a little cabin flashes across your mind and your argumentative side rears itself even though you know better.

“Maybe it is that simple,” you say. “He’s just one man—”

“He’s not just one man,” Felix says, sitting up. You slip through his arms, laying back and watching as he pushes a hand through his hair. “He is his business, and his… his world… and all the men like him…”

“And our lives?” you say. You sit up and put your hand on his back. “You said I deserved better but so do you. You aren’t selfish just because— Stop shaking your head—”

He does but he still looks away, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“It’s not—” He chokes on the word, swallows, then speaks again softly, “It’s not just my life.” He stares across the room, as if once more ensorcelled by some memory playing in the shadows. “Life,” he says, “in pieces and only for a little bit. I always remembered that, you know. That’s how you described it. That’s what I have. Being here. It’s more than—more than what I deserve. And what I—what I get—is a life worth more than mine—”

“Stop saying things like that,” you say miserably. You reach for his face but he turns away. “Do you have any idea,” you say with as much as emotion as you can fit in a whisper, “any idea how much my life has changed because of you, because of the way you are… Felix, you’re part of the good too.”

“You can’t—you can’t say things like that to me—”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start to believe you.”

You touch his face and he lets you this time, eyes lifting to yours as you guide his face up. Your thumb brushes that dark constellation of freckles, your eyes searching the face you have woken to every morning for years now – the brown eyes, the dark brows, the wisps of blonde that dash across his forehead. Your thumb brushes the groove to his upper lip, then the bow of his lower lip.

You cup his jaw and tip your head, hoping your gaze reveals the words you cannot conjure. The walls close in around you again. All those nonsensical ideas make their escape, leaving you in the dark with him.

He holds your gaze, his consternation fading to a different sort of ache. Longing carves itself in his features, the disconsolate but nonetheless ardent hunger of someone starving at a table they cannot eat from. He lays his hand over yours, holding it against his face. Eventually he lowers it.

“I didn’t count them,” he says.

“What?” You blink to attention, confused by the seeming subject change. “Count what?”

“The, uhh…” His laugh is dry. He clenches his jaw and looks down at where he is holding your hand. “The people. The people I killed.” He keeps his gaze low, watching as he strokes his thumb across your knuckles. “Others counted them but I—I dunno… I didn’t need to. It comes back to me sometimes, yeah. Hair colours. Clothes. Last words. I didn’t need to… to write it down, to keep track. I just remembered. I still remember.”

Even before you saw him in action, you knew killing was in his past. It still feels different to have those suspicions confirmed, that there was that much violence in his youth, but you are not upset for the reasons he must think. You are only more sympathetic, curling your fingers around his and squeezing.

He won’t look at you.

“Felix,” you say. “You were a kid, and I don’t know where you were, I don’t know what they did to you, but that’s not your fault—”

“I was good at it,” he says. “I was the best. I thought I knew what I was, why I existed. Then things changed. Now I’m not that. I’m not anything else either. I have no right to be, yeah? Do you understand? I can’t walk away. It’s all in me and there’s nowhere to put it down. All I can do is this—this one thing. And honestly, I don’t even know if it is the right thing. I just know that if I go with you, that feels selfish. If I stay here, if I—I keep you trapped here because of me—that’s selfish too—”

“I’m not trapped because of you,” you say. “I would be here either way. If it wasn’t you here with me, it would just be someone else.” So I’m glad it’s you, you want to say, with no obfuscation and no exaggeration.

He interrupts, “I killed your grandfather.”

It is so unexpected that you freeze. You cannot help the way you lock up when truly startled, even if the fright is only momentary. Your body shuts down to protect itself.

Felix withdraws his hand immediately, sensing your coldness. You come back to yourself and look at him, though he still avoids your gaze.

“What?” you eventually manage. “You—”

“He was the target,” Felix says. “They tried to kill him before. Tried, and failed. There were casualties. Like your… like your mother.”

You look away too, chronicling everything he is describing. Your mother died when you were still in infancy and you were never told much more than that. You always thought it might have contributed to your father’s obsessive protection efforts, at least in part, but you could never be sure.

“He was…” Felix says. “He was like a monster, to me, growing up, like a… like a ghost story or something. They told us stories about him and men like him. About how some were so… so powerful… and couldn’t be killed by a regular person… Everything I did—all the killing—was—was justified to me, yeah? And he was the worst of all. And if we could get rid of him, then… then all the other bad would go away too.”

“But it didn’t,” you say, remembering the infallible creature of a man that was your grandfather, the same but different to your father. Things changed when he died, in a way. Your father’s defensive operations are contrary to the offensive strategy of your grandfather, but no less intense in application. You can see how an enemy might have looked at your father, a frightened man always on the defensive, standing in your grandfather’s shadows. You can see how they might have thought the empire might crumble without the iron fist ruling it.

“But it didn’t,” Felix says.

You have questions, so many questions. Was it all Miroh? What happened next? How did Felix end up here? Why does he stay? A million questions fly through your mind. The only one you manage to vocalize is, “Does my father know?”

Felix shakes his head.

The rest of your questions evaporate into nothing. Only a breath passes your lips. Felix is bent over, elbows on knees, shoulders hunched. He is staring at the ground.

“Felix,” you say, reaching for him. “Felix, I don’t blame you for anything.”

Grandfather, father, it’s all the same poison sloshing from the same spoiled glass. You would be here either way, only without Felix, his voice and his hands, his heartbeat under your palm. You cannot imagine the bleakness of that loneliness.

You lay a hand on Felix’s shoulder, wanting to say all this and more but at a complete loss for words.

There is a moment of quiet, then he says, “All this time.” It is barely more than a murmur, face still downturned. “You were right here. And they didn’t care, so I didn’t see you. I didn’t even look.”

You cup his face once more, guiding him upright. He comes without a fight but takes his time, like it is agony to meet your gaze. When those dark eyes locked with yours, a shaking breath leaves his lips, that aching expression returned to his face. You do not know what your own face is doing, all your masks fallen away, leaving something open and raw, wounded but wanting. You swipe your thumb over his cheek, the high point where his freckles cluster darkly, sweeping down to where they dim.

“You’re looking now,” you say.

You slide your hand around his head, into his hair, fingertips fluttering over his nape. He shivers and tips his head, naturally leaning into your touch. You remember seeing the scars that litter his chest, remember feeling the cuts on his back from your own father’s beatings. You remember all the nights he has held you. You remember every little tidbit of your life he has tried to rescue and give back to you despite his precarious position.

You are both in a terrible situation without the tools to truly navigate your way out. There are no rules for a situation like this, every choice a dangerous one. The only thing you know for certain is you are not alone.

“I’m afraid,” you say, “but I’m not afraid of you.”

He gazes at you for a long, thoughtful moment, then reaches to touch your face. Just his thumb, tracing from temple to chin. The tremble of his touch reveals more fear than his faint smile, all of it bound tightly in the tension that holds him together, the carefully restrained yearning for something bigger than this moment.

“Yeah, but I’m afraid of you,” he says on a breath of a laugh.

“Right,” you say, infused with all the light-hearted sarcasm as you can muster. “That’s me,” you say. “Scariest of them all.”

“You have no idea,” he says, still so sincerely. It is your turn to shiver, leaning into his touch as his thumb circles your chin. He smiles again, not his exaggerated toothy grins but a sweet, fond smile. “My job. My enemy.” His thumb presses on your mouth, gently parting your lips. A breath escapes with the race of your heart. “My sweetheart.”

“You’re just being mean now,” you say. “I hate you so much.” You hold the back of his neck and tug him close to you. Your noses brush, his breath colliding with yours. A simmering warmth is tingling under every inch of your skin, gathering hotly in intimate places. You scratch up the nape of his neck and he swallows hard.

“A kiss,” he says, a rough whisper. “Just one kiss. It’s too—we can’t—”

“One kiss,” you say, brushing noses again. “For now.”

His soft laugh warms you even before your lips touch. And a touch is all it is, lacking all the rushed dramatics of your first collision. Even though you’re not truly alone, even though danger encircles this room like a poisonous fog, this little world away from everything feels momentarily invulnerable.

You let your eyes close, surrendering to the gentle give-and-take of it all. You wonder what makes a kiss so addicting, and you wonder how you went this long abstaining, and you wonder how you could ever hope to go without it again.

You run your hands into his hair and pull his face close. He sinks into the kiss, sharing a gasp before kissing you again.

You feel dizzy with breathlessness but you don’t stop. You shiver when he cups your neck to control the movement of your head. Your excitement has you bobbing forward, but he holds you and gently tips your head, then he kisses you with a long, hot pull. When his tongue brushes your lips, you make a little noise and he very softly squeezes your neck, the only place he is touching, in warning. This only tempts another sound but you restrain yourself, if only just barely.

The kiss ends with a gasping breath. You rest your forehead against his for a long moment. Then you open your eyes only to close them when he descends, kissing your nose, your eyelids, your cheeks. His sigh feathers against your lips.

“More effective than a bullet,” he murmurs.

Surely, it is meant to be joking, sweet, flirtatious. But he looks at you with that deep-set longing. He draws his thumb from your temple to chin again. He tilts your head to kiss your cheek, closing his eyes like that innocent press is the greatest pleasure of his life. Your cheek still tingles when he pulls away.

He smiles then nods towards the top of the bed. Your heart skips a beat, but then he says, “Sleep now. No more bad dreams tonight, yeah?”

You feel tipsy, breathless still, so you don’t argue. You also do not look away from him. Your eyes are locked as you slide to your side of the bed and pull back the covers. He sits on the end, watching you. Eventually he lays down and looks at the ceiling, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. His mind is so clearly going a mile a minute.

“Don’t worry,” you say with a wave of your hand. “I still hate you.”

He shoves his tongue into his cheek to hold back the laugh, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. You just smile, then shrug, then turn your back to him for the night.

The summer passes in euphoric bursts and tiny agonies. There are days you and Felix are alone in the house, days when a calm settles between you even if all you do is sleep entangled, and there are days your father looms with all his threat and power, when Felix sensibly withdraws and you ache with the need for an intimacy that keeps you sane and human.

Felix is clearly torn between his own desires and the duty he has assigned himself. It is also apparent that he is still struggling to consider himself worthy of honest affection. You can see it in the way he stands, the way he looks at you, the way his shoulders tense when you so much as brush his shoulder. You have laid in his arms more than once, your faces so close that you are almost kissing. You run your fingers through his hair until the tension leaves his body and he lets himself slant towards you.

Please come to me, stay with me, you think.

This is another one of those things that cannot coast on accidents, on fleeting moments of lustful tension that would ultimately fizzle if not for the emotional strength propelling them. It is in that emotional undercurrent you must plant yourself deliberately if you want to feel anything, if you want to heal, and if you truly, completely want him.

Maybe you cannot leave, maybe that kind of rescue is impossible, but you form a haven of sorts between yourselves. You try to find the words to tell him he’s a person, that you want to be a person for him, a body under his hands and a heartbeat in the dark, but you can never find the right thing to say to fully liberate you from the cage closed around that room. The words touch your tongue and burn and suddenly you see every nightmare in front of you, every reminder of why this is dangerous. So you turn your back and say you hate him, even while a kiss on the shoulder is enough to fully unravel you.

The summer is busy, a popular season for parties and events, some your father hosts and some you are invited to attend. He drags you from place to place, with the rest of your spare time filled with advanced course work. It is a distraction if nothing else.

At the end of summer, your father calls you into his home office. It could be for a lecture, a demand, an argument he is itching to start. You do not know but you appear when summoned.

Felix is already there, sitting straight-backed in a small chair across from your father’s desk. There is an empty seat beside him.

He turns his head and looks at you, reminding you of the first moment you ever saw him. Some things are the same, but most things are different. You realize how much older he looks. He is still slender, still clean-shaven, still very pretty, but he is not a child anymore. He does not look ridiculous in his black blazer and tie, a holster under his jacket, a competent professional with a job to do. Uniforms used to make him look even younger, his face too wide and sweet for such a grown-up ensemble. He looked like a little boy playing dress-up.

He is not a little boy anymore. You look into his face as you approach, your eyes locked. His hair is long enough to tie into a little stub of a ponytail. You ran your fingers through that hair this morning, fluffing the soft ends, making him smile. You have kissed that pink bow of mouth, both roughly and softly. You know what he sounds like when overcome with pleasure.

You met years ago, two peculiar children with so much humanity beaten out of you. You realize just how much has grown back thanks to the slow but tender cultivation of your relationship.

It seemed like an impossible thought at the time. Now it seems like it was inevitable.

You take the empty seat beside him. You both look at your father. His hands are steepled on his desk, his attention rapt as it often is when meting out punishment. His smile is not encouraging to the contrary, as he will sometimes smile when administering his reprimands.

But then he says, “Congratulations, I am pleased.”

He shows you the transcript for your summer courses. Your grades are more than halfway decent despite your tumultuous year.

“You’ve worked hard to win back my favour,” he says. It is the kind of comment that would usually trigger your frustration, prompting a quick rebuttal that would quickly escalate. But you temper yourself, curling your fists in your lap. You force yourself to ignore his bating, to listen with as stoic a face as you can muster. Your father smiles, though it is strained. “In my persistent generosity, I have decided to reward this behaviour in the hopes of encouraging it will continue.”

He slides a folder across the desk, every encounter a business meeting when it isn’t a brawl. You take the folder and read through it, the frustration leaving your body as it is replaced with confusion then the vaguest flicker of hope.

“We are substantially removed from the university campus,” your father says. “I have decided that for the sake of convenience and your continued academic success that it would be more prudent to move you closer to the university until your degree is completed in a timely manner.”

“Move,” you say, trying to keep your voice level despite the fact it feels like your heart is trying to leap into your throat. “All of us? What about the house?”

