shed your knuckle velvet

Intimacy with Kevin is very direct. You always know when it’s coming, and your breath always catches in your throat. He signals it with a lot of physical contact: the back of his hand ghosting your neck, collarbone, any sliver of skin. Kevin isn’t a stranger to desire, though they’re usually more darker and violent things, he doesn’t require sexual desire.

It makes him feel something. Like he’s alive. Physically, but during such times with you even emotionally. This doesn’t stop him from seeming like a ghost outside of his own body, but don’t be alarmed, he doesn’t disassociate. He’s entirely focused.

Your expression is forever etched in his lids, and unnervingly, he doesn’t close his eyes. His ministrations are borderline cruel, always. His fingers will chase, mouth following, and weight pressed against your own in an attempt to enmesh you to him, like an unbreakable chain. It’s possessive, and oftentimes enough to make you feel as though he wants to eat you whole.

It’s intense as well, and in his head he knows that you’d never go to anyone else for sex. Not when he can drive you to tears. That’s another thing he won’t admit.

He’s very much so into dacryphilia and degradation. Tears have always fascinated him, in or outside the bedroom. He can’t cry. He hadn’t since he was a child, but you, you cry so easily. You can cry like breathing. What else can make you cry?

Whether seamless pleasure or his biting tongue, he likes seeing you broken down. Something about the messiness, your pathetic shaking, he can’t stop himself from enjoying it. It’s a heaviness in his chest that buzzes, tingling to the rest of his body — it’s entirely sadistic.

“You’re squirming like some bug. Does this seriously get you off?”

“Have some decency. You’re so fucking loud, it’s grating.”

“If you can’t use your words, I’m stopping. Why can’t you speak? Are you dumb?”

Don’t think that crying will get you any leniency, though. If anything he’s meaner. It’d be worse if you tried not to cry or make a sound, and Kevin hates the idea of you hiding away from him.

He wants you completely bare in front of him. Emotionally and otherwise, and if you bite your lip to stop noises he’ll be downright brutal. Too much, too quick, too anything. He needs that reaction. Surprisingly, he’ll listen oftentimes, but if you’re willing he’ll pick apart your body to put you back together.

He’ll test the limits of what you can handle. He’s a fast learner as well, and so pace-setting, mouth movements, it’s all like flowing water to him. He knows what ticks you off, and he finds new things each time. A hand lightly on your neck, a flash of fear, a squeeze.

Kevin may unnerve you occasionally, but that underlying fear is something he plays with. When he realizes it can get you off, he makes you regret ever showing him that you like it sometimes. He may introduce other things that require your trust like that if the situation arises naturally, and yet he’ll make it seem like your idea.

“You’re sick, you know that?”

It amuses him to no end, and any shame you may feel will be unabashedly teased and probed at by him. You’re into something like that? Do you hear what your mouth is saying? You’re filthy. Despite him doing worse and saying worse, he can somehow make himself seem cleansed of this. He’ll always seem above his own dirtiness he’s partaking in.

Your pleasure is still a lesser priority than his whims despite this though, and his all-encompassing desire is to break you. If he can’t do it through violence, through his anger, he can morph this sickening feeling into something else. He can safely make you cry without driving you away.

Somehow though, this desire can still be unexplored to him. It’s all an act of trust to him. You trust him bare, crevices and dips for him to sink his fingers and teeth into, and he trusts you (if it can be called that) to touch him.

He might clench his jaw if you brush your teeth against his neck and ear, and you’d know immediately it’s a sensitive area for him. He likes his hair messed with, tugged maybe, but too harshly and he’ll bite you harder. His desire is something deeply-seated and only unveiled in these moments to you, just as his true nature is closed off to those around him.

Kevin is a sight above you. Sweat ghosting his forehead, dark locks beautifully blanketing your own face — it’s entrancing. He’ll allow you to hug him close in these moments before you finish, despite the obsessive need to watch your every facial twitch, if only because he’s just as ruined and out of it.

It was a stupid thing.

