#franksaidso

You can’t pull away fast enough. Rejection burns in your ears. You can’t help but think you aren’t drunk enough for this.

You leave Loki’s tie loose, fingers numb and clumsy where they let go. “i’m sorry—fuck, shit—did I…”

“No,” he says softly, quickly. But there’s a subtle firmness to it. His hand catches your wrist, his big fingers encircling your wristbone. His warmth hits you a half-second late, your nerves lagging with the reeling of your head.

He smiles down gently at you, oddly enough. Huffs an almost-laugh through his nose. It lightens the flood in your chest, just a little.

“Hey,” Loki breathes, head dipping closer to yours. It’s electric in itself. “You didn’t do anything,” he tells you.

The words land slow in your chest. You swallow, throat dry. “I thought… I thought you were okay with,” you gesture to the scant, swaying space between you, “this.”

He blinks hard, twice, his pale blue eyes flicking to your mouth and back; like it’s an effort not to look too long.

You notice his other hand on your waist, not knowing when it got there.

“I was.” His thumb presses lightly, and you hear his breath hitch in his throat. “I am.”

“Then what…?” you start to murmur, searching Loki’s face.

There was a paradoxical unreadability about him. He had that tightness, that control, like a string pulled too-tight around his chest. But there was something else there, too. Something warm and boyishly nervous.

“I haven’t done this in… Christ. I just want to slow down.” He says, trailing off close to your ear. His pale blue eyes search yours, bracing for your reaction. “Yeah? That okay?”

Something about the low silk of his voice makes you shudder.

“…Yeah. Okay.”

You feel his hold on your wrist tighten, just slightly, his hand on your waist staying rooted. You’re close enough to smell his aftershave, breathe it in.

“‘m not good at doing it slow,” you slur against his neck, the words bubbling past your teeth easier than they should. You can feel him swallow, thick. His breathing stutters for a moment before he can rein it in.

You press a kiss to the tattoo on his neck, filing away the thought to ask him about it later. “Don’t mean to come on so strong.”

“You didn’t come on strong,” he murmurs. His hand leaves your wrist, then hesitates—hovering, reconsidering before it cups the back of your neck. The touch is steady, yet the choice behind it is far from effortless.

He tilts your head up, gentle, making you look at him. “You came on honest.”

“What do you mean?”

His hand slides up your waist, controlled, thumbing the hem of your shirt. “You know…” His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I deal with people aalllll day who hide what they want. You didn’t.”

“Then what? what’s your issue, mm?” You demand, hands fisting clumsily in his shirt, still buttoned all the way up.

You didn’t exactly bring guys home with you to take things slow.

His shoulders rise with a small breath. It almost reminds you of a boy scout, preparing for battle, or whatever boy scouts do.

“I’m just…” He shakes his head, sheepish in his own way. He blinks hard. “Slower than I seem. More straightforward. I haven’t, uh, done a lot of things.”

His thumb brushes back and forth, pressing lightly into your side. You can’t tell if it’s to ground you or reassure himself.

“And I’m a little drunk,” he admits, quiet smile playing at his lips. “So I’d rather say it now—when it’s easy—than do the whole… ‘we’re about to tear each other apart’ thing.”

“So.. slower,” you echo, your hand slowly finding the collar of his shirt. You feel his breath hitch. “That’s it?”

“…Most of it.”

You slowly undo the very top button of his collar, watching his body language. His shoulders square like he’s braced against something internal.

“And the rest?”

He blinks hard down at you, eyes flicking. You start to recognize it. His lips part for a moment, and he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“The—uh… control. I don’t like when it’s, um, frenzied.”

He speaks like it’s a challenge to explain himself, even when his head’s floating with whiskey.

“You seem pretty in control,” you murmur, still working on unbuttoning his shirt. You take it slow, watching for discomfort. “Better than me, anyway.”

He chuckles breathily, a disbelieving laugh. “That’s generous.”

You hum, pressing a kiss to the revealed parts of Loki’s neck. You were starting to lose your patience, despite yourself.

“Tell me to stop,” you breathe against him. He shudders.

“I don’t want to.” His hold on your waist tightens. “I want to… feel it. Feel you.” He takes a deep breath, eyes skirting away, embarrassed. “Just without losing my footing.”

A slow, deliberate smile spreads across your face. “Okay,” you say. “We can do that.”

You can see the weight sighing off his shoulders, the relief in the way he blinks lightly.

“Yeah?” He breathes, drunk honesty making him need to hear it twice, that anchoring agreement.

You just slip your fingers into his hand, guiding. He startles almost imperceptibly at the contact, eyes flicking down to where you’re holding him.

“This way,” you say.

Understanding dawns on Loki’s face, and you hear him sigh through his nose. “Okay.”

You lead him down a short hallway, dimly lit. He follows half a step behind you, work-worn hand still in yours, and you can feel him grounding himself through the contact. The apartment feels warmer back here, softer somehow. The hum of the city fades.