“Just you,” he says. “And Felix, of course, to supervise you. The penthouse is secured with a high security system, not to mention armed doormen and a plethora of staff throughout the building. Between that and your bodyguard, you should be secure and thus able to complete your studies without any obstruction.” He thumps a hand on his desk, making you jump. “And I expect your grades to reflect that.”

You nod vigorously, staring down at the real estate listing of the penthouse apartment. You have only just begun to picture the possibilities of an uninterrupted life, however brief the interim, when your father speaks again.

“Felix,” he says. “You know what I expect of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Felix says with a curt nod.

“I will have it on record now,” your father says to you, “that I give Felix complete and full control of this arrangement. You will do what he says when he says it. I also grant him permission to use his own discretion to determine when and how to discipline you if you step out of line.”

“Oh,” you say, too stunned to add more.

“If he reports that you are making things difficult in any capacity—”

“I won’t,” you say. “I’ve been good all summer!”

Other than last night when you snuggled up to Felix and started kissing his neck. It was chaste, a momentary touch, but then a sweet, low sound rumbled in his throat. Naturally, you did it again, then once more, your lips a little wetter and more open each time. He eventually had to pry you off him with a warning look, but he could not fully stamp down his smile when you giggled at him.

“Felix,” your father says, disregarding your retort. “You have my permission to do what you must to keep her in line.”

“Yes, sir,” Felix says, dropping his head in a respectful bow.

“So what do I have to do get disciplined around here?”

“Stop,” Felix says, even while obviously amused, a smile tugging at his lips. “They’re still here.”

You giggle and look over his shoulder where your father’s men are moving the last few things into the apartment. One of them collects Felix to show him the workings of the security system, which Felix quickly learns with his all technological skills.

You play the part of demure daughter, quietly moving from room to room as your father’s men assemble your life according to his directions. You did not get to organize much of anything, but you don’t care. A wall is a wall, a bed a bed. But these walls offer privacy. That bed is a new haven.

It is just you and Felix.

Eventually the men leave, one by one. The move began in the morning, but it is late evening by the time Felix closes the door on the last departure. You wait while he does his security check, in the sitting area, standing at the floor-to-ceiling window that boasts a beautiful city skyline view. The outside of the window is a mirror, concealing your privacy, but you get to enjoy the twinkling city lights, the bustling world below that offers so much possibility. It is very different than your view back home, of a perfectly manicured and perfectly stagnant garden, the mansion isolated on a hill with no other souls for miles.

You remember your first night alone with Felix, how empty that house felt. Now when Felix joins you, the apartment feels full. It is brimming with life.

You look at him as he turns on a lamp, brightening the dim room with a cozy golden glow. The whole room feels warm. It is not eerie and empty like that house. You were living in a mausoleum of wealth, rotting away with distractions and half-living in what little remained. You feel golden and alive, now, here, with him.

He clears his throat. He was staring back at you, his regard as intense as yours. He turns aside now, peeling off his uniform blazer. He starts talking about dinner, suggestions for this and that, something about school, about going to campus tomorrow and finding your way around. A hundred topics, more distractions.

You say nothing so he continues to fill the silence with empty chatter. He uses his friendliest voice, though your thoughts are not merely friendly when you watch him unholster his gun, when he fiddles with the harness around his chest and pulls it free. He puts everything on the coffee table and sits on the couch, pretending to be very occupied with organizing it. He checks his gun as if something could be wrong with it, nimble fingers flicking through its mechanisms as he checks its assembly.

You sit beside him on the couch, watching him fiddle with it.

He says something about something. Asks a question, maybe. He is not really looking for an answer. You think his heart might be beating just as fast as yours, even though his hands are steady and his gaze is resolute.

“It doesn’t really matter what I want,” you say in a voice, sighing dramatically. “My dad says you’re in charge of me anyway, right?”

He clips the gun shut and puts it on the table. He looks at it for a minute, then exhales.

“Are we doing that now?” he asks dryly.

“I dunno, are we?” you ask, shuffling a little closer to him. He looks at you sideways then shakes his head. He puts his hands on his knees and strums his fingers. “Are you saying I can do what I want?” you ask.

“Uhh, that depends,” he says. Another strum. “What do you want?”

“A kiss.”

He looks at you, those dark eyes narrowed, his expression one of warning.

“Just one,” you say, batting the eyelashes that are apparently more persuasive than torture. He swallows and you smile. “Just one is fine, right?”

“You said just one a few times ago now,” he says dryly.

“No, you said that,” you say with an innocent smile. “I said just one for now. But now I’m saying just one, because I’m going to be a good girl.”

“Oh.” He looks amused now, nodding. “Are you? Really? Wow.”

“No sarcasm required, thank you,” you say. “I’m trying to avoid being disciplined, after all.”

His mouth draws into a thin line. He looks away and cracks his knuckles distractedly.

“Just one,” he finally says.

“Yes.” You nod and smile sweetly. “Just one.”

That one kiss lasts forty minutes. First you are side by side on the couch, the blue evening night outside the window colliding with the golden glow within. That blue light fades to black before long, but that golden warmth stays glowing. Heat similarly rises between you, soft pecks against soft lips turning to open-mouthed kisses that beg and satisfy with each deep touch.

He holds your face in both his hands when you tremble, keeping you steady, letting you melt into him. He moves when you tug at his shoulders, mutely imploring as you lay back on the couch, though he holds himself well above you, maintaining distance.

When his arms get tired, he lays back. He lets you crawl on top of him, and sighs, giving in, holding the back of your neck as you wrap your arms around him. You kiss again, wet and hot and hungry, losing time and sense.

You kiss until it shows, when his whole mouth is pink and his skin is flushed and he can barely keep his eyes open with the dreamy intoxication of it all. You are straddling his waist, hands on his chest, his holding your waist. A breath breaks the kiss when you settle right above where he is hard, the ridge of him in his denim fitting between your open thighs. You are wearing jeans too but the thick material does nothing for true modesty.

You settle there against him, fitting like perfectly slotted halves of a whole. His brow creases, a truly tortured expression that pours into bliss when he yields to desire. He holds your hips, keeping you there against him, and goes back to kissing you with long, slow presses, eyes closed and the occasional breath gentle.

Your fingers are in his hair, stroking at his nape. Lovely low sounds slip into his sighs. You can feel how desperately turned on and wanting you are, clenching around nothing if he so much as shifts. You imagine laying here like this with him inside you, not moving much, lazily kissing and joined together like you have all the time in the world. The very thought has you clenching again, whimpering into his mouth. It sounds a little pained so he strokes your back, under your shirt, making you shiver very noticeably.

“Are you okay?” he asks, with a completely shot voice, rough and low.

“Mhm,” you say. Words take a long time to come back to you. “Just… thinking…”

“About?”

“If we were kissing…”

“We are kissing,” he says with a chuckle, tracing circles on your spine

“And,” you say, pointedly, and press your knees into his hips. “If you were inside me while we did it.”

That makes his hand pause. Then he thunks his head back hard and fast, missing the cushion and hitting the arm of the couch. His eyes close and his face scrunches, newfound pain adding to his present torture, all of it making you giggle.

“You keep doing that,” you say, remembering him hitting his head in the car too.

“That’s because you…” He can’t even finish, he just makes a pained noise and shakes his head. It makes you laugh a little more, biting your own bruised lip as you look down at him. He cracks one eye open, his cheeks dimpling with the tug of a smile. He slides his hand far up your back, thumb finding the band of your bra and skirting it, then diving back down to your spine to settle just above your ass. “If I was inside you,” he says softly, “we would not just be kissing.”

It is your turn for a pained noise, hiding your face in his neck while he laughs.

“You can’t say things like that,” you whine. “That’s just mean.”

“Mhm.” He gives your ass a pat, making you wriggle on top of him. “Okay,” he says breathlessly. “That was one kiss. Or something. I think we’re done.”

“You’re the wooorst,” you say as he sits up. “I hate you so much. You’re so evil. You’re so sick and twisted—”

He just laughs, patting your sides and shaking his head. You only stop complaining when he kisses your nose, a sweet little peck. His smile is tender. He touches your cheek.

“Say it again,” he says.

“What? I hate you? Fine. There. I hate you.”

“One more time?” he teases, cupping your jaw, kissing your neck when you try and speak again. Your words get garbled and he laughs, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “Now up. I’m in charge. It’s time for dinner.”

“I can give you something to eat—”

“Up.” His tone is stern but he is still smiling. “Don’t be trouble.”

“Me?” you say. “When have I ever been trouble? I’m perfect.”

“Of course you are,” he says dryly. “I don’t know why I worried.”

“Exactly,” you say, running your fingers through his hair. Your eyes are locked, your smiles soft. You kiss his nose. “And I’m just getting started.”

#skz smut #stray kids smut #lee felix smut #lee felix x reader #felix x reader #skz x reader

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fandom-smut-shots · 2 years ago

Text

Luka Couffaine x Reader - Ride

Request: Do you accept requests right now? Cuz it would be nice if you could write something smut with Luka with him first as Viperion

Smut warning. Luka/Viperion and the reader are both legal adults.

Again, totally open to any gender for the reader, but if it’s not specified (especially with smut) I automatically write female. Use of one feminine pet name.

Words: 2,985

Your heart hammered in your chest as you clung to the wall of the back alley, hiding in the shadows to the best of your ability. Akuma attacks were scary enough to watch on TV, but experiencing one yourself was absolutely terrifying. Everything was loud – the thunderous roar of the akumatized villain, the adrenaline-fueled cries of Ladybug and Cat Noir, the frightened shrieks of victims and passersby. You panted heavily as you sank to the ground, tucking your knees against your chest and willing yourself to appear as small as humanly possible. All you wanted to do was hide. Utter helplessness stabbed at your heart, urging a round of tears to well up in your eyes.

A wave of something washed over the city, and you gasped at the sudden serenity you felt in the air. Rising to your feet, you tentatively glanced around the corner to find the streets full of normal, non-victimized citizens. A sigh of relief fell from your lips at the realization that the miraculous heroes must have defeated the villain once again.

“Are you alright?” came a soft, soothing voice from your right. You jumped at the sudden noise, turning to face one of the heroes that Ladybug and Cat Noir must have called in for backup. Viperion, his name was, if you remembered correctly. The snake hero. Damn, he was so much more attractive up close. You’d only seen him at a distance before, across town or on TV. But with him here, standing in front of you, you were likely to lose yourself in his electric blue eyes, gazing at you tenderly as though you were a close friend instead of just a civilian.

“I’m fine,” you finally managed to exhale. “I ran over here to hide. The villain didn’t see me.”

“I’m glad you’re not hurt,” Viperion smiled softly, and damnit if his tone didn’t send a chill up your spine.

“Thanks for your help, Viperion,” came Ladybug’s familiar voice, and you turned to see her approaching from the left. “Oh, hey there. Are you okay?”

You nodded. “Yes, I’m okay, thank you. You guys were amazing out there.”

She smiled sweetly. “Just doing our jobs, but it’s nice to be appreciated.” She then turned to Viperion. “Thank you so much for your help. We wouldn’t have been able to capture the akuma without you.”

The snake hero bowed politely. “It was my pleasure, Ladybug. I suppose you’ll be taking my miraculous back now?”

Ladybug nodded. “I’m afraid it’s time.”

“I should go then,” you murmured. As much as your curiosity was eating at you, you understood that their true identities absolutely must remain secret, even from a single random citizen.

“Thank you,” Ladybug nodded towards you, and you returned it. You crept away from the alley, sauntering through town and making your way home.

Moments later, a hand grasped your forearm, and you turned around with a gasp. The hand belonged to Luka Couffaine, your friend’s twin and your long-harbored crush.

“Where did you come from?” you inquired, your eyes darting behind him towards the alley.

“I was so worried about you,” he murmured instead, taking your hands in his.

“What?” you questioned, tilting your head in confusion. “Why?”

“I thought the villain had gotten you,” he admitted. “I looked for you in the crowd, but I couldn’t find you.”

What? Luka was looking for you?

�� “I was hiding,” you explained, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks as he tightened his hold on your hands. “Why were you looking for me?”

The softest blush dusted his cheeks, and he ducked his head in the cutest way possible. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

Warmth spread through your core as you gazed at the blue-haired boy. You gnawed at your lower lip, feeling a surge of confidence as you stepped closer to him.

“Why were you so concerned with my safety?” you inquired, standing close enough that when Luka lifted his head, you could feel his breath on your face.

Electric blue orbs bore into yours, and you felt your knees weaken. The intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down your spine, but you forced yourself to remain upright and confident.

“I like you,” he murmured softly, lacing his fingers through yours.

“You do?” you whispered back, your eyes darting between Luka’s eyes and lips.

He dipped his head, resting his forehead on yours. “Yes, I do.”

“I like you, too,” you informed him, removing your hands from his in order to place them on his chest.

His hands found your hips, and his breath ghosted over your lips. You watched his gaze drop to your lips before meeting your eyes once again.

“Can I kiss you?” You barely heard his voice, your eyes already closing from the proximity. You managed a nod, exhaling a sigh as his lips pressed tenderly to yours. Warmth flooded your chest at the contact, spreading through your belly before settling in your groin. Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but as Luka’s grip on your hips tightened, you found yourself growing more and more comfortable in his arms.

“Can I take you home?” he whispered huskily against your lips. “We don’t have to do anything. I’d just really like to spend more time with you.”

Your heart hammered in your chest. You’d had a crush on the blue-haired boy since high school, but you were certain he was in love with Marinette. You didn’t consider he’d ever see you in that light.

“I’d like that,” you exhaled with a nod. “I have an apartment not far from here.”

He pulled back to smile softly at you. “Lead the way.”