Kevin had never done anything stupid in his life, and he never intended to. Everything was set how he wanted them to be, everybody as empty-brained or clueless. His every slight of hand had never once been unprecedented by him, though he might seem impulsive and mercurial to others.

So why did he find himself with the urge to simply stop speaking? Why did he feel the need to stop moving altogether?

The words flowed freely from his mouth, tongue unabashedly bitter and spiteful. The pocket knife he had in his hand gripped tight. He had taken to fiddling with it recently after you gifted it to him a while back, even though he told you he’d throw it away if you bought him anything.

He didn’t, of course, despite himself. He didn’t like or want to learn to use anything beside his bow, but its intricacy was… nice to look at.

It took him a while to accept gifts, and for a while he truly did throw some of them away. At some point, you bought them just for the sake of presenting it to him, but at a later point you’d see smaller trinkets still in his room. It made the area surprisingly lively despite how dead Kevin lived.

“Are you calling me a liar now?”

You were seated on his bed (one that was perpetually blank, devoid of personality), cross-legged and emotionally despondent. It’d been a long day, your whole being exhausted with the notion of there being a next. You agreed to grab a coffee with a friend that morning.

It was a bad idea.

You didn’t tell Kevin, forgetting to let him know. Usually he wasn’t so… abrasive when it came to your friends, though he didn’t like them. He knew that they were your friends, and having that approval of seeming like the perfect boyfriend amused him. It was almost funny seeing them fall headfirst into his boy next door persona. You even watched him help a female friend of yours, as if he was wrapping the facade with a bow; kind, charming, tall, wow, you have the whole package don’t you?

It was a little secret for him and you to keep.

So why was he so goddamn irked? You usually had more patience with Kevin, more love to give him. It was just difficult when you hadn’t seen each other in a while. Kevin periodically pulled away from you, like clockwork after being emotionally vulnerable or intimate he would stop coming over unannounced. You found him undeniably alluring despite this. Damn you for coming back to him, but you’d be more damned if you didn’t.

“No,” you answered, “you saw me, yes, but he’s not in love with me.”

In a quick motion, Kevin seated himself in front of you on his bed. “You’re calling me a liar. I know what I saw.”

“What did you see, Kevin?” you murmured, eyes flickering tiredly from his face to his hands, knuckle-white from his vice on the pocket knife.

“I saw him pathetically jabbering at your fucking feet, trying to get even a glimpse of your affection.” That your sounded awfully like mine. Kevin’s pretty face barely scrunched at the acidity of his tone, but somehow his darkened eyes and harshly clenched jaw made your breath quicken.

Flick. Blade in, blade out.

"He didn't mean anything, he was just paying for me," you stated. You forgot your wallet and it was a small gesture.

"He was drooling." It made you wince to even hear it. Its sheer harshness was grating. It convinced you he could do something horrible, even if it wasn't directed toward you.

Flick. In and out. The pocket knife kept flicking, and you followed its movements instead of Kevin's face. Faster, and faster.

He'd done infinitely worse before. Kevin could make people do things they had no intention of doing before. You saw how his laced words could make men and women unintentionally doom themselves, and it wasn't unknown to you that you were just as susceptible. You were probably the most susceptible to him, really. It was hard resisting someone like him, and harder to escape him when he didn't want you to. Though want was a strong word to use for him. He never wanted anything, but the closest he ever felt it was the ache that thrummed silently around you.

His eyes were compelling, magnetic, like a honey trap. They were brooding even now, eyebrows drawn together and anger boiling over. It was like walking into a bear trap knowing you'd be caught, ankle clasped in an excruciating vice that wouldn't ever let up. Flick. Flick.

He'd never dirty his own hands. Never felt the need to. Urges came in waves and feelings dull enough to sink beneath his impenetrable skin. So why, why, why was this scaring you? Faster, faster. It was antagonizing.

You knew he could — had done worse. This is assuming he'd do anything to you. Oftentimes you cared for him even though the barely there danger was forever present. It danced under your skin: fear. It came to the surface in this present moment only. His knees were touching yours, and you couldn't keep your eyes glued anywhere but the damn knife you gifted him. It was him and you, your back to the wall. Cornered. Something shaky escaped your lips.