When you reach the bedroom, you don’t turn on the overhead light. Just the lamp by the bed, waxy and warm like bleeding sunlight.

You stop just inside the doorway.

Loki lingers there, taking it in. The bed. The quiet. You.

“This is usually where things get…” He trails off.

“Fast?” you offer.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You step closer, still not crowding him. “Then we won’t do that.”

Something in his expression eases at that. His shoulders relax out of their rigid hold. “Thank you,” he says, low and earnest enough to make your chest ache.

You guide him to sit on the edge of the bed. He perches on your duvet, hands resting on his thighs like he’s not sure what to do with them yet.

It’s almost endearing to see such a big, stoic man almost nervous.

You stand between his knees, resisting the urge to touch him just yet.

“Still slow?” you ask.

He looks up at you, eyes warm and a little glassy. “Still slow.”

You lean in, honey-drip slow, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. The closeness alone makes his breath hitch, but then he melts.

Loki’s hand slides from your waist, fingers lingering before he lets go. He shifts on the edge of the bed, shoulders rolling once, drawing a quiet breath as he pulls away.

“Okay,” he murmurs. More to himself than you.

His fingers go to the buttons of his shirt, clumsy at first. He frowns faintly at them, the effort of concentration written plainly across his face. One button comes undone. Then another. He pauses, glancing up at you, checking.

You don’t rush him.

That seems to help.

He exhales, shoulders loosening, and continues. He moves with slow, careful movements, like he’s aware of every inch of himself right now.

When the shirt finally parts, he shrugs it off with a small, self-conscious breath, like he’s surprised he made it that far.

The tank top underneath sticks a little as he lifts it, catching at his ribs. He tugs it down again, embarrassed, not used to being watched like this. He tries again, slower this time. It comes free. He drops it beside him on the bed, ears faintly pink.

“There,” he says, quiet. Almost shy.

He looks at you then, really looks—eyes warm, searching, still a little unsure.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice low, steady despite the nerves humming under it.

“More than that,” you hum, easing your hands down his chest, laying him down.

You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, feeling his want mount in the growing bulge between his legs.

You slide your hands down his chest again, deliberately slow, eliciting a breathy haah that sounds like it’s been trapped in Loki’s lungs for a while.

He appears almost starstruck, looking up at you. Something about the red in his ears tells you that if he were sober, he’d be cold, distant stone.

But neither of you are sober.

He lifts up, kissing you again. Harder this time. His choice. His hands find their way back to your waist, like he likes it there.

You can feel the callouses seared into his palms as they slide under your shirt. They run back and forth over the soft, bare skin of your sides.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his hands passing over your chest. Reverent. Feeling you. “You’re… shit.”

“Hmm?” you kiss the corner of his mouth, down to his jaw, then his shoulder. Your hands slide down to his slacks, feeling the tent there. Its big—you can already tell.

Your hand thumbs at his belt. “Can I?”

You hear him stifle a needy noise that bubbles up from his throat—almost a groan. It makes you grin.

“Mmm—yeah. Mhm.”

You slide his belt off after fumbling for a moment, your open mouth searing wet, blooming bruises along Loki’s throat. Your hand slips easily down the front of his pants, palming his heavy, flushed length through his boxers.

“D’you want me to use my mouth?” you ask.

Loki shakes his head no, his eyes glassy with a restrained desperation you hadn’t seen yet.

“I just—can I—I just want to be inside you. I don’t—I’m not used to… shit like that.”

You make a mental note to show him what he’s missing later on. But you don’t want to push him too hard, not yet.

“Yeah. ‘Course you can,” you murmur.

You catch Loki’s mouth in a deep kiss, feeling his blood rush into the scent of you.

His hands grab and feel and worship every inch he can reach, far past thinking and deep into wanting.

.

.

.

“Oh, fuck,” Loki pants, one arm braced above you, the other holding your waist hard enough to bruise. Sweat beads on his forehead, his slick-backed hair falling messy over his face.

You’re mewling below him, breathy moans punching out of your chest with every thrust, dizzy with how deep he is.

You knew he was gonna be big.

But jesus, not this big.

You didn’t expect him to know how to use it, either.

“Shiitt—David, fuck!” You moan, hooking your arms around his neck.

“Do you need me to slow dow—aahn…” Loki groans, his head dipping into the line of your shoulder. The muscles in his torso ripple with every delicious, stirring movement of his hips.

You can feel every vein of his impossibly fat dick stretching you out, the space where the two of you meet all creamy and perfect.

“Don’t—mmmph—don’t you dare,” you gasp.

He nods breathlessly, his lips swollen from how hard he’s biting them to keep from groaning too loud.

The cord in his chest—the one he keeps coiled tight—starts to unravel faster than he can rein it in.

His hips snap up more and more erratically, small groans of pleasure escaping his lips as he holds onto your hips for dear life. “Jesus—fuck…!”

You rake your nails down his back, digging them into his skin and making him shudder hard.