It was a short walk back to your place, but it felt like forever as Luka laced his fingers with yours, gently squeezing your hand. Your entire body was tingling from the kiss, and you hoped it wasn’t too soon to take things further with the boy you’d loved for so many years.

When you finally approached your front door, your fingers trembled as you fumbled with your keys. You hoped he didn’t notice as you struggled to insert the key into the lock before finally managing to click it open. He followed suit as you opened the door and stepped into the apartment, his soft gaze wandering across your furniture and belongings.

“Would you like something to drink?” you offered awkwardly, standing in the middle of the kitchen. “I’ve got water and tea, or I could make some coffee.”

Luka shook his head, padding closer until he stood before you. “All I need is you.”

You exhaled a shaky breath at his words, gazing up into his cerulean eyes. “Are you sure?”

In lieu of a verbal reply, he lifted a hand to cradle the side of your face, bringing your lips to his. You melted into the kiss, your eyes fluttering closed as you pressed back against him. Your hands rested on his chest as his other hand found the small of your back, pulling your figure to his. He began walking backwards, his lips still tangled with yours, leading you out of the kitchen. He managed to find the hallway before he reluctantly broke the kiss.

“Bedroom?”

You offered a nod, claiming his lips as your fingers fisted lightly in his jacket, keeping him close as you walked him towards your room. You reached blindly behind you to turn the knob, kicking the door open as you led Luka inside. He spun you around, closing the door and pinning your back to it. You exhaled sharply at the contact, surrendering to him completely. You could feel his smirk against your lips as he kissed you again, his hands sliding down your sides until they wound behind you to grope at your ass. You whimpered into the kiss, sliding one hand to the back of his head and tangling your fingers in his two-toned locks. He grunted softly, and the sound went straight to your core, adding to the heat pooling between your legs.

“We don’t-“ he panted in between kisses, “we don’t have to do anything.”

His lips peppered kisses across your jaw and down your neck, despite his considerate words. You gasped as he bit down on your collarbone, nibbling at your skin.

“I want to,” you managed, lifting his head up to meet your gaze. “If you do.”

He nodded quickly, kissing you hard. “I do. Very much.”

His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, tugging you close to his body. You jumped, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. He carried you to your bed, kissing you passionately as he sat down with you on his lap. His hands groped greedily at your ass, and you moaned into his mouth, sliding a hand into his hair. You tugged experimentally at the two-toned strands, drawing a low groan from Luka’s throat that sent another rush of heat straight to your core. He broke the kiss, and you opened your mouth to protest. Before you could form a single word, his perfect lips latched onto your neck, sucking a deep hickey into your skin, and you whimpered, throwing your head back. You tugged harder at his hair, feeling him groan against your neck.

Your fingers pushed at the fabric of his jacket, prying it off his shoulders. He unwound his arms from your waist in order to pull at the sleeves, tossing the garment to the floor. His hands, warm from his natural body heat and calloused from years of strumming his guitar, slid beneath your shirt, over the bare skin of your sides, and your breath hitched in your throat. He removed himself reluctantly from your neck, gazing up at you to ensure the sound hadn’t been hesitation.

His lips pressed tenderly to the underside of your jaw. “Are you good?”

Cupping his face in your hands, you ducked your head, capturing his lips with your own. “More than good,” you huffed against his mouth.

He smirked softly, a gesture that you felt more than saw, as his hands slid further upwards, pulling the fabric of your shirt along with them. You raised your arms above your head to allow the garment to removed completely, leaving Luka to stare wantonly at your breasts, still nestled in your bra.

“God damn,” he exhaled, his hands slowly lifting to cup your boobs, squishing them experimentally. He tilted his head up to claim another kiss, to which you responded eagerly, as his hands slid around your back to unclasp your bra. You slid your arms out of it, tossing it aside and guiding Luka’s hands to your bare chest. He groaned into the kiss at the feeling of your skin beneath his hands, his fingers dancing across your nipples. You pressed closer, arching your back, and he took a nipple between his fingers, twisting it gently. You whimpered into his mouth and he broke the kiss, ducking his head to wrap his lips around the hardening bud. You tangled a hand in his hair, tugging at the cerulean locks until he groaned around your nipple. He sucked on it until you moaned loudly, detaching himself only to switch sides and repeat his assault on your other breast.

Lustful clouds fogged your brain as you lost yourself in his hands and lips, your own hands across his shoulders. Finding fabric where you wanted to feel skin, you reached lower, taking handfuls of his shirt and tugging upwards. Luka released your breasts and lifted his arms, wiggling out of his shirt before you threw it somewhere behind you. Your fingers danced down his chest and your teeth gnawed at your lower lip as your eyes raked over his toned figure. You’d always known he was the type to eat well and work out, but goddamn you hadn’t expected him to be chiseled like a marble statue. His lips split into a grin as he watched desire pool in your eyes, his hands resting on your hips and tugging them against his own. You moaned in surprise, grinding your hips down to repeat the sensation. The action pulled a moan from his throat as well, and you offered him a satisfied smirk.

“How do you want me?” you found yourself asking, grinding your hips on his lap. You were almost certain there would be a stain on his jeans from the wetness seeping through your panties.

“Just like this,” Luka replied, leaning back and gripping your hips in order to thrust upwards, drawing a whimper from your throat. “Is that okay?”

“Fuck yeah,” you gasped. You braced your hands on his chest, pushing yourself off of his lap. He opened his mouth to question you when your hands found the fastening of your jeans, undoing the button and zipper before hooking your thumbs into the waistband. His mouth hung agape as you slowly slid your pants down your smooth legs, revealing more skin for him to grope and kiss and suckle. His own pants grew uncomfortably tight as he gazed at you in nothing but soaked panties, which you slowly shimmied out of, kicking them to the side once they reached your feet.

“Your turn,” you grinned, watching as he scrambled to peel off his jeans and boxers. Shoes had already been discarded, and you both stripped off your socks before you climbed back onto his lap. Feeling his hard cock rubbing against your dripping cunt had you moaning lowly, resting your forehead against Luka’s in an attempt to ground yourself.

“Condoms?” he questioned softly, trying to focus his mind on something other than how good your pussy was about to feel wrapped around his length.

You reached out your arm, blindly feeling around for the drawer of your nightstand. Upon locating it, you pulled it open, thrusting your hand inside before pulling out a string of condoms and passing them to Luka.

He offered you a husky chuckle. “How many do you think we’re going to need?”

“Let’s find out,” you grinned. He mirrored your expression before separating one wrapper from the rest, tearing it open with his teeth. You rose up on your knees to give him room to slide it on, wrapping your arms around his neck and peppering kisses down his jaw. He tilted his head back as he took his length in hand, lining the tip up with your entrance. You moaned in unison as you sunk down to the base, your cunt clenching at the stimulation of being so full.

“Fuck,” Luka groaned lowly as you began rocking your hips, lifting upwards and grinding back down. You braced your arms on his shoulders for leverage as you picked up your pace, rocking and grinding against his cock. He tilted his head up to capture your lips, swallowing your moans as you sloppily returned the kiss. Luka’s hands found your hips, pulling you down harshly on his length, moaning into the kiss at how deep he was inside you. He used his grip to thrust upwards into your heat, breaking the kiss to dip his head and sink his teeth into your neck. A moan ripped from your lips as you tilted your head back, granting him more access. Your nails dug crescents into the skin of his shoulders as you struggled to match his thrusts.

“You feel amazing,” the blue-haired boy panted against your neck. “So much better than my imagination.”

“You’ve imagined this?” you whimpered as he shifted his hips to thrust at a different angle, finding the special spot inside you that had you clenching around him. “Fuck! Right there!”

He smirked, holding the angle to repeatedly hit that spot. You moaned shamelessly, dropping your head onto his shoulder.

"Of course I've imagined this," Luka growled into your ear. “I just never thought you felt the same way.”

His grip on your hips tightened as he felt you clench harder around him. His thrusts came faster, sharper, chasing your release and pounding relentlessly into your tightening heat. Moans and whimpers tore from your throat at the assault, your fingernails dragging across his broad shoulders, leaving red lines in their wake.

“Cum on my cock, princess,” he groaned, nipping at your earlobe.

“Fuck!” you yelped, your body seizing as your orgasm crashed into you. Luka moaned as you clenched impossibly tighter around him, biting down on his shoulder as you came.

As you rode out your orgasm, the blue-haired man’s thrusts grew sloppy as he chased h8is own release. He wrapped one arm around your back, pulling your chests flush together. His other hand remained on your hip, holding himself as deep inside your heat as he could.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned lowly into your ear, his hips going completely still. His release unloaded into the condom as he remained inside you, both of you panting heavily.

You lifted your head from his shoulder, gazing up at Luka. He offered you a smile, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. The hand on your hip rose to cradle the back of your head, gently carding his fingers through your hair. You rested a hand on his neck, the other caressing his toned chest.

“I know we did things a little backwards,” Luka commented, resting his forehead against yours, “but I’d really like to take you on a date.”

“I’d love that,” you grinned, stealing another chaste kiss from his lips.

He began trailing kisses down your jaw, his hand on your back shifting to caress your side. You tilted your head to allow him more access, sliding a hand into his hair and gently tugging on the two-toned strands.

“But right now,” he murmured against your skin, “I think we should see how many of those condoms we can go through.”

You gasped as you felt his length twitch inside you. “That sounds like a fucking plan.”

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug x reader #luka couffaine #luka couffaine x reader #reader insert #smut #aged up characters #female reader

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megs-mostly-past-random-fandoms · 4 months ago

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Don't Over-Do It

Based on this request: Could you write a fluffy imagine for the Volturi with the reader being Marcus descendant, Aros mate and Janes best friend? The reader tends to overwork both in her job and by working out. The Volturis are far to protective to let her continue like that.

Here you are, lovely! *Familiar Characters are NEVER mine.*

Fandom: Twilight

Warnings: mentions of passing out and forgetting to eat. Some light fluff.

Pairings/Characters: Marcus Volturi x fem!descendant reader (familial), Aro Volturi x fem!reader (romantic), Jane Volturi x fem!reader x Caius Volturi (platonic, soul-siblings)

Marcus had never thought he'd have any�� descendants. He never knew if any of his human family had continued on the family line. But then he met you and immediately saw the bond between you and him. And not just him. You had several other bonds within the Volturi including the silver bond of soul-siblings with Jane and even Caius, and the golden bond of true mates with Aro. To say Marcus was happy to have a connection to his former life would be an understatement. There was just one problem.

You were a perfectionist and somewhat of a workaholic. You would work and work until everything was just right. It didn't matter what it was, work, hobbies, or even exercise. You were determined to do it right and you weren't going to stop until it was perfect. Aro, Marcus, and Jane hated that. It wasn't that they didn't want you to succeed, but they hated seeing you overwork yourself.

They all tried to get you to slow down, especially Aro. He hated seeing his mate exhausted all the time. Though, his approach to this was to turn you sooner rather than later. You fought him on that. Aro wasn’t afraid of much, but he was terrified of losing you and even more afraid of your temper. It made Caius laugh to see Aro nearly cower under your intense glare every time he mentioned turning before you were ready. But all amusement faded from the four vampires when you finally over-did it.

You were taking out your frustrations on a punching bag one evening after working on a work task for hours. The ever-watchful Jane and Demetri stood in the corner keeping an eye on you when it happened. Mid-jab, you suddenly stopped and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Jane was at your side in an instant while Demetri raced to get kings.

You were vaguely aware of arguing voices when you woke a few hours later. “Aro, you risk irreparably damaging your bond if you turn her without her permission. You know this,” came Marcus’ low voice. “I agree with Master Aro,” Jane grumbled, almost too softly for you to hear. You could feel the tension in the room, so you decided to try and speak up.

“And if either of you does that, I will personally rip your arms off and put them back on backwards when I wake as a newborn.” Aro was sitting next to you a split second later. “Cara Mia, you worried us,” he crooned as if you would forget you just threatened him and Jane. “I realized that. I’m sorry.”

“As loath as I am to agree with Aro about, well, anything outside of trials,” Caius stated, “I believe he and Jane may be correct in this case, Y/N. You cannot continue on like this.” You glanced between their faces. They all looked more worried than you’d ever seen them. A soft sigh escaped you. It wasn’t the first time this had happened to you, but the first they had experienced it. The whole situation was frightening since you were so fragile compared to them.

“I’m sorry I worried you all,” you relented, “I-It was always drilled into me that I had to be perfect. Nothing was ever good enough and I guess that’s carried over into adulthood. I’m not ready to turn yet, but I will try to take it easier. I’ll set break alarms or let Jane drag me away from my work more. I-Is that okay?”

“I don’t like it, but if I never have to experience this fear again, I suppose I can accept this for now,” Aro relented after a few moments of silence. Marcus stayed silent since he was simply there to ensure your bonds stayed intact. He was concerned, of course, but your bonds with the others were far more fragile for now.

“I still agree with Master Aro,” Jane stated, concern still painting her angelic, childlike features. Caius rolled his eyes at the two of them, but you could see he was feeling the same way they were. “Very well, but if this happens again, I don’t think even Marcus would disagree with turning you.” Marcus merely nodded in agreement when your eyes met his.

“Sleep now,” he suggested only for your stomach to let out the loudest growl he’d ever heard. You felt your face heat up at the noise that betrayed the fact that you hadn't eaten very much that day. Marcus laughed, “Perhaps food is in order first.” You nodded slightly, prompting Jane to rush out. Caius and Marcus followed, but when Aro tried to get up, you gripped tightly to him.