"Kev, Kevin — you're scaring me." Flick. Inward. Out. You hadn't expected him to listen to you, not really, only because he'd purposefully barely miss your face when practicing archery. It'd graze you like his breath. These things would shake you, but only so much. This was much less dangerous in comparison. It was the simple deadness in his eyes that was different.

Everything he had done was for his own whims, his own nature of being himself. This was motivated by you, and you only. Whatever he could or would do... it'd be worse. Sickeningly so.

"Kevin," you tried again, quieter, disconcerted. His alluring face never let up, jaw tense and chest heavy.

He didn't move once to the sound of his name. Not a twitch or a sign of life. It was disturbing. Kevin had always disturbed you, but it ceased to something muted most of the time. It also attracted you. This was different. This felt like a mutilation of those previous times he’d subtly scare you, it felt like he could do something heinous, and you were all too aware of being secluded in his room. Blinds closed. Parents and sibling gone. Alone. Just him, only him.

You’d never been scared at the possibility of being alone in his room before. He was a man, sure, but he was Kevin. Flashes of darker impulses, of your neck, of yourself bleeding flashed through your head. His aim had always been particularly good.

It was definitely stupid. It was you being reduced to your baser instincts of survival, and it was worse to say that Kevin had triggered it.

Out. In a desperate, quick motion you attempted to slowly grab his wrist, but the speed of his movements caused the blade to come in contact with your palm instead. In. Finally, he stopped. You had a grip on the blade instead of his hand, and red droplets of your blood fell onto his clean sheets. They were perpetually and unnaturally clean, always. You were the first to stain them.

The air felt stagnant before the tension filtered away, and Kevin deftly made you let up before flicking the knife inward. A flash of something danced across his features. It was concealed surprise, and a twitch of his eyebrows upwards. Not amusement, something worse.

He grabbed your wrist, motions ever non-gentle, and made you open your fingers. The line wasn't shallow, but still stung. The way he looked at it made you feel relieved. "You're stupid," he said, voice light. His tone showed no concern. "I just sharpened it."

He liked it enough to sharpen it? It was an engraved and lovely thing, something seemingly delicate and unlike him. Of everything he threw away you expected it to be a part of them. “That's surprising," you murmured.

"Stand up."

You pursed your lips and followed him silently, clutching your wrist to keep the stinging at bay. He led you to the bathroom, rummaging around in the overhead cupboard before pulling something out. In his hand was a med-kit from their bathroom that was most frequently used when Celia was younger, and otherwise hadn't been touched since Kevin mastered archery.

He placed it on the counter before turning you around by your shoulders, making you face yourself and him in the mirror. Mussed hair, confused expression. Tired. Kevin looked like his usual self, though his eyes were trained solely on you, and that had your heart thrumming against your ribcage. He stood behind you, enveloping his hand in yours as he turned on water to wash the cut.

His larger, calloused palms from years of practice felt rough against your own. Lithe fingers slipped in between the crevices of yours, the red marbling against the white sink. It entranced you slightly. You were all too aware of the heat radiating off his body behind you. Intimacy like this was unexpected from him, at least the kinder, softer kind. It was too domestic. Too loving for someone like him. It was also all based on him and when he wanted to give it.

Kevin grabbed your sides, and the smallest yelp escaped your mouth in surprise. It wasn't until he sat you down on the counter that you closed your agape lips at his actions. He was closer than before, the small bathroom feeling infinitely smaller, and the both of you being more intimately intertwined.

"Open," he demanded, though there was no usual assuredness. It was monotone but somehow bared, like a vivisection on a table. It was vulnerable. You splayed your palm for him like an animal on its back.

He'd usually like the fact that you felt some sort of fear mixed with attraction for him, like you were toeing the line with danger unknowingly. Of course, you weren't, you wholeheartedly cared for him whether or not he gave you that thrilling risk. This thought made his ministrations slower, more deliberate. Careful and care-filled. His dark eyes were focused on your palm, eyes narrowed as he dried off your hands, wiping softly as though they were entirely fractured instead.