You can feel his cock throbbing hard, his veins throbbing like it hurts so good. His hand on your waist moves to swipe sweat-slick baby hairs from your forehead, glassy eyes flicking between yours.

Without thinking, your hands come up to cup his face above yours. Your thumbs brush over his stubble, a breathless, too-tender gesture that makes you both seize.

“Oh, ah-haahh.. mmph..” You whimper, pulling Loki down so that your foreheads touch.

You watch as his eyes roll back into his head, his long eyelashes fluttering. The muscles in his shoulders tense as he gets close, his hips faltering and losing their rhythm.

“I’m gonna—fuck…!” Loki gasps, pulling out right as he cums. He spurts all over your inner thighs, his breath shuddery and panting.

He collapses next to you, blinking hard and breathing harder.

You share that blissful, unthinking moment where the adrenaline and breathless air crescendo into this.

“Fuckin’ A…”Loki sighs after a long beat.

“Mmm?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head.

You watch him sit up slow, with a carefulness that suggested too much movement would shatter something.

His breathing evens out, deliberate. Controlled again. Too controlled.

You notice the warmth drain from his eyes. They’re distant now, that open glassiness having shuttered back into the cave of his mind. Locked behind something practiced, careful, safe.

He must have sobered up.

“Are you—” you start to say.

“—I have to go.” He says it quick, avoidant, but not unkind. Like he’s stepped too far and cant backpedal fast enough.

He gets up, before you can answer. He shoves his slacks back on, buttoning his shirt to the top quicker than he could get it off. Precise, button after button.

Familiar armor sliding into place. He won’t look you in the eye.

“You just—what the fuck?” you blink, pulling your shirt back over your head. You’re still sticky with sweat and cum.

“Hey,” you try again, softer now. “David.”

He stills.

For a moment, you think he won’t turn around. Then he does — and there’s something naked in his expression that has nothing to do with his clothes.

“There’s a case—I have to… Someone..”

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. A shake of his head, like he’s frustrated with his own lack of honesty.

“Sorry. ‘M sorry.”

It isn’t a plea for forgiveness.

It beckons distance, pushes you away.

You follow him to your door anyway.

You stumble after him, trying to find the words to interrogate him, cuss at him, anything.

“Hey. What the hell?” You say, but it’s more of a plea. A sad one.

He pauses there, hand on the handle, like he’s bracing himself.

Then he turns back and cups the back of your head, forehead pressing briefly to yours.

His eyes are filled with something that makes your heart clench.

The kiss he leaves on your forehead is fierce and restrained all at once. Like it costs him something.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. The weight of it lands heavier than anything else he’s said all night.

you just rolled your eyes, your knee knocking against his. “go.”

“what’s the prettiest thing in this whoooole busted apartment?”

you exhaled slowly, stealing another hit, listening to the box fan rattle. “‘s it that noisy ass fan?”

“wrong. errrrr." that awful buzzer noise. "perfect score anyway. beep." pilot smiled, softer now. the corners of his mouth kicked up all cute. “it's you.”

then, he leaned in, kissing the space between your eyebrows with all the tenderness he never showed anyone else.

“gold star.”

the rare lack of irony in his voice made your heart stutter.

the awestruck look on his face didn't help.

pilot had the worst poker face in existence—always did, always would. he stared at you like that when you were hunched over a bowl of cereal, glass cradled in your palms. when you were counting change at the cash register, half asleep. all the time. like you were the 8th wonder of the world, and he'd just discovered you.

half the time, he didn’t even realize he was staring.

you shoved his shoulder. “you're higher than a kite.”

“higher than a pilot, you think?" he laughed, hyena-like, before relaxing back against the wall. “high on your trick ass. 'n… some other stuff. but mostly you. who needs disneyland when i got you?”

"shut up, pi," you murmured, not unkindly.

he always got embarrassed when you told him the things he prattled on about when you were high.

you took the joint, nudging it back to the edge of pilot’s mouth.

giving each other hits was sort of a tradition the two of you had. you didn’t know why. you didn’t even remember when you started.

it just felt right. warm, like soothed dogs. warm like his hands. warm like him.

the room grew thick as you drifted higher. the air was heavy with smoke and marijuana, hot as hell. sweat gathered at the base of your spine, and you wished you could peel your clothes off and bake in it.

when you looked down, you found pilot's hand splayed on your thigh. you didn’t know exactly when it got there. his thumb was drawing lazy circles like he needed contact or his head would float right off his shoulders.

“eyes up here,” you teased.

“i am,” he said, not moving his hand. “multitasking.”

you pressed your forehead to his, forcing his glassy gaze to settle back on yours. “you're dumb."

“certified,” he hummed, eyes going heavy-lidded. “got the diploma and ev’rything.”

you sat like that for a while, looking dopey into each other’s eyes, slowly getting closer, breathing with open mouths.

he smelled like chlorine and root beer dum-dums.

you suddenly squinted one eye shut, draping your arms over his shoulders. you were so close to him your vision started to unfocus—making his eyes sort of merge.