“Stay?” you asked in a soft voice. “Of course, Tesoro.” He settled back and let you cuddle into him. “I really am sorry,” you whispered. You felt Aro place a kiss to the top of your head. “I worry for you, Y/N. I cannot lose you.” You nodded against his chest, feeling your eyes start to drift closed against your will. Aro chuckled. The last thing you heard before you let sleep pull you under was, “Sleep, my love. I will be here when you wake.”

(I hope you like it!)

Forever Tags: @fizzyxcustard @supernatural4life2022 @asgards-princess-of-mischief

Twilight Tags: @awesomebooklover17

#twilight #volturi #xreader #marcus volturi x reader #aro volturi x reader #jane volturi x reader #caius volturi x reader

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heartbreakgrill · 3 months ago

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Delicate: Vessel (Sleep Token); Part 8; "My reputation's never been worse."

“This is so fucking stupid.”

I shoved my hands into my hoodie pocket, eyes rolling at the sight of the boys, noise makers between their lips, some jank ass sign unraveling in the wind.

“Your mom’s fucking stupid,” Max fired back with his usual goofy smile, words muffled from the noise maker in his mouth. His knocked his fist against my elbow gently as he passed by, moving to help Cy hold up the poster board.

They’d bought it at a random Walgreens, after having forced the Uber driver to pull over, abruptly. Then, with bumpy hands and terrible penmanship, they wrote out some sarcastic for Sam about returning home from prison.

“Don’t be a sour puss, dude,” Adam replied. His brows were furrowed, chin dipping side to side in disagreement to my negative statement.

I looked to him, watching as he pulled a cone shaped hat down onto his hair, the rubber band snug against his chin. The meer humor of the too-small hat on his head made his words lose any meaning. I wanted to laugh, but instead I shot back, my brows skeptically, sarcasm quick as air, “Who? Me? No, never!”

Adam scoffed a laugh. His hat was finally adjusted now, hands falling to his sides exasperatedly. “Seriously. Just try to be nice, for once. Sam said Daisy’s, like, so sweet.” My skepticism only darkened my gaze, sarcasm sinking into genuine wonder, “So, what, we’re gonna be dancing around some child all summer?”

It was a valid question. When Sam asked us about Daisy joining the tour for the summer, everyone else just jumped on board. I, however, took a little convincing. What business did she even have here, 5,000 miles from home? It’s not like she had any professional connections to touch on, nor was London that interesting. Or, maybe I was just being a pessimist, again…

To say the least, I had trust issues. Or, in my therapist’s more light turn of phrase, I was cautious, careful to new people because I had a lot on the line with my career and had been through numerous situations with others that ended up with me, well…in therapy.

Max battled with the cardboard sign as the wind seemed to be winning the war. He struggled to get the words out as he scuffled to straighten its edges, which seemed to take more work than it needed to, “She’s literally only 5 years younger than you.”

“So, a child?”

“So, a 23 year old, grown woman. She’s really smart, Sam said. I’m sure you can have some fun conversations about the elements and shit.”

“Sam’s biased,” I murmured, focused now on the cigarette between my pointer and middle fingers. I dallied with lighting it, displaced energy in the act. It was early. I was tired.

“Sam’s one of your best mates,” Cy shot me a look. “Listen, just give her a chance. Stop moping just because you think some woman’s gonna take away from our guy time this summer.”

I straightened up, offense hitting my features like a stone wall, “When did I say that? I’m just worried we’re gonna have to cater to some child while we’re trying to literally do our jobs. She’s gonna be pursuing around like she’s in some Taylor Swift video while we’re going to be trying to earn our income. It’s just…weird.”

I’d never mention that fear to them- the fear I had of this trust. I think maybe if they all looked at me a little more closely, they’d see it. They’d see the fear in my eyes. But, I was really good at displacing my anxieties onto a separate, less pressing issue.

If I was ever terrified the sky was going to fall, then, suddenly, I was lashing out about the uncut grass in the front yard, randomly. Gotta love unhealthy coping mechanisms. Cy was still looking at me all judgmentally. I knew he wanted to lecture me further, but he simply reached over, patted my shoulder, and said, “Just…try not to be a dickhead, okay? Let the girl enjoy her summer.”

Max continued on, blabbering about something or the other. “I’m, like…Ollie, have you ever even seen a Taylor Swift video? I am pretty sure not a single fucking one takes place in Europe. They’re all super conceptual and abstract. Honestly, you might actually love some of ‘em. What’s that older one? With the trees and shit?”

“Out Of the Woods?” Adam was quick to fill in the blanks. I looked to him out of the corner of my vision, gaze narrowed. Of course he knew which one it was. He held his hands up, defensively, “What? My little cousin loves her.”

“Mhm,” I nodded, slow.

He trailed off, looking away, “And, maybe, you know, I do, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Max latched onto Adam’s help, continuing his rant about Taylor Swift, of all things. “Fuck! Out of the Woods! It reminds me a lot of the Fall for Me video! There’s, ya know, water…lots of running…self-deprecation. Fuck, a Sleep Token/Taylor Swift collab would go so hard!”

“Shit, could you imagine some real drums on one of her songs?” Cy perked up at the thought, fingers thrumming against the corner of the sign that he’d now laid his clutches on. “Sick!”

“Oh, God,” I rubbed my forehead, itching more and more to finally light up my cigarette, puff out a few smokey deep breaths. “I can feel the glitter and sparkles starting to fucking suffocate me! Can we please talk about something else?”

“Whatever, Ollie,” Adam flicked his hand towards me dismissively. He went to change the subject when his phone dinged from his pocket. He pulled it out, in one fluid motion, and read whatever text he’d gotten. “Shit! They just got their bags! Quick! Hold up the sign!”

Max shuffled around, all energetic, trying to make everything look perfect. He quickly tried to put a party hat on my head. I had to shove his entire body into Adam to stop him from getting the string down over my chin.

“Fuck off!” I cursed, brushing out the torso of my hoodie. He giggled, annoyingly, knowing he’d successfully gotten on my nerves. Again.

Max turned his attention away from me and to the two people who had just walked out of the airport, suitcases rolling behind them, backpacks looped around their shoulders. I noticed Sam, first, his head dipped down into his phone, curly blonde hair mopped up atop his head. He was dressed, head to toe, in all black. It was a welcome site, the fifth member of our posse back in our home country, our original stomping grounds, even if he wasn’t from here.

I let a smile overtake my features, excitement bubbling in my cheeks. It was actually really good to see him.

I wouldn’t have even paid any attention to the girl standing beside him if she didn’t stick out so much, like a sore thumb. Her bright pink sweater, gray sweatpants, the purples and greens swirled around her suitcase. Every single thing touching her was just…so colorful. Even the expression on her face, wide grin, cheery eyes- though they were circled by tireless bags- it was all so glaring.

I narrowed my eyes skeptically.

As Sam fumbled about on his phone, she stepped forward, excitedly taking an extra noise maker, my left over party hat, from Max. She barely got the hat on before Sam was looking up, our small crowd erupting into joyous ruckus that caused him to nearly drop his phone.

I don’t know why, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I watched her, carefully, as she went through the motions of greeting everyone. Adam was his shy, introverted self. Cy was charismatic, Max obnoxiously flirty.

And she was just…constant, through it all. Upbeat, grinning, encouraging to every single average word that my friends told her.

And then she was looking at me, offering her hand. My head shook slightly as if to unscramble my consciousness. I glanced between her hand, her own gaze, unsure of what to do or say. I had been too busy watching. I barely brought myself out of that entrapped stare before my name came fumbling out of my mouth.

“Oliver.”

She seemed a little put off, taken aback, after I blatantly ignored her outstretched hand. But, I didn’t want to shake it. I was afraid that, if I touched it, she might shock me, sting me, scorch me with that bleeding sunshine she seemed to have sticking to her skin.

Besides, I couldn’t trust her, right? Right.

I turned my head away, feeling somewhat ashamed for the way I brushed her off. There was a rejected twinkle in her eyes, one that I could not handle. Moving on from that interaction, or in an attempt to do so, I tilted my chin down, glazing my eyes to the concrete. I shrunk beneath the cover of my hood. I didn’t need to feel bad for anything. I didn’t even know her, nor did she know me.

As the others finished up with their exchange of greetings, the group itself began making its way back to the Uber, with Sam and Daisy now a part of the flow.

The car ride back was objectively short, though it felt longer than the time on Apple Maps said. I rode in the back with the guys, pressed up against the door due to the lack of space. My long knees jutted out awkwardly. The bone of my leg ached from knocking against the door with each bump in the road that the car hit.

I stared out of the window, hoping the painful time would pass quicker. The ugliness of London stared back at me. A small, curious part of me kept darting my eyes towards the front seat, where she sat. But I stilled my gaze on the city.

That was maybe part of the issue- I just didn't understand why Daisy was so interested in visiting this place anyways. It was boring, bland. I associated the cloudy gray skies and rainy summers with some of the worst times of my life. This city looked the way I felt for most of it, too. The people were shit, too. Rude, always in a rush, unforgiving and untrustworthy.

What adventure could one find in this wet, concrete maze of hell?

Bored, I moved my attention back to the interior of the car, still resisting that urge to look forward. Adam, Cy, Sam, and Max were a cacophony of lost conversation, catching up, rumbling laughter. I listened for a moment, intently awaiting her to throw in her two sense. She seemed like the type to talk somebody’s ear off. Perhaps I could read between her sentences, find out her motives, her intentions, find something to use against her, so I could easily hate her and put distance between us-

Oh.

She was sleeping.

Her body was slumped against the door, neck pillow twisted around to support her forehead from the glass of the window. She cradled her hands to her stomach, the blanket she had just up underneath her chest.

The curve of her face caught my eye the most, the simple stillness of the lines around her lips, the peaceful flutter that ruffled her lashes every so often. I wondered what she dreamt of- rainbows, sunshine, lollipops. I bet she was the type of person who would respond, "World peace," when asked what she would wish for if she had a genie.

God. I really was an asshole. Here was this stranger, this beautiful, seemingly kind stranger, trying to catch up on sleep after traveling nearly 20 hours…and here I was, creating an entire persona around the two facts I actually knew about her. Maybe I should give her a chance, like the guys said. Maybe I should let her in, even if it was barely past the surface, and try to be amicable.

Maybe she wouldn’t sell my name to the paparazzi. Maybe she wouldn’t leak photos of me online, or call news sites to gain traction on social media.

I nearly flinched as she shifted in her slumber, so lost in my thoughts that the disruption was a panic. Her lips parted, just so, as air deflated from her lungs. The hair that curled around her face ruffled from the gentle gust.

Though she looked like Sam, she really was beautiful. Sure, Sam was attractive, in his own way. But, uniquely, Daisy was…honestly, gorgeous, all doe-eyed, rose lips, freckled cheeks.

I kept staring at her, analyzing, accidentally memorizing.

As I felt myself sinking, into my seat, into myself, into this stare I had on her, I straightened up, shoved myself back in the door.

The poor girl wasn’t even awake.

And I was being far too open.

When we reached the hotel, everyone piled out of the Uber. I went to step out, myself, to begrudgingly helped with luggage. But after I cast a casual glance over my shoulder, I noticed Daisy was still asleep. As though she were his responsibility, I found Sam and went to vocalize the issue with him. But he was busy with their bags.

None of the others were really familiar enough with her to consider her.

No one but me, I guess, because I was reaching out my fingers, touching her shoulder, telling her, "We're here."

I swept myself away before she could wake up and look me in the eyes. - "Where's your sister?" Cy inquired, poking at his dish with the fork in his hold.

Sam shrugged as he continued shoveling french fries in his mouth. "Sleeping, I think. She was fucking exhausted. Could barely get herself to bed this morning.”

"Poor girl," Max pouted his bottom lip. "Has she ever traveled this far from home?"

"Nope."

"Damn. Good for her, then. It's hard to just leave everything behind, to leave your everyday life for this type of thing for this long," Max continued.

I listened intently, though I made it seem like I wasn't even conscious of the guys seated at the table with me. Where they thought I was mindlessly stirring my drink, I was reading between the lines of every vague fact Sam dropped about Daisy.

"Well," he held a hand before his mouth as he chewed, swallowed. He sat back as he began to unload more information about his sister, "No offense to her, but she doesn't have much of a life. She works, like, two-three jobs at any given time. She works at some clinic during the day, waits tables in the evening, then does some stuff on campus here and there."

"Shit. Hope she's taking care of herself," Adam commented, thoughtfully.

"She does. I think. I don't know. We don't really get much time together anymore. Ever since mom died...I don't know. It's been hard to stay connected."

"This summer's gonna be good, then, for you guys to get to see each other," Cy touched Sam’s wrist with his fist, encouraging our friend with his response.

"Yeah," Sam's eyes seemed a little distant then, like there were foggy memories, regrets clouding his consciousness, "Yeah, I hope so."

Max went to speak again when Sam's phone went off. He pulled it out, scrolling through the texts he'd received. "Speak of the devil."

Sure enough, Daisy came padding into the hotel bar. Her hair was damp, twisted up behind her head by some clip. Her features were more prominent this way, skin shining with the care she must have just put into it. As she approached us, her perfume breezed off her skin, off her stupid Taylor Swift hoodie, right past my nose.

It smelled so sweet that I had to look away, focus on something else.

Everyone else greeted her, asking about how she slept, how she felt. I was inattentive, attempting to make it seem like I hadn’t just been thrown off balance.

I needed to do something, say something to her, to be welcoming. To make it seem like I wasn’t such a dickhead, even though I pretty much was. So, I worked on some phrases in my head, hoping to catch her in a side conversation, so there wasn’t so much tension with the others listening in. But, she walked out of the bar as quickly as she'd come.

I found the air to be cooler without her occupying the space.

I shivered and turned my chin towards that freeze.

Later that evening, I found myself on the hotel roof.

