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The best part of not having parents is that you can create your own path without any obligations or expectations holding you back from progress. You can rule the world or, in my case, end a war without worrying about being reprimanded for every move you make.
She may be a fascinating product of terror, but she’s also the living embodiment of destruction.
I understand, but those silly thoughts remind me that, despite everything, people can be good in their twisted ways—and that I’m still human.
Keep on swimming, little fish. I’ll catch you soon enough. I just hope my hook doesn’t cut too deep before I get the information I need.
She fuckin’ smiles, but I can’t even form a proper remark as my eyes flick between hers. The longer I stare, the more I notice flecks of gray scattered in the deep blue depths. It’s not fear that has my heart slamming against my ribcage, threatening to escape; it’s the sight before me.
I love pickles so much that it almost makes me forget they’re my going-away gift.
What a contradiction—here I am, saving her life when I always thought she’d need to be saved from me. As I swim hard and pull her up, I realize the feelings rising are scarier than the thought of drowning.
Maybe I’m losing my mind by talking to myself, but this is what she does to me. She throws everything I think I know about rationality and morals out the window.
“I’m here, little shark. So go on. Bite me. Draw that blood you’re so desperate for. Reach into my vest and find whatever weapon you want." Even if she looks composed, I can hear her breaths become shallower than my own with each word I speak. "I fucking dare you." I bite out. “I’m sorry. Are you flirting with me or threatening me? I can’t tell—"
I know she’s evading what I want to hear. I need to know what's haunting her. I want to replace every skeleton in her closet until all that jumps out to scare her is me.
“I don’t want to die.” The confession has me stunned by the weak and whispered tone. As her breathing evens, I focus on her heart's steady, slow beat and the soft snore that rumbles her ribs. “I don't want you to die either,” I mutter, but before my lips can touch her skin, I lean back against the pillow.
“Hate me all you want, make me the monster in your dreams, make me the thing you strive to kill, make me the villain in your story. As long as it’s me and no one or nothing else.”
I’m fucked, and I’m done fighting it–with myself. She can have my damn soul if that’s what she wants–if that’s what it takes to keep the girl I saw last night.
“There you go, that’s it. Just stop fighting.” His voice is so deep and husky that it's almost unrecognizable. Is he referring to my runaway attempt, or to the fucked up mind games he’s playing? Either way, I can’t stop now. If I give up, then everything will be for nothing.
When was the last time my mind was so quiet? This isn’t supposed to send a jolt of electricity coursing through my body, bringing me back to life. It is supposed to repulse me, preferably make me throw up my breakfast.
It’s as if he is trying to devour me whole–like he’s been starved for a taste of something he’ll never have again.
He stumbles from my body, flinging sand from his boots across my legs–leaving me a jumbled puddle of emotions I didn’t realize I still possessed on the beach. They weren't supposed to come back. Not now.
If I thought I was a mess and obsessed before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. The sensation of her body melting beneath mine, surrendering to my will, has been etched into my very being. The way my boots dug into the sand while she was pinned below me haunts me with each step I take, and every brush of my shirt against my skin sends electric shocks as if it's her hands on my flesh instead. She’s ruined me.
As much as I love the fire she possesses, I miss that fleeting moment when her features softened, and she appeared to be nothing more than an innocent woman searching for a way out.
A woman has never had a hold on me like this. It's dangerous, not for me but for anyone she ever encounters again.
She calls me sick regularly, but I’m not ill–I’m fucking psychotic when it comes to her.
“If I’m a sick fuck, then what does that say about you? You’re dripping all over my fingers, basically begging me to touch you, love.”
One day, I’ll make my mark on her, and all she’ll be able to eat, breathe, and think about is me.
She carries this radiance that makes anything gravitate in her direction, wanting to shine as brightly as she does. Even without a smile, she just feels… warm.
I don’t need someone to protect me. I’m not some damsel, even if I’m a little in distress.
“None of that bullshit, love. If I’m gonna have you soaking my sheets, then you’re going to be moaning my name.”
We built our world in between chaos and bloodshed. Whether I want to or not, I trust him. I want to believe he trusts me, even though I’m still unsure if he should. He could’ve killed and tortured me in worse ways, but he calms me, claims me, brings me to his room, and tries to heal what others have broken.
A salty streak dips into my parted lips as I attempt an apology, but his mouth crashes into mine, silencing anything I could’ve said. Every thought tumbles into nothing, and the scent that’s so uniquely him surrounds me. Safe. That’s what he is; it’s what he’s always been.
“Stop acting so tough for a bit. You’re not a soldier here.” I murmur. I’ll always adore the fire she holds, but I also need her to know that sometimes it’s okay to be human, especially when she’s in my hands. “Then what am I here?” She turns her back to me, letting the steady stream wash down her face. “Mine,” I whisper, brushing her hair back until it’s flowing down her spine straighter than the usual waves I’m used to.
The environment just feels better. It feels safe. Maybe it’s just the ‘big brooding man’ trailing on my heels, but I don’t mind. I’ve held my own for as long as I know, so it’s nice to have someone look out for me occasionally. What can I say? He broke down barriers I had held firm for so long and successfully helped me navigate my mind.