“cyclops.”

“hot,” he deadpanned, but his breath hitched anyway. like it just dawned on him how close you were.

“hey.”

“mmm?”

“you’re pretty, too.”

that stopped his brain for a second. fried all his circuits.

full system reboot.

you watched his mouth open, close, open again.

his fingers tightened on your thigh, and if you didn’t have jeans on, you would have felt the clamminess in his palms.

pilot shuddered, swallowing hard.

"oh," he breathed, eyes glittering like he was about to confess something life ruining.

before he could say anything, you kissed him. only once, testing the waters. it was barely even a peck.

but fuck. the sound that came out of him was half-choked, a wrecked little whine that he tried and failed to swallow down.

the fan clicked, rattled, stuttered.

sweat slid down your spine, the air thick enough to drink.

pilot laughed under his breath, more a little nervous. “god, ‘s hot.”

“it’s always hot in here.”

“not… what i meant.”

“mmh—can i?”

“touch me?”

pilot just nodded. you tried not to laugh at how red he was.

“i’m right here. go ‘head.”

that was all he needed.

his hands scrambled, grabbing at your hips, your neck, your jaw. trying to touch everything at once, like he couldn't decide what he needed most.

you leaned in to kiss him again, and he jumped for it. he was inexperienced—his lips fumbling and unsure as he kissed you.

"you," he breathed against your mouth, voice shaking. "you're, ah—"

he leaned back , crushing the blunt out too hard, ash scattering out of the tray in his messy windowsill.

smoke curled up around you in spirals, clinging to the warm summer air and the scant space between your mouths.

"i—" he tried to say something. anything. but his mouth wasn't working right—it was too busy pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, tasting salt and heat and you.

his fingers dug into the bare skin of your hip, right above the waistband of your boxers, and he let out a shaky breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

“shit,” he panted against your skin, eyes hazy. “you're tryin' to kill me."

"am i?" you asked, climbing into pilot’s lap.

“yeah,” he groaned, his voice pitching up when your weight settled between his legs. “this’s a baaad idea.”

“you always say that.”

“‘cause it is.” his fingers drummed restless beats against your splayed thighs. “you make me all... stupid.”

you just grinned against his mouth. “you already are.”

he laughed, then pulled you closer, like he could fold you into him if he tried hard enough. like he could keep you there with him.

“nnh, ah, lean back.”

his hand cupped the small of your back, attentive as always, guiding you down to the mattress.

your eyes opened again to see pilot hovering over you, flushed and breathless, looking at you like he’d just been handed something sacred and fragile. beautiful.

“pilot,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his untamed hair, pulling him back down to you, his lips and tongue slotting back to yours.

he kissed and licked and nipped sloppy marks into your neck, trailing purple tulips and blooming pink flowers down to your collarbone.

his hands slid up under the hem of your shirt, warm palms flat against your chest. “fuck. can i?”

you just nodded helplessly, lifting your arms up.

he got you both undressed in a blur, pulling off your jeans and his, leaving you both in only your boxers; baggy flannel.

“nnh, are those mine?” pilot grinned, licking your bottom lip. his fingers snapped at the waistband before leaving it be.

“don’t worry ‘bout it,” you mumbled back. who’s clothes were whose always got mixed up between you. either way, pilot’s looked better on you. he always thought so.

"zow-ee," pilot said under his breath.

you pitched your knee up, pressing it against the bulge in pilot’s boxers.

you watched him keen, his eyes fluttering like cicada wingbeats. his hips bucked once, and you could see him fighting to not grind against you.

“oh, fuck—” pilot gasped. “thats, mmm..”

“good?” you asked, grinding your knee against his clothed cock.

you watched pilot’s eyes roll back into his head, his long eyelashes fluttering. “god damn it, ah..!”

it was taking all of his willpower not to just hump your leg, his virgin brain practically frying itself. sweat started to drip down his neck, into the dip of his clavicle.

“you’re so hard,” you mused, carding your fingers through his messy hair, watching him try desperately to focus.

“can’t—can’t help it,” pilot panted. “not with you.”

his eyes were glossy, his face so red you couldnt tell if it was you or the vegas sunburn.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. this one was sloppy, frantic with need. pilot’s tongue licked into your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as he cupped your face. he was inexperienced, sure, but oh so eager.

he pressed messy kisses down your jaw, nipping at the edge like a puppy before sucking hard on your neck.

“you’re so fucking pretty,” he groaned against your throat, leaving sloppy, fevered bites like he couldn’t get enough.

“shit, pilot… c’mere,” you moaned, voice pitching at his name.

pilot shifted, moving so that his dick was pressed between your legs rather than grinding against your thigh.

his hips rolled against yours, stealing a whimper from the both of you.