He opened antiseptic that hadn't been used in ages, competence and dexterity in his motions. It was odd being cared for by him. Odder with how willing you were to accept it. He patted the wound with a cotton pad, the stinging of the wound dampened by his intensity and closeness. A breath escaped his lips, tickling your skin lightly.

The wound itself pricked ever so slightly, barely there, pulsing silently like a heartbeat. It was in sync with your off-kiltered breathing, and its intimacy was grueling for your psyche. Cruel, even.

After he bandaged you, he lingered, hands clutching your own. You were close enough to curl your fingers and brush his hair out of his eyes. It was a simple action, altogether lovely. He allowed it with a small flutter of his eyes.

"I don't like him," he said finally, as though he was trying to say something, anything. "He wants you."

"I don't think so," you muttered, "but I'll tell him to lay off a bit. He's still my friend."

"Hm."

It was a quiet hum, like an unfinished conversation he'd store off to get back to. He'd make you realize that friend of yours liked you soon enough, but for now he was content with your acknowledgement. He was content altogether, the subtle stirring in his stomach halting. It made him feel sick earlier.

You made him feel sick.

It unsettled him when he hurt you in some manner, intentional or not. Usually it didn't matter, and the teasing breeze of an arrow near your face meant little to him. It was entirely full of trust. This was different, and he couldn't help himself from leaning toward your outstretched hand, head cocked and bent toward you like a flower in the wind.

Images occasionally flashed through his head. A bigger wound, your blood soaking his sheets entirely. He found himself not liking them. Your warmth was something he sought out more than he thought. It both disgusted and intrigued him.

And he’d never utter the words, but the knife reminded him of you. Your resilience despite how difficult he was. Your intricacy. Its wholeness was a reminder that you cared for him, and he, just slightly, was compelled to do the same for you.

When you left his house he washed the sheets but left the blade untouched. Some of your blood had seeped in its engravings, and he could only stare at its deeply rooted lines before closing it again. Flick.

Kevin, for all intents and purposes, is like a cat.

This is not said to demean his true nature in any sense. You’ve seen firsthand the cruelty he can display with a brush of his finger, you’ve heard the things whispered along the walls of his home. You’ve spoken with Eva.

It was after your first dinner at the Khatchadourian household as his significant other. It felt more like a flimsy label sticker stuck on a can, but it was still a label rather than a sly tilt of the head — which, not surprisingly, was what you were met with in the first few months you hung around Kevin. Whenever you asked any variation of, “What are we?” it was faced with silence, a cock of the eyebrow, and then him ignoring you.

You came a long way.

After dinner you offered to help Eva with the dishes, and she politely declined before smiling and agreeing. It was awkward. Being alone with Eva in every sense of the word was just… awkward. It seemed as though she never wrapped her head around the fact that you stayed, and you weren’t going anywhere.

You placed a cup on the drying rack, making light conversation with her before she broke the lightheartedness abruptly.

“Does he… ah, Kevin — does he hurt you?”

It was uttered quick, in a short burst as though he could walk in any second and catch her. It felt surreal. You noted immediately that her eyes darted wildly from your face and the bruise you acquired from hitting your arm too hard on a railing.

“You can tell me. I can help, really —“

“No,” you interjected politely, blinking the shock out of your face. “No he doesn’t. I… yeah, he doesn’t. I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry it’s not what you’re looking for.

She deflated immediately. Maybe she was trying to find consolation in the fact that his cruelty was something evident to others, bared to others like it was to her. Still, you couldn’t lie to her. He never hurt you. Sometimes emotionally he drove you insane, but physically he never hurt you in a way that screamed imminent death. Sure, he could grip your wrist a bit too tight, but that was nothing.

Kevin is like a cat.

When you went upstairs that night after awkwardly drying off the dishes with Eva, he was already waiting for you at the top of the stairs. Not a creaking wooden step was heard as he stood unnervingly still, like an apparition waiting for you to make the first movie. You gave him a light smile, a cautious and confused one. He simply pivoted on his heel, leaving to his room. Follow me, the silence said.