It was one of my favorite spots, no matter which city we were passing through, which state I found myself to be stuck in. I could go up to the highest floor, even if it wasn’t too far off of the ground, tune out the stress that came with work, and relax into the peace and quiet.

It was one of the healthier coping mechanisms my therapist and I had been working on. I was an antisocial person, to say the least. And when I’d had to be around others for too long, working literal overtime to just function like a normal person, I’d become irritable, withdrawn.

So, stalking off in the late hours of the evening with a book in my hand and some lyrics in my head became a usual, practiced ritual that I was comforted by, especially on tours.

The breeze of London flew past my face, braising goosebumps on my neck. I tucked my chin into my hoodie more. There were these tiki lights, all around me and the intimate seating area I occupied, but the little bits of light did nothing to help me see the book in my hands.

I tucked it away after straining for a few moments and settled on just resonating with myself for a bit. I watched the flames of the fire pit before me, listened to it crackle and pop. I was so focused on the peacefulness, that I hadn’t even noticed the elevator ding, nor the person scuffling across the concrete of the roof.

In fact, I didn’t even notice her until she was sitting across from me, these little alcohol bottles in her hands. The movement of her sitting before me flitted my gaze up, edges of my vision blurred slightly from the intensity of the flames. My hearing focused after. There was music streaming from the speakers on her phone, some Taylor Swift song I didn't recognize. I withheld the urge to roll my eyes and studied her movements.

She read the label on the mini shot of Jack Daniels with squinted eyes. I'd never seen someone pay so much attention to a simple liquor Maybe she'd never drank it before. That would be a strange fact, considering she was 23. Every 23 year old I knew had gone through every liquor known to man. Then, she drank it and I realized why she was so observant. Her face turned up in this grimace, lips puckered, brows furrowed. She just couldn't handle her liquor. Her examination of the bottle was really just a hesitance to consume it in the first place.

I stifled a laugh and instead found my words, urged to tease her for this occurrence, "Gonna share?' Maybe I should have intruded her peace more gently, or maybe I should have said something sooner than I did. Either way, I had spooked her enough that she jumped.

Her once shocked grimace twisted into a deep frown, like she was annoyed I had disturbed her. "How long have you been sitting there?"

My grin widened, though it didn't seem like she found much humor in the situation. "Long enough to know you can't take a shot." I held out my hand, awaiting her to hand over one of the bottles. She didn't do that Instead, her face hardened a bit and she made another comment, “Sorry I’m not an alcoholic. If you want one, you have to come get it, by the way. I’m comfy now.”

I was taken back by her crudeness. Everyone said she was so kind, so sweet. I'd even overheard her niceties earlier, at the airport, at the bar. Had I done something?

Instead of setting the record straight, communicating, though, I became defensive to her jabs. As I reached for one of the bottles, I said, "Comfy with this trash music playing?"

Funnily enough, this made her face sink more, if at all possible. Her frown was deep as a river, and murky as one, too, "Real men listen to Taylor Swift."

I tried another joke, hoping it would salvage the wreckage we were feeding, "Hey, haven't you heard? I'm a vessel, not a man?"

I don't know if it did, but she at least continued speaking to me. "So, vessel, what are you doing up here? Can't sleep?"

I tossed my hand in her direction, speaking with my casual satire, "Obviously." I looked away from her, breathless. I was trying so hard, so incredibly hard to seem careless, chill. I didn’t know why I couldn’t just, actually, genuinely not give a fuck.

I reached for my cigarettes, too stressed out to handle a head that was some sober from nicotine. After a long drag, I felt that familiar buzz of a clear head, the temporary reduction of anxiety.

Cigarettes were always a killer ice breaker, helpful in even the toughest, most awkward conversations. So, when my eyes popped back open and met hers, I offered a hit.

If her face had been disgusted before, it was even more so now. "That's okay, thanks," she almost sneered.

I pursed my lips. Okay, I wasn't the only one killing this conversation. She acted like she was just too good for anything that I had to do with. Like if she were to take a drag from this cigarette, she'd be infected with my sickness.

I voiced the concern with my snide tone again. Her response nearly made me choke on my own spit, “More like my mom died of lung cancer because she smoked for thirty years.”

As quick as possible, I stomped the butt into the ground. "Sorry."

She hummed some sort of response, looking away so uncomfortably. I wanted to grovel, to beg for her forgiveness in the case of such a small moment of misunderstanding, but I settled on another painful jab at a nice conversation.

“I’d ask what you’re doing up, but I figured you wouldn’t be able to sleep after the day you had.” She responded in that same dry tone, "Yeah, no."

Annoyed, I began to wonder where all this sweetness had gone. Earlier, with the guys, she had spoken like she'd known them for forever. Here, with me- she acted like I'd spit in her coffee this morning, like I was holding her at gun point just to have this conversation.

I gave up on trying to be overly considerate and shot straight to the point. I wanted answers anyways, and now I had a good reason to search for them, "What's your deal, Daisy?"

"What the fuck does that mean?" She responded.

I shrugged as I crossed my arms over my chest. What did she want it to mean? "Why are you here?" Instead of just answering the question, she countered me, echoing the question. Good fucking game, Daisy Hallett. Good fucking game.

I stretched my body out as I thought, unsure of how to answer. What was I here for? To do my job, obviously. So, I told her that. But, I should have known she would pry deeper. That were her job, after all, to observe, analyze, pry.

“That’s not what you’re here for,” She rejected my words, shaking her head just slightly, “That’s what everyone else is here for. What about you, Oliver?”

I started making music for myself, not anyone else. In the darkest, most terrible parts of my life, it had gotten me through to the other side with ease. It was my biggest coping skill, sitting at a clear number one on the list my therapist and I had outlined.

Getting paid for it, getting to tour and travel cities…that was all a plus. Touring, performing itself, were two things I was still trying to get used to. It was awesome to get to play my music life for others, to help them through to the other side, but it was sometimes…overwhelming, a hard pill to swallow.

So, I answered honestly this time, “To…worship. To celebrate my music, myself…life.”

She was impressed by this answer, pleased, and I could tell this by the stretch of her lips. That sweet, enticing smile did something to me.

As she held up the shot bottle in a gesture to cheers, I returned the smirk. We danced on the edge of some invisible line.

"To life."

I wanted to hear more of her voice, more of...her, more about her. So, I scrambled and said, "Wait, what about you?"

“There’s no deeper meaning to anything I do,” she waved me off.

I understood her more in this moment than I sometimes understood the people closest to me. She was like- she was insecure, she was scared. She was a little kid with monsters under her bed and in her closet.

So, I affirmed her existence with words that seemed so simple, yet would have meant so much for me to hear, too. “Oh, Daisy, there’s always deeper meaning to everything humans do. Think. What’s yours?”

This threw her off balance, yet somehow kept her from falling off the edge. It made the gears in her head turn, made her question her own thoughts. "I guess…I guess…to find that deeper meaning. To find what I’m looking for, maybe.”

She still didn't seem too sure, but I knew that, once this summer ended, once the leaves turned brown, and she returned back to a place called home, she would know it in her bones.

And I think, maybe, I might know it, too.

Sooner, rather than the later that I hoped for, we were in the elevator. Hours of breathless conversation sat, stale in the air on the roof, abandoned as the steel doors trapped us in silence.

The more she told me, the more terrified I was of her very existence. She was smarter than me, and very good at returning snide comments. Her wit was so profoundly intelligent, that I found myself silenced on more than one occasion.

Above all this- she was a disruption- she was chaos. She made me think differently, harder. She made me laugh.

I was drawn in by all of this, by her eyes, by the way the corners of her pink lips curled up into her cheeks. It took me a second to realize that she was staring back up at me, that our shoulders were turning to face one another, that my fingers were grazing the sleeve of her hoodie.

"You're very pretty, Daisy," the words fell out in a dangerous whisper. I loved the way she blushed, the way the tip of her nose scrunched, and she fell back onto her heels a bit.

I would have kissed her, I knew that for sure, had the elevator doors not opened up, had we not parted ways there, in the barren hallways. And I would have sought her out, would have reached for a simple phone number, another moment on the roof, another conversation about life and college and her favorite fucking color...

had I not made it back to my room and looked myself in the eye, through the smudged reflection of the bathroom mirror. The painful eye contact brought me back down to Earth, reminded me of the ugliness swirled up inside my chest, the bitter desire of my own self interest, selfishness.

I was...I was the chaos. I was the disruption. Here was this beautiful, interesting, smart girl...and here was me, this man-giant, who could barely hold a conversation without feeling like he was going to have a panic attack. Besides all that, her brother was my fucking best friend. I was his boss.

This was territory that I could not enter, not without a guilty conscience and someone's broken heart. So, I would proceed with caution, although it ended up making me seem like the worst person in the world.

I knew I could no longer keep up the act only a few weeks in, all thanks to Whitney Houston and this stupid pink fucking dress.

I watched her parade herself all night, guzzling drinks like they were air, batting her stupidly prim and perfect eyelashes my way. She knew exactly how to get me going- how to lock me in, most of all. And I was playing right into the fucking game, weak signs and Achilles heels all exposed from the second that she stepped out of that hotel room.

When I saw that knowing, vivacious smirk- I knew tonight would be different.

It wasn't until she was passed out, in my bed, with my hoodie on, that I realized I was falling for her. I had been able to subside the hunger that I felt, the hunger I felt to speak to her, to consume her with my eyes, my teeth, my hands, my body- God. It was easy to push all these thoughts away when she wasn't there- but then, she'd show up at breakfast or dinner or in my dreams and thoughts and desperations and I'd spiral again.

It didn't help that I was letting it get to me so much- and she was literally trained in analyzing behavior. I exposed my curiosities with even the slightest dip in my gaze or lift in my shoulders. There was a moment, during breakfast, when she told us of her plans for the evening of one our first shows- that she wasn't coming to.

Max had to go and make a stupid joke when I just barly glanced up from my plate, "Even Ollie's hurt!" I stopped coming to so many social gatherings, at least where she was concerned. And, then, I got all the space I needed when we took off on the buses.

Everyone flocked to her side, wanting even a second of her attention, while I kept to myself on the other bus. Because I thought the guys might leave me alone about it, I could almost reside in absolute peace.

But, then, Ronnie came knocking on my bunk.

It was early morning. We were stopped for gas, somewhere in Northern Italy. The bus was deadly silent, with nothing but my own quiet breath and the hum of the outside world to keep e company. Ronnie came in, bounding, like she always did. She slammed the bus door shut, jarring me from the focus I'd had on the game of Mario Kart pulled up on my Switch. Next thing I knew, she was ripping open the curtain to my bunk.

"Why the fuck are you rotting in here like a mummy? I'm close to wrapping you up in toilet paper and shoving you in with the suitcases!"

I rolled my eyes as she spoke and slouched my shoulders away. The hood of my sweatshirt dipped enough that she was no longer in my view. "Sam needs to stop gassing up your jokes. It's getting to your head."

"You're literally just jealous because your jokes are only ever mean and borderline tone-deaf," Ronnie grabbed the lip of my hood and tugged it down over my face.

I wriggled away from her, Switch dropping towards the inside of the bunk. I shoved her hands away. "Says you, Miss Jimmy Carr."

Ronnie's jaw jutted open a bit, "Now that's fucked, Ollie."

I went to jab back again, but she held up a hand, head tilted like she was a tired, annoyed mother of a band of men babies. "Stop while you're ahead, dude. Back to what I came in to harass you about- you need to come join us! We're playing Mario Kart with peaches- Daisy, sorry. You guys would get along sooo great. I know you're, like, weird about new people, but she's so fucking funny. Please, please just come over, hang out, be chill for once in your life."

Peaches. They had given her a nickname. Peaches, as if she weren't already sweet enough to sour the cuts on my skin.

I huffed and puffed at the rant as I pulled my hood down the back of my head. "First of all, I don't play Mario Kart-"

"I literally hear the music coming from your Switch," Ronnie pointed with a dead stare at the device, muffled humming rumbling from beneath my blanket.

I met her eye, absent any shame of my white lie. I took a breath and dove back into my rejection, "Second of all, why the hell do you guys give out the cringiest, most ridiculous nicknames? Like, peaches?What even is that?"

"It's called joy, magic, and fun, you grinch," Ronnie pinched my elbow. I flinched away from her touch again and she snickered. "If you don't like Daisy, just say so. I won't tell anybody. I'll just resent and judge you in silence- silent words, not punches."

What did she mean, that I didn't like Daisy? I knew I'd been passive towards her, but I never made it so obvious-

The expression on my face must have read confusion or shock because Ronnie popped a hip and crossed her arms.

"Listen," she added, "I know that she probably irks you. I get it. You're the bad boy, dark soul type and she's this ray of fucking sunshine and, yes, peaches. Just- give her a chance before you rain all over her parade."

"I literally never said I had a fucking problem with her. Why does everyone think I hate her guts when I've literally only ever had one conversation with her?" I frustratedly spoke, words rushed together. Ronnie stood back a second, reading the scrunch of my brows, the way I pushed myself up onto my elbows. Then, her offended frown morphed into something knowing, as though bits of information clicked in her head.

"Oh," she rhythmed, grinning now, "I see what's going on here. Hey, she's gorgeous.” "Oh, my God, here we go," I stood from my bunk, now, unwilling to just lay there and listen to her try to evaluate my behavior.

Ronne didn't follow me as I made my way to the back room, "Ollie...just remember who you are. And who she is."

And this sentence alone threw me for the biggest loop.

I didn't even know what she meant by that, but as well I knew Ronnie...it was definitely more than met the eye, deeper than any surface level warning anybody else could give. Not only did I know Ronnie well, but she could read me like a book. She knew what to say to make my skin crawl. Who I am...who Daisy is.