“i’m so fucked,” you heard him breathe to himself.

sparks of pleasure shot up your spine as the two of you found a rhythm, your hips circling and rolling. his cock throbbed hard against you, leaking into a wet patch at the center of his boxers from the overwhelming friction.

you didn’t expect it to feel this good—just grinding against pilot’s cock through the fabric of your boxers.

pilot must not have either—the look on his face was pure ecstasy. his eyes were hazy, his brows pitched together and it almost looked like he could cry.

“mmh—mm…” you gasped.

pilot choked out a pained groan into the crook of your neck, his hands gripping hard onto your hips. “yeah, ah, like that. jus’ like that..”

he started to move your hips for you, helping tilt your hips up and down, rolling against his in just the right way.

“fuck, pi,” you moaned, feeling his cock throb against you.

“we keep this up, ‘m gonna..” he choked out, his hips bucking up to meet yours.

the tent in his boxers was so damp, and you could see the sweat dripping down into his happy trail. “fuck.”

“oh yeah?” you licked up his neck, pressing a kiss just under his ear. you felt him stiffen, his control loosening fast.

“mhm—mhm.. yeah. just, fuck. keep doing that, okay..?”

pilot grabbed back onto your hips, grinding down against you harder, faster. he lost the rhythm the two of you had built up, just panting and groaning out little desperate whimpers as he rolled your hips up against him.

he struggled to hold himself up above you, his whole body practically humming like a live wire.

“i’m gonna—fuck—can i?” he panted, his cock leaking pre-cum, making a wet, sticky mess between your boxers. “please. please?”

“yeah,” you said against the shell of his ear. “yeah.”

pilot gripped your thighs hard, his mouth falling open. his eyebrows pinched together tight as if it hurt. the pleasure was almost too much, threatening to swallow him whole.

he bucked against you, deep, his hips stuttering as his whole body locked up. you watched his pretty eyes flutter and roll back into his head as he came, his face twisted in pained bliss.

“oh, fuck..! mhh—shit, mm.. mm..” he whimpered, his head dipping as he rode out his orgasm.

eventually he flopped down next to you, a panting, sticky mess. he grabbed a pillow, shoving it over his face and yelling something unintelligible.

“pfftt.. there he is,” you murmured, pulling the pillow away from him, throwing it behind you.

you grinned down at him, watching his bliss-hazy eyes slowly come back into focus.

“that was awesome,” he breathed out.

“yeah?”

“mhm..” he smiled, bunny teeth flashing. “nice that i’m not broken after all. y’know, the whole sexual confusion trip..”

“i’m just magic,” you teased. “come on—you gotta get your ass in the shower..”

pilot grimaced at the mess of his boxers, nodding at you. he scrambled up, kissing the side of your head sheepishly before standing.

“‘kay.”

he nearly finished walking out of his bedroom, before turning right back around.

“let me roll another joint first.”

you couldn’t help but smile.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

A.N i hope this was in character..!!!! im sorry this took me so long, smut is really draining for me to write for whatever reason lol. i dont feel great about this fic but if i don’t post it now i never will -_-. writing fanfics on here has become really draining for me, and i havent been proud of something ive written in a long time. i have a very skewed view of the things i write, so it’s hard for me to be confident in wat i share with u guys, and a lot of work goes into the characterization i try to achieve in my fics. im going to try to write more indulgently in the future, and i hope thats ok with u guys!!!

LOVES to sneak up on you and hug u from behind

he looveeessss a good makeout sesh. sometimes he’ll get all giddy when youre doing it and giggles in & between kisses.

^ when you first start dating, he sucks at kissing. like terrible. but he gets better and learns the things you like

so impossibly touchy

has insane mommy issues . do with that what you will

tripsits you. once you greened out and he took the best care of you, fed u, made u drink water, reassured u…. all the things

you have to remind him to take his iron pills for anemia

^ u can always tell when he hasnt.. he gets all clumsy

he pierced your eyebrow to match his, took good care of it for you

(can u tell he loves doing things for you?)

he likes blowing dandelion fuzz in your face

he LOVES when u wear his clothes. his like orange/tan jacket that he flips inside out is his go-to when ur cold. also just seeing u swagged out in his clothes makes him geek

loves to take you rollerskating, bowling, to arcades….

he holds your hand in the weirdest ways. sometimes he’ll just hold onto your pinkie while you’re walking, other times he’ll cradle one of your hands in both of his

gets all teary eyed when he has to say bye

he loves hearing you breathe when you’re sleeping, its personal and intimate in a way he can’t explain

shares all his food with you

he makes little raps about how much he loves you. he’ll be like “gimme a beat” and start rhyming like hes dr seuss

