#chooeyspits

Lowkey pulled this out of my ass. reading it back I thought I was on some Dostoyevsky type shit but I really was not.

a/n: I need to post something I'm rotting away with writer's block. pretend Beckett isn't evil and is capable of love.

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You enchanted him. In a way you could not understand nor he could explain, your every word so captivating it consumed him entirely. Enchanted him in a way that had him leashed by adoration so strong he felt it absolutely; breath to bone, heart to mind. Every thought and pulse was yours, tied by the inexplicable need to crave you at every moment. Addiction. It was addiction, separate from desire, that left him feeling incomplete, and you were the attempt to feel whole again.

The first time you were forced to consider the startling fact that you could spend the rest of your life with someone, he had made you laugh so hard your stomach ached and you were gasping for breath. He held you up as you doubled over, pulled you against him as you tumbled off the couch. When you finally slowed your breathing and had the composure to look at him, the mere sight of his eyes crinkling at the corners made your stomach tingly and you were shaking again, falling asleep as you sucked in each others laughter like air.

The second time was when his hands mapped the way to your heart, tracing along veins that seemed to light up for him and him only. Each kiss he pressed into your skin a reminder that you were not just a want, powered by lustful hunger and satiated by sex; to him you were a physical craving, one that forced his pupils to dilate and stomach to churn at the thought of not loving you. His lips sketched hymns to the purest parts of you, mumbling through skin that he's finally found the one to worship as he sunk to his knees. Murmuring your name over and over until it echoed in the valley between your ribs, bouncing in and out of his ears until his head was pounding with nothing but you.

The third time, he'd changed himself. The habits that you memorised and the quiet side you only saw behind closed doors came and went, all for you. The man who was stoic and stiff to the eyes of others let you soften him; let you take the pointy corners he'd sharpened for the public and dull them to something tender and moldable to your liking so that he could become anything you wanted. But what he did was make you feel like yourself. Someone who didn't have to pretend to be happy because the butterflies were already loose in your stomach, and no matter how many nets you had he would always set them free.

Beckett didn't believe in divine intervention. Not with you, at least. And every time he undressed you, revealing your softness while leaving you fully clothed, he knew that you were intentional. He willed you. He threaded the strings of your life together until your fates would be one, found entangled beautifully like the backside of embroidery. He loved you with every ounce of conscience he could muster, dripping your name with every thought. And he would never, ever wipe it away.