Analyzing the statement from top to bottom, general to specific, it was simple. She was my best friend’s brother. And I was his boss.

It meant more than that, though.

Ronnie meant that Daisy…Daisy was delicate. Daisy was meat, fresh off a shattered bone, and I was a hound.

I was always the hound. The Albatross, even. A winged creature always coming in to swipe shiny things off of stormy shores.

Ronnie didn’t want to harm me with the statement, but she sure as hell wanted to humble me. And that she did.

Each time I found myself aching to find Daisy’s gaze, I’d shrink back into myself. Remember my place. Remember who I was.

And, then…that damn Whitney Houston song. That damn pink dress.

Ronnie knew I was slipping, when I first spotted Daisy, in the doorway of her hotel room, long legs on display. I caught my lips beginning to party, drool beginning to pool in my teeth. This appreciative smirk came upon my face until I met Ronnie’s frown.

And I moved on.

I kept trying to move on, to fly away, leave the gold necklace on the beach for some other lucky, hopeless idiot to clean the sand off of, treasure for the rest of their sorry days.

I paid for her meal, as some sort of reparation for the damage I must’ve done all evening, being the hungry being I was while she toyed with the lock on my cage.

But, I just couldn’t . Especially not when she was running from the bar, sickness visible on her face. I could’ve left it where it was- Max was shuffling after her, ready to help, ready to hold her hair up.

Before I knew it, my feet were racing me out of the door, my hand was on Max’s shoulder, a kind smile was reassuring him that I could handle it, that he could go back to having fun.

My hands were in her hair, my neck was cradling the crown of her head, she was reaching for my wallet, letting us into the hotel room, laying down on my bed. I was giving her my hoodie, placing a bandage on her leg, caressing her fruity skin.

And then…just like that, as quickly as the rain began, like when you can see it in sheets, pounding into the Earth, just there, off in the distance…then it’s splattering on your windshield, the sound jarring you from your tired drive, the blur harming your vision of the road.

It was raining in my hotel room.

I didn’t have an umbrella.

I spent the entire night, laying there on the bed beside her, faced away, tensed up. Every breath she took stopped my heart. Every wrinkle from the white sheets made my eyes blink.

I was spending so much of my thought process trying to remember the taste of her fleeting lips on my own, pressing my fingers to them as though they were stained from her, as though I could close my eyes and taste them, again and again and again.

Then, in the morning, she returned my hoodie. There was this…look…this distant, worried look. Had she remembered? Had she remembered the words I said? Was this going to change anything? Everything? At breakfast, I ignored her persistent eyes, the gaze burning into my soul for answers. When she told us she couldn’t remember anything, I was little relieved.

If she didn’t remember, I could put distance between us, try to forget it myself- try to forget the way her fingers buried themselves into my hair. Try to forget the feel of her nose, pressed into my cheek, her chest, warm against my own.

While I was able to put physical distance between us this week, being that work kept us busy. But, the mental, emotional yards were harder to climb.

Once we made it through the airport, to Italy, I began my practice of celibacy, against the thoughts of her, against us.

I think part of me knew it wouldn’t last. I think part of me didn’t want it to. I think that’s why I was there- in the elevator, headed for the roof, in hopes that I might find her there. I didn’t even know if it was a place she frequented, but my intuition told me it was a good place to look.

And I was right.

I acted shocked when I first saw her, like it didn’t help my blood pump, seeing her, feet in the water, hair curling around her forehead.

She looked so…tense. Stressed. There was this permanent furrow in her brow. Did she really not remember…anything? At all?

Though it was a relief, I wanted to jog her memory (I wanted to kiss her).

I asked Daisy, barely glancing over at her in the seat beside me. From the corner of my eye, I watched her chew upon on her bottom lip, “Not really.”

Why did it feel like a lie?

She must’ve remembered something. Sure, she had been drinking, but…she was smarter than that. “Okay,” I choked, snatching another look at her.

I noticed Daisy turn her chin to return the gaze and I looked back at the city. I couldn’t look into her eyes, look at her face. I’d crumble.

“Is there something I should be remembering?”

It was timid, shy. But bold.

Bolder than I could bring myself to be right now.

Unable to find my own words, unable to form my own lie, I echoed her.

“Okay,” she copied.

The moment swelled in my mind. I wanted- needed her to remember. I wanted her to feel the ache in my bones at the thought of our lips pressed together. Wanted her to feel the longing Maybe then, she’d be the one to break, and I could blame it on her. Make her out to be the bad guy, going after me.

What a fucked up thing to think about.

Before I could catch myself, I blurted, “You don’t remember-“

At the same time, she went to push further on the topic.

I excused myself, motioned for her to continue. But, of course, she let me go instead.

“You don’t remember coming back to the hotel?”

I knew I was confusing her.

“Not really. you’re sure there’s nothing you want to tell me? Something important I should be remembering?” her knuckles, clasped together, were turning white.

I shrugged and pretended to be unaware, “I don’t think so.”

“Why did you tell me to come sit with you?”

She really knew how to make a guy question his own thought patterns. It would make her a really great therapist- but it just made me want to run.

To hide. To slip away from this disruption in my damaged peace.

I sighed, thoughtful, though still unsure, “I don’t know. Thought it would be nice. Like when we were in London-“

“Like when we were in London and you proceeded to pretend like we never did this? Like when we were in London and you kept interrupting me, so I couldn’t tell everyone we had been up on the roof together?”

So, she was pissed.

I knew she would be. She acted like she didn’t care, but I saw through the disguise. It reminded me of me.

I shrugged, putting on the same play, “Like that.”

I guess that was the comment that sent her off the edge, though. She was too guarded, too respectful of herself to take the bullshit I pushed. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

That wasn’t it for me. I needed to know what she knew. She obviously remembered more than she was letting on.

I slid into the elevator behind her, “Daisy-“

I swear to God, the rhythm of her breathing palpitated when I said her name-

“I need you to be honest with me. What do you remember?”

“Oh, cause you’re such a conscientious person yourself?”

I pulled at my hair, stressfully, “I really don’t think we’re on the same page right now, Daisy. Please, if we could just talk about this, if you could just tell me what you remember-“

Gears seemed to click in her brain. Something I said, the way I moved, the flash of the stars in her eyes, something had triggered a memory in her head. Something suddenly made sense.

I tried to help, though I was probably just being an asshole. “I want to figure this out, okay?”

I wanted to figure her out.

Whatever clicked was- it fucked things up.

“Oliver,” she frowned, “I can’t play this game with you.”

Game?

What game?

I was only ever playing defense- keeping to myself, keeping her away from my heart, trying to maintain distance. She had kissed me- I was the one to turn her away.

My shoulders fell, “What game? Daisy…I’m confused!”

“So am I, Oliver!”

Fuck. The way she said my name-

“I’m- you’re fucking with my head!”

Like she wasn’t fucking with mine?!

I went back to my original question, hoping to continue digging there, instead of worrying about this new hole she was unburying, “What do you remember?”

“It doesn’t matter, Oliver! I just don’t want to do this with you. Max is right. I should listen to him.” What the fuck did Max say? Why was he involving himself in this? How did he even know about- us- when we didn’t even- what?

What was happening?

“I’m not doing this with you.”

The doors opened, and she was leaving me. In her dust. In the swell of her words.

I retreated back to my room, throat tight, chest contracting for any gulp breath I could get. I fell back against the door like there were bullet holes bleeding out of my chest. I wanted to just...be honest. To be honest with her. Tell her what I really thought, what really happened, how I felt about her.

It wasn't the boundaries holding me back now. All my senses of morality and respect for our situation were dead. It was me. I was the iceberg. I was the gun.

I found my way to the bed, lay there like an empty casket. Dead, hollow, shards of wood. Why was I so afraid of her?

Maybe she'd be good for me...better than the last relationship I had, that much I could already tell. But, maybe she didn't want me for that.

Maybe she wanted to scalp me for my money, for my fame, dish out the gossip to the tabloids. Maybe she wanted to love me.

Maybe I deserved something good. Maybe I deserved to take a risk on something. Maybe I needed to. I was outside her door, before I was really conscious to my own movements, knocking, waiting. For barely a second.

She was opening the door, standing there in this barren light like an angel.

"Daisy."

I was kissing her.

Whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, whatever cruel fate she may prophesize or goodness she may expose to my paled skin- I didn't care.

Because she was kissing me.

I hadn’t been with someone for over a year.

That was what was so jarring about the entire situation.

It made me cautious, held me back. I’d been on a dating ban since I switched to my new therapist, who wanted me to focus on myself more than I always did on another person.

And for a while, it was going well.

Until Daisy disrupted that.

I knew, for as long as she was alive, breathing my air, I just could never be alone.

Usually, when I dated someone, when I was with them…I still felt that loneliness because I would give so much. And that person never returned it.

Daisy did, by a tenfold. She was…present. She so easily showed up, made time for me, chased me down when I went into those bouts of self isolation.

It was difficult to let her in…to let her join me in the dark.

But she made it feel less lonely. She made me feel…whole.

I started going to breakfast more often, started including myself in the group activities. Not only did she make me feel less alone, but she made me feel like I needed human connection.

“It’s warm, isn’t it?”

I scoffed at my therapist’s words, so simple for something so complex. “Warm. It’s hot. I feel like I’m on fire.”

“Good. Burn,” she responded. “You’re in the light now, Oliver. How do you feel about it?”

“Wow, what a question,” I teased.

Dr. Grime sighed heavily, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement was delayed, due to the time zone different, the laggy wifi in the hotel room. “Seriously, Oliver. Is it…do you feel like you want to snuff it out?”

“Of course I do,” I shuffled on my bed, “you know me. Something good comes and I feel like I don’t deserve it. But…I think it might be okay if I hang around in this for a while.”

“I think so, too,” she smiled. “I like how your language has changed, too. You’d tell me, ‘I don’t deserve this.” Now you say, you feel like you don’t deserve it. You’re recognizing rational thoughts from emotional ones. That’s very important. I’m proud of you.”

I offered a strained smile in response, uncomfortable with her praise. It was appreciated, though, and gave me body a sense of accomplishment.

Maybe I was getting better.

“So, this Daisy,” she leaned forward, more intrigued with the personal aspect of my love life, like some maternal figure.

I chuckled, shaking my head approvingly, “Daisy.”

“Do you…love her?” Dr. Grime poked.

I blushed, deeply, but quickly shoved the thought away, “Oh, no. No way. I…I barely know her. That’s- that’s crazy. Definitely not. No.”

My phone dinged in rhythm with the end of my sentence. It was her.

Daisy: soon as sam goes to bed, i can be over

My eyes lingered on the text, more concerned with this situation now than the accusatory, knowing tone of my therapist’s words.

“Mm,” she paused, “no, of course. So, is this just…a casual summer fling for you? A way to get over everything this, figure out what it is you want out of a relationship? It’s important to have something like this, a stable ground to work up off of for the future, considering you don’t have a great idea as to what love should be like.”

“Maybe,” I shrugged, toying with my phone. I stared at the message, reading and rereading the message again and again.

What…was this.

What was this to me?

What was this…to her?

We’d established some boundaries, mostly that I couldn’t really commit to anything to serious. And she said that had been okay.

Was I still okay with that?

Was that still what I wanted?

I was so obviously falling in love with her, but I would never tell anybody that.

Especially not her.

But it didn’t matter if I loved her- did I want her that way? Did I want this to last past the summer?

I did.

And that’s what scared me the most.

Loving her beyond the swept up dream we were caught in, back home, domestically. Loving her casually, routinely, in the kitchen back in my apartment, through school, sharing plants and bath towels.

I wanted that.

I wanted her…her ends and odds.

I lied, “No. I don’t want that right now. Got tour going on, new album soon. You know. Busy.”

Long after therapy ended, I stared at the message. The sun had set, the day had died…and I just couldn’t think of anything to say.

I think if I were to be around her right now, I might blurt out some passionate, mindless thing that I couldn’t bring us back from.

I needed to do…what I always did. Be alone. Ruminate in my thoughts in the darkness of a foreign hotel room in a strange city. All alone.

This felt…easier. Comfortable. What I was good at.

Yeah…this was easier.

The next day, I couldn’t stay from her any longer.

I needed her and she was needed that, too- however we could get each other.

So I pushed aside the feelings I had for her- put up all my walls and boundaries, and took her into my arms-

We would have this summer, even if it killed us.

–

"Hiya, Ollie, dear!"

My mother's voice was a sweet symphonic sound to my tired ears. We were in near opposite time zones, hundreds of miles apart, and I missed her more than anything. Touring usually took everything out of me and she was the one, separate, stable person I could turn to.

We'd only called once or twice the past few months due to my obsessed perversions with a certain best friend's sibling who had been taking up all of my time- not that I was complaining about who.

It was only recently that my mom and I had established such good rapport. Since I was young, she'd struggled to wrap her head around my career choices. Now that I was fully devoted to the act, and quite successful, she pushed aside her disagreement with it and chose to just keep supporting me.

Though I couldn't always answer, her calls were welcome.

"Hi, mum," I sat up in the hotel bed, my back sighing in gratitude at the change in posiiton. i had been rotting in here for a few hours, a little bored since Daisy was out with her friend. I could've went and hung with the guys, but I honestly needed some time to myself. That time was starting to really feel like loneliness, though. I guess before I met Daisy, they were empty hours full of empty feelings. Now, I was waking up to the reality of my existence. I'd made it so dull.

"Are you in Paris yet? Or are you still travelling?"

"We made it a few days ago," I replied. “Show’s tomorrow."

"Oh, I love Paris," she remarked. I could hear her lovely grin through the tone of her words. "I remember when we went there on a school holiday. My favorite part was the Eiffel Tower. It's so big. Now, I hear that it sparkles. You'll have to take a photo for me."