And follow you did.

His room was starkly blank, with nothing of interest but his bow and himself. It smelt of linen, and mornings of sun, but right then it smelt of nothing but Kevin. He had taken it upon himself to wear a white button up to dinner, a new development which left your mind reeling. Seriously, if his pale skin and lithe form weren’t emphasized before, the button up simply made him look angelic.

A deceiving sort of angelic, though. It was an uncomfortable sort of normalcy that he didn’t often display, and despite how lovely he looked in his all too-tight shirts, the looseness of the fabric made him look… soft. The exact opposite of what he was. The inky mess on his head only furthered this notion of softness, of, well, normal. He was a normal boyfriend, you could tell yourself.

He sat on the edge of his bed, and you trailed after him like a curious animal, hoping to be met with affection rather than harm. You told the truth to Eva, he never hurt you physically, but his mannerisms set off your base instincts as though he could. It was the possibility.

You stopped right in front of him and he looked up at you through his tussled locks, startlingly long lashes accentuating the darkness of his eyes. “What did she say?” he asked, though it was more like a statement than an inquiry. It was though he already knew.

“Nothing,” you murmured, soft. Soft, soft, soft.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You quirked the smallest smile, because his tone itself was intimidating enough for you to fold under the pressure. If you listened closely, you could’ve heard his heart dancing wildly under his skin, and his breathing catching for some reason. This some unknown and sanctified reason was, perhaps, you. He didn’t attempt to distinguish this, as if he did then he would truly be gone.

“I meant nothing that I could answer,” you reiterated, “nothing that could make me leave.”

Briefly, his intense eye contact broke, and he glanced down at the rest of you standing before him before blank eyes returned to your face. You tilted your head at this, as he was never one to randomly break eye contact, and nonetheless to return it afterward. It was either you had his attention or you didn’t. That was another reason why he was like a cat, you supposed.

In an instant, in a split second of thought, he gripped your waist, finding heavy purchase on the sides to pull you closer. You blinked, a small noise escaping your mouth in shock, your knee resting between his legs in an awkward fashion to not fall fully on him. He always got a little… odd when it came to his mother, and yet never was he touchy. There wasn’t a reason to comfort him when the oddness came in droves and mainly in the form of unfathomable anger.

His hands were large, fingers inching to dig into the flesh of your skin. Despite these urges, to dig as he pleased and not care of your cries, something stopped him. It was almost thankfulness, almost a twisted form of relief that Eva couldn’t make you run out the door screaming. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, the twinge so small that it couldn’t really be deemed feeling.

Other than sharing this with you, he hummed. It was a minuscule confirmation. “I heard what she asked,” he said, eyes looking up at you, grip firm. “She’s stupid to think that.”

Yes, stupid.

You smiled, your own hands finding loose comfort over his own. His purchase didn’t let up, and somehow his jaw set even firmer. “You don’t hurt me,” you answered. “I think you could, but you don’t.”

It was frighteningly bold of you to say this, as he could prove you wrong right then, though he wouldn’t. He could take it as a challenge, though he chose not to. It lit a small fire in Kevin, an annoyance that you were right yet no want to prove you wrong. It was uncannily unlike him.

“You’re stupid to think that.” There was no typical amusement in his voice. It was another statement, like he knew something you didn’t.

Yes, you were also stupid. Though you were still right, and Kevin instead did nothing to refute this other than a weak verbal rebuttal. He roamed your form once again, eyes crossing your collarbones, your shirt slightly lifting to show skin, and finally landing on the unmistakable bruise Eva thought was Kevin’s doing.

Without warning, he let up one of his hands to grip your elbow below the bruise, and you almost thought that yes, you were stupid to think that before his lips met it. It was a light, awkward thing he had to bend his neck for. It was way too soft to be his lips, way too soft to be him. In a fashion that was still himself though, you felt him smirk against the tender flesh as though he knew your brief fear.