“this reminded me of yooouuuu”

if theres two of ANYTHING he has to say “thats us”

you can’t watch movies together bc he falls asleep EVERY TIME (he always says he won’t this time)

has a little camcorder that he uses to take videos/pictures of u and ur adventures

he likes putting stickers all over your face

he always asks you to push him on swings 😭

at parties and raves he ALWAYS manages to find his way to the dj and requests your favorite song

he does that thing toddlers do when they’re like “WATCH THIS” and jump off the couch

if you guys go out to eat he always fakes a proposal or says it’s your birthday to get free food

draws ugly little monster guys on u

sometimes he’ll come back from hanging out with jack literally smelling like a dog. gross but u get to shampoo his hair and clean the dirt from under his nails and get his blackheads and when ur done he looks like a princess

^insists on wearing the spa headband thingies

makes you have lightsaber battles with him in toy aisles

calls you the dumbest nicknames. if you’re being quiet he calls you “talksy” and dumb stuff like dat

burns you so many cds i know i hc this for wveryone but its CANON

You smothered the memories of the search parties and the sounds of his mother’s grief shrieking so loud it shook against your windows. You plugged your ears when Mrs. Farmer tried to tell you to stop hiding behind fear.

You floated through October like a visitor, the days getting stuck in the back of your throat. The moleskine in your back pocket had theories of what really happened to Donnie scribbled on every page.

You knew there was a part of you that simply really, really didn’t want him to be dead.

A bigger part had a feeling it was more complicated than that.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

“I think you know why I’ve arranged for us to chat today.”

You had been in in Mrs. Pomeroy’s class, thinking about where Donnie could have gone, when the door opened. Jim Cunningham called your name, led you into his shiny new office.

Cold rain breathed fog against the windows.

“No,” You snapped the elastic band against the cover of your moleskine. “I don’t.”

“Can I have a look at that?” He weaved his fingers together, leaning forward on his mahogany desk. You shrunk back into your chair.

“It’s personal.”

“Do you write about Donald? About his disappearance, earlier this month?”

You wanted to ask where he got his therapy license or his phony cult, but someone was choking you from the inside.

Rain shrieked and beat against the windowpanes.

“Nobody calls him that.”

“Listen. You’re destroying your life with these… instruments of fear. I believe you are in denial because you’re afraid to face the reality of your ego reflection, as well as what happened to Donald. You need to…”

The ceiling seemed to shrink. Maybe it was your own skull trying to implode. You just needed this man to shut up.

You pulled on the elastic of your moleskine so hard it snapped. He kept talking—chattering like a squirrel to no one listening.

You stared hard at the window, watching tears pour down the glass when—

Donnie.

The mist tried to swallow him, but it wasn’t quick enough.

He stood on the other side of the window, palm pressed into it. Still as a statue. Not even trembling from the icy rain. Looking at you. Into you.

Your heart stopped beating.

You didn’t remember standing up, knocking over the ugly leather chair you sat in. You didn’t remember scrambling to the window, screaming and reaching for the ghost boy.

Apparently Cunningham had to drag you all the way to the front office before you quit. You didn’t remember.

Thorn-covered vines must have crept across the floor while you weren’t looking, crackling like a bonfire and swallowing you whole.

After a stern talking-to about acceptance and grief and shutting-up, the principal sent you home.

“Happy Halloween. Take it easy, alright?”

You shrugged. You didn’t even have a costume picked out.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Your bed was much better than school and all of the sneaky witches and imps that haunted it. Soft, safe, sleepy.

The cold soaked through your window and swirled like magic around your head. You didn’t remember opening your moleskine or starting to flip through it.

Runaway. Time travel. Alien abduction. Dream. Kidnapped.

The most fantastical reasons for Donnie’s disappearance didn't seem so outlandish anymore. It felt like your head had floated out the window, down the road and up, up, up into Neverland.

Maybe that’s where Donnie was. You wrote that down, too.

Your fingers moved on their own, brushing one of the old sketches you’d made of him while he wasn’t looking. Smudged graphite, the curve of his jawline, the messy hair that refused to stay down unless it was your hands brushing it back.

You thought about all the things you would give to see him, one more time. What you would do just to breathe him in.

You stared at his graphite eyes until you remembered you actually had plans.

Joanie James, a girl in your science class, had invited you to a Halloween party earlier that day.

Right before you got into your car, she pounced.

“Hey, you. Um… here. We’d like it if you came.” She said. She dropped an orange envelope into your driver’s seat.

“We?” You asked, shoving your backpack into the backseat.

It was clear you weren’t expecting company; your car was a mess.

“You know, Sean and Ronald. Donnie’s friends.”

“I haven’t talked to them since…” Before everything. Even then, you didn’t hang around them much.

Donnie had always acted differently with them. He turned into a plastic kind of tough and didn’t like when you saw right through it.

“…Well, just think about it, kay? I’m gonna be late for calculus.”

And then she was gone.

You figured it was out of pity; the last minute invite to get one more attendee. But now that your best friend had vanished and you effectively isolated your way out of a social life, a party invite was more than you deserved.

Maybe it was a grand gesture from the universe, or the big man in the sky, telling you to get drunk and eat candy until your teeth rot. Maybe you missed Donnie so much it was driving you crazy.