"Sure, mum."

"Have you gotten out much or are you holing up in your hotel room?"

Sheepishly, I scratched my neck. My response was delayed a bit; we both knew the answer. “Uh...I’m getting out there. Ya know, hanging out.”

“Ugh, Ollie,” I could nearly hear the roll of her eyes through the phone. “You know need a lady friend. Someone to drag you out of your bed. I mean, how many times do you get to see Paris. And get paid for it!”

At the mention of a ‘lady friend,’ I blushed. I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell her about Daisy, and damn did I want to. Though we weren’t even officially together. I didn’t know how to explain that to my mom, so maybe I’d just shy away from the topic, talk about something else.

But I guess my lapse of silent thinking made her think that there already was a lady friend.

“Oh?” she questioned with a cheerful lace to her tone. I didn’t say anything, my brain was unable to come up with anything in response. Acting defensive always made people think the opposite of what I said. Should I just tell her? Get it out of the way? Let her lecture me about my poor choices.

“Well, I won’t badger you. When you're ready,” she was already responding.

I was surprised that she was going to leave it there, to say the least, which only furthered my sentence. She usually pushed until I gave her some semblance of the truth. As she was getting older, I’d realized she gotten more relaxed and didn’t push as much as she used to. I think it was partially due to the guilt she felt for everything between us growing up.

So, I just went to move the subject along when she jumped back on it, “Just- please don’t tell me it’s that Fiona girl. I’m so sorry if it is. I just can’t sit around and watch you be treated so poorly by someone so...so awful. Again. Her personality is just- wow. Though, I shouldn’t be surprised. I went to school with her mum, and she was awful towards me. Apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree-”

I had to stop her while she was ahead. I guess some things never really, truly changed. "Mum, please! I’m not seeing Fiona again, I promise. I’m not...”

I wasn’t offended that she thought I was. It was just...more or so shocking. Shocking that she thought I’d put myself back in that. I had, a handful of times before. But...I was different now.

I guess she hadn't been around me these past few months, but I had truly changed. This past May’s Oliver very well could’ve let Fiona waltz back into his life. But July’s Oliver? He would’ve been hesitant.

And, even more so- Daisy’s Oliver...Daisy’s Oliver was a changing man. Daisy’s Oliver was a better man.

And I wanted to tell my mum that, I decided. She needed to know- it would ease her mind, along with my own. I know she was always worried for me. So, I told her-

“No, I’m seeing someone else. Her name...her name’s Daisy,” that felt good to admit, to put into the Universe, that I was seeing her, and she was seeing me, even if there were no labels attached.

“Daisy?” she perked up at the name. “That’s a pretty name. What’s she look like? You got any pictures you can text me?”

I realized quickly that I didn’t. In the near two months that we had been sleeping together, consuming one another’s souls, we hadn’t taken a single picture. It was probably for the best, just in case they somehow fell into the wrong hands. But- there were so many moments I could’ve- should’ve- captured. Moments of Daisy, hair whipping past her face on the roof, the lights of Italy glowing behind her like she had angelic wings. Daisy, in my hotel room, in the early morning before she had to sneak away. Tired eyes and an even more exhausted smile as she laughed at something stupid, I’d done in my sleep.

I wanted one. I wanted a picture of her, a picture of us, whatever I could get.

For now, all I had was my memories to help me describe her to my mum. It was easy to do so, considering she was etched into the very nerves in my mind.

“No, I don’t,” I breathed out, “but she’s beautiful. She’s got this-this- God, I can’t even describe her to you. Her hair’s darker, like yours. She’s got these brown eyes. Shorter than me, of course. You can always tell it’s her, though, just by the way she carries herself. She’s got this energy. You’d just have to see it to believe it.”

“She sounds amazing, Ollie,” she sighed distantly then giggled, “Well, if she’s so pretty, where are the pictures? I need to see her! Need to see what this talk is all about.”

I chuckled in response, “I know, I know. I suck.”

“It’s alright. I’m sure it’s difficult, with you on tour and her...what does she do, exactly? Where is she from? Would I know her?”

Here came the long winded, shameful explanation of everything between Daisy and me. The feelings that weren’t feelings, the girl who wasn’t mine, the upset sea tumultuous between us. Her brother. Sam.

I tried my best, “Well, she’s working towards her counseling license. So, she goes back to school in the fall. But right now, she’s on tour with us. Her brother works- um...Sam’s her brother. She just wanted to do some traveling before getting tied down for the next few years.”

“Sam? Sam Hatlett? She's his little sister?” There was a bit of shock in her tone now like I imagined there would be. Sam was like a brother to me, and mum knew that. In fact, she loved Sam. She always had.

When she first met him, she’d pulled him under her wing like a mother bird, like she could just feel that he needed her. So, to imagine that I might go after his little sister is rightfully shocking. It was close to home.

“I know, I know. Again, I suck,” I laughed, though I felt so tense. Rubbing my neck didn’t ease the tension in my skin.

“You don't suck, darling. It’s just a precarious situation, I’m sure. How does Sam feel about it all? Was he weird when you first started dating Daisy?”

When I first began to tell my mum about Daisy, I doubted whether or not I wanted to be completely honest. But I easily fell into the comfortability of her warm conversation and realized I could not bend the truth. Not only did she deserve to know it, but she needed to. I knew, too, that she wasn’t going to judge me, tell me I was making a bad decision. It took three times with Fiona for her to begin voicing her opinion.

Above all, I didn't need to jump through any hoops to win her approval. I didn’t have to play a role, fill a part. I was me. And she loved that man.

I realized, subconsciously, that this was how I felt about Daisy, too. Comfortable. Easy.

Loved.

I explained things to my mom, carefully, making sure she knew of the endless boundaries Daisy always ensured we had and the sweet, delicate moments that made everything worth it. I nearly fell into myself, swept up in the reminiscent beauty of it all. God, I missed her, even if it had been only two days since I’d seen her. Her friend Sasha was in town and took up all her time.

I didn’t know what I was expecting my mom to say, so I held my breath after I finished saying, “But, I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s just a summer thing or what. We’re both kinda in weird positions, so we’re not too worried about that, I guess. We’re just...having fun, ya know?”

As the insecurity rose up my throat and choked me out, I sighed out the rest of the air I had in me and added, “We’re not, like, in love or anything.”

I hadn’t expected her to laugh, that’s for sure.

But she laughed. My mum giggled, like things were well and truly hilarious, like I had just told her a joke. I waited there in silence, waiting for her to make fun of me for being so stupid as to let this situation occur. Laugh at me for being terrible at love and life. There goes Oliver again, breaking hearts, getting his heart broken. He can’t even be in a stable relationship! Laugh, laugh, laugh.

She said, “You are crazy, Ollie,” but it wasn’t meant in a harsh manner.

It wasn’t condescending, it wasn’t mean. She wasn’t making fun of me. She was...she was laughing because it was funny.

“You are usually so good at going after things. I mean, look at you with your music, darling. I said no, how many times? I insisted you do something, anything else. I never supported you financially. I never...I never supported you. I was the odds you were testing yourself against and looking at you now! I mean,” her voice cracked. A sniffle followed. My muscles eased from the discomfort I felt into something that wanted to reach for her through the phone, hug her.

“I know your father and I didn’t give you the best example for love. I know we weren’t some movie star-couple that everyone always knew would last forever. We fought. We weren’t there for you when we should have been. Your father left you. And then I held all these stupid expectations up to you, to try to make you better. And you! You’re successful!”

“And I give you all the credit for that. You are...my pride and joy, Ollie. My life. I am so proud of you, darling. But it breaks my heart, still, that you have not been able to find happiness. That you must spend so much time repairing what I broke. We cannot blame everybody else- you can...you can blame me, Ollie. I know I am to blame. And that is okay.”

“So, forgive me for laughing, forgive me for calling you crazy and stupid and wild, darling, but- it's right in front of your face, Ollie! She’s right there in front of you. Daisy. Darling, if you’re still questioning what love is, what it’s supposed to feel like...please let me knock some sense into you! You are wasting so much precious time on believing that it can only leave. It doesn’t have to stay for long for it to be important. If she leaves at the end of the summer, you will regret not telling her.”

I didn’t have to ask her what she meant; what she knew I’d regret not saying. I knew it, I knew it as well as I knew Daisy’s face, even more clear in my memory now.

“You can beat around the bush some more if you’d like, or you can carry on with this facade you’re so deeply transfixed by. Darling, I know it’s hard to let the chaos subside, to let the goodness in, but as I am getting older, I am realizing that it is bright. It is...comfortable. It is good. You deserve to have a lifetime of that. Don’t waste any more time, Ollie. Please tell her, please let her tell you. Please just...hold what you have.”

I had borne a hole into the wall, but snapped out of my still position when I felt a tear roll down the side of my nose. “H-how? How do I tell her?”

“However you need to,” she chuckled lightly. “Although, here’s a hint, Ollie: you are in the City of Love. Take advantage.”

I knew our call was ending and didn’t know when we’d get to speak again. So, like she had told, I took advantage of the moment and I held what I had; “Mum, just so you know,” my voice came out as a whisper, a gentle patter of rain on the roof.

“Yes, Ollie?” she whispered, too, like there was a gentle card deck stacked between us. I think maybe there was- I think there was always some sort of tension lingering from the harsh moments we’d beat into each other; the fighting, the leaving, the crying. I don’t think she ever felt like I’d forgiven her, as if I really needed to. She had been growing up, too, after all.

“I love you, you know that?”

“I know, baby,” I felt relieved that there was a smile in her tone, “now, go. You have some more dreams to chase down. And, Ollie?” “Yeah?”

“Get some pictures for me.”

I was lucky that, the next day, everyone was busy with their own plans on opposite sides of the city. So Daisy and I were able to spend some time together, outside of this drywall prison. I was a pretty good listener, too, and remembered all the spots Daisy had gushed about seeing in the little time we’d had together these past few weeks. I was being given the perfect setup to do what I needed to do: we were going to be alone, in the most romantic city on planet Earth. I could finally tell her how I felt.

Of course, so much of me shook with anxiety. What if- she didn’t feel the same way? She didn’t want to risk it? She didn’t want to commit to someone this close to school? Let alone someone who lived across the world from her? These weren't my only fears. There were so many revolving around my career that I could’ve drowned beneath their weight.

Yet, each time I looked at her, I was anchored to her shoes. I couldn’t drift out to sea. I was grounded. Though my fears about how she would react sank, it took another amount of effort to get the words out.

I could’ve done it right away, gotten it out there, cleared the air, so we could enjoy each other even more. That would’ve been the best way: I would've gotten answers, started the day out on the right foot. But, when we got out onto the streets, I was swept up in the busy buzz of the crowds. It was loud in the cafe we grabbed breakfast at, loud on the sidewalks, overly crowded by the river. We finally found a place to sit, breakfast sandwiches and drinks in hand. Though there were still throngs of people all around us. So what good was the City of Love when it was full of ignorant tourists?

The anxiety of what I wanted to do was making me feel grumpy. I shut down a little bit, unable to really engage in much conversation, let alone tell her how I felt. I think it just looked like exhaustion to Daisy, so she didn’t really notice. I did- I was hyperaware of every short sentence, every avoided gaze. All of these people are going to be standing here when I tell her. They’re going to watch her reject me and they’re going to know. They're going to know I’m not good enough. She’s going to walk away from me, leave me stranded in the park, alone with my own rejection and denial. I’m not good enough I’m not good enough.

I thought about what my therapist would tell me, ways to snap myself out of this maladaptive pattern of behavior. My brain lies, she always said. It makes things up, creates false realities based off things others have said to me, or moments of true insecurity rooted in no sense of truth.

Daisy would want me, even if I wasn’t good enough. That was the one assurance I could tell myself to shake off the weary thoughts.

And if she didn’t- well, I don’t think thinking about that was going to help me very much. So, when we got back into the hustle and bustle, shopping around the city, visiting the sights, I opened myself back up.

I didn't know if I’d ever find the confidence. I was on the precipice again, after lunch, when I began spewing cheesy pet names as a sublimation for the words I needed to say. It shocked her at first, hearing such sweet things coming from me. And that stung a little. Was I that monstrous towards her that simple affections made her brows shoot up? Was I that bad? I repeated them once, twice, just so she really knew I meant it.

The day went on and on and I cowered in on myself even more. There were plenty more ample moments, but I just kept letting the clock tick down. I knew we were running out of precious time. If I didn’t tell her now, we would go straight back to secret moments in a hotel room, balancing on a tightrope, pretending like the moment the leaves changed color, we wouldn't be losing each other. I just knew Daisy wanted that about as much as I did.

Just when I was giving up hope, I found my moment, finally. Just after we had stopped to view the Eiffel Tower, some street side scam artist grabbed some pictures of us and was trying to convince me to spend $200 on the copies. At first, I brushed it off, until I caught a small peak at the images on his camera. Before he could spout another line, I was giving him $100. He gave me three photos.

Where my words may fail, these pictures couldn’t. You wouldn’t have to know Daisy and I personally to well and truly and see how infatuated we were with each other. I wasn’t even worried anymore that she wouldn’t want me. I was worried she wouldn’t want the risk, the jump, the caution of a fall.

These would be to convince her to leap. These had to be.

I stopped us outside the hotel, knowing if once we stepped inside, our memories might as well be cleared of the day's events. We would be going back to normalcy, to the real world. Our friends would be waiting there, we would allow the gap between us to grow. I would swallow my words and choke on them.

“I love you,” I pictured myself saying. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you, I love you in London, you in Paris, you at home. I love you from the hotel rooms we’ve indented to the streets we’ve wandered. I love you in the plane, on the bus, in every inch of this world.”

But it just wouldn’t come out.

I tried to encourage myself by thinking of who I was just a year ago. By thinking of how I was a year ago, the person I was dating, the situation I was caught up in. Fiona, the endless hours of fighting, of begging. Crying, screaming, the blood sport we played. Hunter and prey, me the victim and yet the one wielding the sword. I thought of Daisy when I first met her. The scent of her in my nostrils, like a clue that I was to hunt for as long as I could run. Of her in my teeth, when I first caught up to her incessant running. The satisfaction I felt, how disgusting that was. How horrible it was that I loved the taste of her blood on my lips.

And how much better I could breathe knowing that I had let go, that I had put my claws away and instead threaded a needle to stitch her skin close. How beautful that was- the beast retracting, the mask falling away. A true creature coming to light, renewed and willing.

Tears welled in my eyes. The words were there, finally, waiting just atop my tongue. She was leaning closer, clutching my hand, clutching those photos like a rosary, like she would sacrifice herself for me. I would, too. I would I would I would I would.

I think I hesitated a moment too soon, or I think she could tell what was happening. I think tha- that, I think that she was running again.

I think she wanted me to chase her or to stop, or she was placing traps in the woods, waiting for the wolf with a bow in arrow.

Because she was pulling away. And our friends were calling our names.

I didn’t have time to think, wrapped up in the swell of the arrival of our friends.

But I felt the death of the moment. It was heavy. It was rotten.

Later, I sat alone in my dressing room before the show, the photo I had kept between my fingers. I swear I could hear her breath, echoing from inside the paper frame of us. Swear I could feel her hands on my arms, grasping as though the wind would take us away from each other. Her lips on my cold ones, warm and fueling like a kindled fire.

I wondered if she threw the photos away. If she stared at them, with resentment. If she wanted to burn them.

Yet, I could’ve lived and died in that moment if I had to. If I was never able to tell her how I really felt about her, I’d be content to waste away, hanging on her lips like a vine, rotting from indecision and cowardice.

Eventually, Sam poked his head in to let me know it was time to go on. I flinched when he first spoke. It drew me back to reality in harsh, cold lighting. I drew the photo from my face, met his eye, and nodded.

I was lucky he didn’t ask any questions about my reserved response, though I knew he was aware that I was getting into character as this vessel. Part of me wished he had asked, though, if only to have someone to share the darkness with again, if even for just a second. And maybe outing Daisy and I to Sam would force me to tell her everything. Force some sort of decision to fall from the loitering hammer that hung above us.

Sam left. I set the photo down on the counter, not even thinking straight enough to put it away somewhere. Then, I hung the mask on my face, edges of my eyes darkened, just like my mind.

Part of me wished I didn’t even have to perform tonight. Every time I put on this disguise, I was reminded of those dark parts of me, the parts of me that were too much like this creature the costume made into. When I’d first come up with the character, I felt so strongly that I was just like Vessel- nothing but a pit of black, music transporting through me like some god had planted it there. I hadn’t been aware of my very real feelings. I just sat there, in that emptiness.

Things were different now.

Maybe I just needed a break from it all, from the costumes and the concerts and Daisy. Well, not Daisy. Not her. Just...everything involving her.

But never her. I just wanted her always, everywhere.

I didn’t get to have that, though, the break nor Daisy.

In fact, all I got was a slap in the face. When I went on stage, I spotted Daisy in the audience. For a split second, there was a lift in my heart, a fire in my bones. She was here. She hadn’t pulled away- she wanted me. She wanted me.

Then, as the lights flickered, I noticed the look of guilt on her face and the hand around her waist, She was here...with someone else.

I felt myself retracting, cocooning, not for growth, not for birth into something good, something with fluttering wings...but into that moth. Into that darkness.

Into that vessel.

In my fury, I laid claim to Daisy in all the wrong ways. I held her by the throat and let her dangle from my lips, reminded her how desparate she was for me, reminded her just how much she relied on my game. It had never been and never would be our game. I was the villain. I was the hunter.

She was my prey.

I was losing hope for my own reconciliation, for my own change. Maybe I would just always be detached, dark, monstrous. Maybe I would never be able to commit, to give in, to be someone’s something.

Maybe I was just this vessel, and maybe this vessel was just me.

Maybe I was never good enough for Daisy, but just enough to satisfy her furious need for that bad. And that was enough for me.

Things got worse when Fiona started blowing up my phone.

I wasn’t sure how she had gotten my number. I had changed it back in March, when I’d ended- really ended- things with her. And, with my career, it wasn’t like I’d just handed my number out to any person on the street. I had, maybe, ten contacts on my phone.

Daisy was one of the few I responded to.

But, somehow, someway, Fiona had gotten hold of my number and began blowing my phone up with messages. I blocked her the minute I noticed, after a show when I had time to get on my phone. Then, a few days later, she started messaging from a different number.

They were innocent claims- she kept saying I had left things at her flat and needed to come pick them up. But I knew her better than that. She was trying to use this to weasel back into my head, my heart. She’d convince me to come pick everything up and then, when I was there, she’d start crying. Start saying how much she loved and needed me. She’d convince her into her bed, and we’d start spiraling down into that same old waltz we both knew too well.

After I blocked this contact, I guess she evolved. She started using an unknown number, so I couldn’t even block the contact. I called my manager immediately and told him I needed to get a new phone number. Apparently, all the stores around us were closed for a few days, which just so happened to be my fucking luck. But he promised to get something for as soon as possible.

In the meantime, I just had to ignore her.

So, I booked a last-minute therapy appointment.

I glossed over everything with my doctor, telling myself that things with Daisy were hopeless. She obviously thought me to be disposable. I mean, I had watched how quickly she’d pulled away, how quickly she found another empty face in the crowd.

I didn’t want to admit that shameful situation to my doctor. I didn’t want her to know I’d let myself fall again.

Instead, we talked about Fiona, about the temptress knocking on my door. My doctor kept reminding me to, “Stay strong. Know your worth.”

Easy words for someone in a healthy, happy marriage.

All it would take was one more wrong look from Daisy and one wrong text from Fiona, and I’d end up back off the cliff.

So, I clung to the guys. Daisy had been...not so distant but detached. Cautious. She was taking the lead, so I followed. We still hung out, still fucked like we had been doing. Still had these meaningful, deep conversations that made me wonder, over and over, what the fuck was going through her head. But honestly, I now spent some of that extra time with Max, Cy, Adam, or Sam. We were due to begin working on the next album and I had plenty of ideas floating around in my head.

It was peaceful, quaint. Something I’d missed. Maybe I wouldn’t be ready to start dating again if something like this caused me so much stress.

Adam was texting me now, wondering if I wanted to hang out sometime this morning, talk about the album. I told him I’d let him know what time, considering Daisy was in my bed. And Fiona was blowing my phone up like fucking crazy.

The whole situation threw me off. She wasn’t really concerned about it, but made numerous, passive jokes about me having a secret girlfriend. I don’t know if it was because she really, truly wanted me to be exclusive to her, or if it was just something to do with her pride.

Signals were still mixed, even after we’d had a conversation about how committed we were to each other. Part of me wondered if it had just been an act, her agreement to never see anybody else, her admittance that she was, “mine.” If it had just been something brewed from the heat of the moment. But, when I answered the phone, set it back on the nightstand, I swear to God I saw something in her eyes shift, like she had been bothered at the thought of me with someone else.

Or it would be shitty in general if I was seeing someone else.

I weighed telling her, every single, how I felt about her. I don’t know that if I told her I loved her it would change anything. I had all but done so, and she still was unmoving. She still had gone and found that faceless nobody in the crowd.

Today, I felt like maybe I should. Tell her.

As soon as she had left, someone knocked on my door. I didn’t think it was Daisy, considering Sam would be waking up soon and she needed to get back into bed. When I looked through the peephole, Adam was there, staring over his shoulder sort of strangely.

“Hey, dude,” I started as I opened the door, then turned to make my way over to the bed where my book bag was. I reached in for my notebook, continuing, “so, I’ve got a few good ideas rattling around-” probably a few too many about Daisy, “that I wanna show ya.”

He slowly entered the room, shutting the door softly behind him, “Yeah, uh...” he approached me sort of hesitantly, distant confusion in his pupils, “I think we...should talk about something first.” He didn’t seem too sure of himself and the words he was saying were cautious. So, my tone slowed, hardened “What-what’s up?”

He finally met my eye and I felt like a sword had been shoved down my throat, “I just talked to Daisy...out in the hallway.”

I set my book bag down, hands having been frozen around the straps like someone cursed me into the stoic, icy position. All I could think to say was, “Oh.”

Adam nodded half-heartedly, “Yeah. Oh. I... don’t know what to say, really. I knew you guys had been...like, it was obvious. To me and I think Max, at least. Sam is kinda clueless and, he and Ronnie are totally sleeping with each other.”

Well, that was obvious. So obvious that I could have snorted, but I was too focused on the wild realization that everyone basically knew. All of that sneaking around, trying to be secretive- well, it didn’t fucking matter. And it didn’t seem like it really mattered that much.

“Are you gonna, like, scold me or something?’ I sat on the edge of my bed, running a wary hand through my hair.

“No, I’m gonna tell you that you’re fucking stupid.”

“What?” I looked up from the ground, shock widening my eyes.

Adam finally softened his expression and chortled, though it was short before he was in on me again, “You’re stupid, Ollie. I don’t think you’re doing it on purpose. I think you’re just...Fiona fucked you up. And I’ve watched you slowly start to heal over these past few months. Daisy has everything to do with that. And...she fucking loves you, dude. She thinks the world of you. And you’ve both, I guess, been dancing this dance with each other, walking around the whole thing. I just told her, like- stop thinking less of yourselves. You both deserve something good. You’re both worthy of each other. So, stop being fucking stupid and just tell her.”

My face was hot. I clenched my hands together, knuckles turning white as all these rampant, loose feelings released in my chest, in my head. “She doesn’t love me.” Adam chuckled again, “That’s a bold fucking statement. She just told me herself how much she adores me.”

“Well, yeah, she likes me, that’s obvious,” I waved him off, “she wouldn’t be sleeping with me if she didn’t. But...I think I’ve made it clear so many times how much I want her. And she, just, doesn’t care. Or she turns away.”

“She’s scared!” Adam exclaimed, making me flinch just slightly. “Sorry,” he spoke quieter, like he had shocked himself with his tone of voice. “She’s scared, Ollie. She’s...she doesn’t know who she is. That’s why she came here. That’s why she pulls away, why she seems unsure.”

“Well, I know that,” I scoffed, “I know her better than anyone. You haven’t seen the way she...how she denies it. I know she denies it. She denies us- me.”

“Okay, tell me,” Adam nearly popped a hip at this, a sassy tone overtaking his authoritative one. “Tell me how she denies, what she says and does that makes you think she doesn’t want you. Tell me that she doesn’t love you.”

I thought, long and hard. I could've mentioned the very recent time when she had been dancing with another guy, at our concert, a prowling look in her eyes. Or, of the time when I was on the brink of telling her how I felt, then she pulled away. Or-

Wait.

Am I fucking stupid?

I’m so fucking stupid. I am the dumbest, stupidest idiotic idiot to have ever existed.

It was all right there, clearing up now like I was wearing new glasses. I had a new perspective- I had an unbiased, outsider’s view of the world I had been suffocating in. And Adam’s view was- a breath of fresh air.

I was so obviously the one turning away from her.

From the beginning, I’d been denying her, us, for fear that she wouldn’t want me that way. For fear that someone would find out, for fear that I might die if she ever looked away from me. And I’ve been covering it up with the excuse that I was broken, or hurting, or-or...worthless.

I knew differently. I’d known it differently for a while now but had been unable to act upon this rationality. I was too emotional, too, in my head. And that made me seem manipulative, and asshole-ish, and- fucking stupid.

Adam watched me carefully, watched me as I processed these past few months. My eyes were narrowed, confused, though they widened as the information unfolded in my mind, as the notches clicked together.

“You’re…right.”

Instead of worrying myself with the evidence that she, too, was afraid, I felt my head flood with memories, as tangent on my skin as the cool air of my hotel room. Memories of her devotion, her promise, her love. Memories of us in the stale morning, sharing stories of her mother and that little apartment back in America. Memories of us on the roof, atop the world, atop the feeling, a private sanctuary where even just the flash of her eyes should have told me everything that I needed to know. I was going to tell her I felt the same. I was going to pull her up to the roof, one of our most sacred secrets, and pour everything out onto the barren concrete between us. And I knew she would say that she loved me, too.

It was delicate and I would have to handle it as such. Any sudden movement, and we’d be falling apart, all over again.

But, then Max was bombarding my hotel room, spewing some nonsense about Daisy and Ronnie getting tattoos. He was dragging us to Sam’s hotel room. I was practicing the lines in my head, over and over, a prayer.

Daisy was looking at me with these doe-innocent eyes, like she, too, was praying to some old god. Altering herself for a breath that he may resurrect what was dying between us even now.

I found more words, new words- lyrics, pummeling my skull in wondrous discovery. It was right there- everything was- My phone wouldn’t fucking stop ringing and I thought that I might explode into atoms. I ignored the call, watching as Daisy’s face fell each and every time that it did. She well and truly thought that I was seeing someone else.

Enough was enough.

I took a step towards her, fully intent on putting a rest to the strangeness and awakening what was already there. But, then my phone rang again.

And Sam began making some joke about Fiona calling me, a knowing, devious smirk on his features. He didn’t know- how could he know? I couldn’t be upset with him, but I wanted to strangle him into the carpet.

But I couldn’t focus on that anger for too long-

Because Daisy was leaving like we both always left, one too many times, in one too many silent glares of this something that we just may never get right.

The delicate threads of us bent and snapped.

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