Maybe it really was just a pity invite.

Either way, the sun was going to set soon. You had to get ready.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

You couldn't look in the mirror the whole time; your reflection looked like someone else wearing your skin. You threw on Donnie’s old flannel—the one he left in your car last spring after it rained—and called it good enough. It still smelled like him.

The roads bled light through the mist as you walked. Every house you passed glowed faintly orange, full of plastic ghosts and paper bats.

For a second, you almost turned back.

But then the wind shifted. Cold and metallic, petrichor. Like rain before it hits. Like him.

The party was at Sean’s house, all cheap strobe lights and shrouded in the fog machine’s coughed-up smoke. Teenagers moved like shadows in the flashing dark, faces smudged by Halloween makeup and spilled beer.

You lasted maybe half an hour. Long enough to drink something sweet and stinging. Long enough to see Sean in the kitchen, his arm around Joanie’s waist. His grin kicked up in a way that twisted something inside you. It wasn’t anything in particular—it was all just too much. You shouldn’t have come.

You went outside before you could cry in front of anyone.

You didn’t know why you were crying. Sometimes everything just shrink-wrapped around your head until you burst.

The night opened up around you like a wound. The sky had had started to cry again.

Rain soaked through your shirt and Donnie’s flannel in seconds. You sat down on the curb, hands shaking, hair plastered to your forehead.

Everything you’d been trying not to feel hit you all at once—Donnie’s disappearance, the pity, the loneliness.

You sobbed like the sky was coming down with you. Maybe it was. The night was the color of the bruise—the way you imagined it could look if the world was ending.

Maybe it was.

The streetlight above you flickered once, twice, and popped into burnt sugar.

The party noise had thinned into dull bass and laughter, a different planet from the one you were on.

Something shifted in the far end of the street—just a flicker, a darker shadow inside the dark.

Then he was there.

Donnie.

He walked barefoot through the rain, but the water didn’t seem to touch him. It slid off his hair like silver.

No steam slipped out into the dark, no breath fogged the air.

When he reached you, you felt it first—cold.

Not the icyblack chill of the night, but the cold of something that shouldn’t have been moving at all.

You had to have been dreaming.

You waited for him to disappear, but he only grew closer.

He crouched down, wordless, and draped his jacket over your trembling shoulders. You could smell the faint, metallic sweetness beneath the wet denim. It wasn’t rust.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he murmured.

His voice carried that hollow hum you’d only ever heard through a microphone.

You looked up at him. His eyes caught the light from a passing car—glowed, just for a second, the color of spilled wine.

“You’re freezing,” you breathed. Your head was swimming.

“No,” he answered. “Not… anymore.”

He tried to smile that crooked grin, but there was nothing human behind it, so he quit.

He almost looked nervous—he had the same boyish anxiety you used to catch shimmering behind his eyes. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

His lips were pale, the corners darkened with something the rain couldn’t wash away.

He reached for you, hesitated.

“You… you shouldn’t be out here. Not like this.”

“Neither should you,” you whispered fervently. “You—you’re supposed to be—”

“Dead?” The word curled out of him like smoke. “Almost.”

He smiled then, slow and thin, and lightning cracked open the sky behind him. The flash caught in his teeth—too sharp, too white. For a heartbeat you saw what the rain was trying to hide.

Long, clean points where his canines should’ve ended. Shiny white bone. Impossibly sharp.

Then the light died, and he was just Donnie again.

Only he wasn’t.

“I… um—I missed you,” he said.

Whatever had changed about him, he still had that awkward teenage boy-ness.

When he reached out slowly, touching your throat to push a strand of wet hair aside, your pulse jumped under his thumb.

His eyes flashed like he could feel it. He jerked his hand away like it stung something awful.

“Come on,” he whispered, his voice thick. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”

He offered his hand, cold and slow and steady. When you took it, the chill traveled up your arm, through your spine, nestled between your vertebrae, and stayed there.

It never quite left.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

He led you down the empty street, water running in silver rivers around your shoes.

An old bus shelter waited at the end of the block, its glass walls fogged and streaked. He guided you inside, hands gentle at your elbows, and you realised the cold had left you the moment he’d touched you.

His palm was still chilled, but the air around him felt warmer, like the night itself bent closer.

He sat opposite you on the narrow bench. The streetlight caught the planes of his face—the same, and not the same. The eyes too bright, the skin too pale, the color of marble under water.

“They all think I’m dead,” he said. “You too?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Good.”

His mouth curved, but the smile never reached his eyes. He looked down at your wrist, where the rain had washed your skin clean and left the veins blue. You saw his throat move, one small swallow. He seemed to tense and un-tense.

“You don’t feel it?” he asked quietly.

“Feel what?”

“Everything humming. Moving. Breathing.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t; the air felt charged, thin. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, until you could feel his breath on your cheek—cool, dry, and a little sweet, like dust and iron.

He leaned closer before catching himself.

“I tried to stay away,” he gasped. “I can’t—I… It’s different now. I’m different.”

Lightning flickered again, and for a heartbeat the world turned white.

In that flash you saw the truth written in his face—the fangs, small and perfect; the eyes reflecting no light but their own.

You should have been afraid. You weren’t.

“What happened to you?” you whispered.

“I don’t know what to call it,” he said. “Something between living and not. I didn’t mean for you to see me.”

“But you came back.”

“Because you kept calling.”

He reached out, knuckles brushing your jaw. The touch left a trail of cold that burned a little, pleasant and wrong all at once.

You tilted toward it before you could stop yourself.

He caught your hesitation in the corner of his mouth. He smiled despite himself—his grin kicked up in that perfect way.

“You still don’t believe in monsters?” he asked.

“Maybe I do now.”

The rain thinned to a whisper. You could hear the small, steady sound of his breath finally returning, like he’d been holding it for months.

His forehead touched yours, cold. For a moment there was only your pulse beating for the two of you, the faint brush of lips that never quite met.

Then the light from a passing car broke across the glass, and he drew back, eyes closed, as though it hurt.

It was like he couldnt quite find the balance between human and not.

He choked out a whisper of something you couldn’t catch, something that sounded like your name.

When he opened his eyes again, they were soft again. Human. Donnie.

“You should—you need to go home.” he choked. “Before… before I forget why I shouldn’t stay.”

The night held its breath around you. Donnie’s hand slowly found yours, squeezed. His fingers curled up around your wrist, slowly bringing it up to his mouth.

“Donnie…” you breathed, watching his lips move over your wristbone.

He didn’t kiss. Didn't bite. Just held it there, his eyes fluttering shut. He inhaled slow, deep. Breathing you in.

“I don’t want to go,” you said again. “I won’t.”

“You’ll end up like me.”

He said it like a confession, or a curse. You didn’t know which.

He said it like his throat burned with hatred, only for himself.

The rain outside had thinned to mist, and in that small hush, his breath trembled against your skin—cool and wrong and familiar all at once.

You reached for him anyway, fingertips brushing the collar of his jacket, tracing the pulse he no longer had.

He flinched like your touch burned him. “You shouldn’t. Shouldn’t love me.”

“I already do.”

Something broke behind his eyes then—something small and permanent. He caught your face between his hands, cold palms framing you like glass.

His mouth found yours in the dark, slow at first, then desperate, as if the world were ending again and he was trying to memorize it this time.

He kissed you like he was drowning. His hands trace down to just below your ears, feeling the heat in the soft gratitude of your neck. Then to your back, cradling you, crushing you against his chest.

“Oh, God…”

For a moment, it was almost enough.

For a moment, you could almost believe he was really alive.

Then he tore himself back again, like the air itself had become dangerous. Rain pooled in his hair and on his lashes, but he didn’t seem to notice. Need glittered in his eyes, pained and useless.

His eyes glowed faintly in the dark—too bright, too hungry, too far gone.

“You have to forget me,” he whispered. “You have to wake up.”

You didn’t understand until his thumb brushed your throat again—barely controlled, reverent—and the world around you slowed, sound dimming until you could hear only your heartbeat, wild and terrified and alive.

He leaned close, mouth just at your ear. “If I stay, I’ll take it from you. All of it.”

“Then take it,” you breathed.

He smiled at that; small, tragic, almost human. Like he wanted to.

Then he stood, the movement too quick, too fluid, the way shadows move when no one’s looking.

By the time you blinked, he was already halfway down the street, rain curving around him instead of falling on him. He didn’t look back.

You called after him anyway, but your voice was swallowed by the storm.

Just before the dark took him completely, he turned—just once—and for the briefest moment, the streetlights bent toward him, shimmering and white, like the universe itself couldn’t decide whether or not to let him go.

Then he was gone.

You stood there until the rain stopped, his jacket slipping from your shoulders, heavy with petrichor and memory.

Somewhere, in the space between thunder and silence, you thought you heard him again—

“Maybe somewhere, I don’t lose you.”

When you finally opened your moleskine the next morning, your handwriting ended halfway through a sentence. And below it, a single line, scrawled in ink too dark to be yours:

We were never meant to survive this universe together.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The morning came pale and thin, like the world hadn’t quite decided to exist again. You woke to sunlight crawling across the floorboards, your hair still damp, the jacket folded neatly over the foot of your bed.

It didn’t smell like rain anymore. It smelled like dust and metal, like the old summer roads you used to bike down together.

You ran your thumb over the ink on that last page until it smudged, but no matter how long you stared, you couldn’t remember writing it. You couldn’t remember walking home, either.

Outside, the leaves scratched and whispered low against the pavement, their edges curling like burnt paper.

You told yourself you imagined it.

You told yourself he was gone.

But when you opened the window, the cold drifted in again—soft, deliberate—and for just a moment, you swore you heard him breathe.

“Come back..” you breathed—begged.

“One more night. Please.”