You couldn’t lie and say that there wasn’t a staggering hint of terror that gripped your heart. There wasn’t a need a lie, it washed over your face. There wasn’t anything to be afraid of either, but it was the same fear and sense of accomplishment one would receive when a feral animal accepts food from their hand; it was unbelievable, something you could rave about in your head for months.

Despite the awkwardness of the position, Kevin was able to look graceful. His lips met it in a way that they would before taking a bite out of an apple, or perhaps a bruised peach or plum in this situation. Your base instincts told you he would sink his teeth into the skin, dig his fingers and nails into the darkened pit for nothing other than to hear you squeak. He did neither, and your instincts were wrong again. He kissed it once more. And again. And again. Each time a different angle, a different tilt of the head. Each time feather light, without pressure, like a ghost of lips to tantalize your flesh.

Finally, he let go, eyes still zoned in on that bruise as though he was thankful for it. It was a large thing, taking up a good amount of space on your inner arm as you had rammed front-first into railing on a crowded Friday. Kevin didn’t ask how you got it. You thought that aspect probably didn’t matter to him, it was just the fact that it was there.

It was also an ugly thing, growing yellow and purple and dark enough to be questioned in the first place. Despite its ugliness, it was being worshipped in that moment for a reason you couldn’t surmise.

Kevin’s dark eyes met yours again, lips still parted and breath escaping like stolen air. Your air, as you couldn’t believe what he just did. The inky blackness of his eyes under stern eyebrows roamed your face, your expression, tickling your skin with every trace over. If you didn’t know any better you would’ve assumed he wanted to engrave your every micro-expression to his memory.

In a singular moment, he pulled you forward, his back hitting the bed and taking you with him in a soft thud.

HOW IT STARTS

Truly, you believed he hated you. Why else would he stare as though he was trying to telekinetically explode your head? It’s a wonder how you even started hanging around him. It wasn’t necessarily out of your own volition, really, as you were just the Khatchadourians’ neighbor tutoring and hanging out with Celia in exchange for your sibling receiving archery lessons.

You grew up practically adjacent to Eva’s household, so it was just a small, kind gesture you’d do when you visited from college. You remembered that weary, worn down visage of hers from your childhood and let it pull at your heartstrings. You were sensitive, and perhaps that’s what drew him in.

You were watching a kid’s movie with Celia, and unbeknownst to you: Kevin was eyeing you.

He wasn’t usually home, off in his room when he wasn’t attending his own classes. Quiet. Off-putting as he would taper down the creaking steps, barely acknowledging your presence before leaving. Usually he’d grab an apple, glance over you as if you were nothing but air.

It was intriguing to you. Kevin had always been intriguing to you. He was unnaturally, uncannily pretty. Like a bust set on display within his own modern-century home, you couldn’t touch or manage to decipher him. It was embarrassing to say he had been the face of several boyfriends in your silly teenage dreams.

It was pure happenstance as he came down just in time to watch as you hiccuped during the movie, tears streaming down your face. Celia was long-gone off in dreamland on the couch.

It wasn’t enthrallment that Kevin felt. It wasn’t even want. It was a sick, morbid curiosity. Celia, despite her humanity, wasn’t entertaining to Kevin anymore. Not as she was when she was eight and entirely naïve, cut bare in her love for her big brother.

You gave him something new. He halted in his steps. For the first time in simply years, you heard Kevin speak to you.

“Stay a little bit longer.”

Through your own bewilderment, you agreed. Kevin had no reason to continue his sweet, loving son act. Not really. Still, he smiled something that could only be described as honey. It was drenched in a sickening sweetness, something with a bite. A bit of blood in his teeth.

He took you archery shooting. It was way past the acceptable time for you to be in the Khatchadourian household, and yet you stayed. Fly wrapped in silk. Bug to be eaten, saved for later.

It felt magical to be the center of Kevin Khatchadourian’s attention. In school he was a little misunderstood and disconcerting, but nothing truly horrific happened. It was that same quietness he displayed that made him so elusive, so lovely to you.

He displayed amazing skill when it came to archery, a terrifying mastery. You only chuckled nervously when it whizzed past you, making your hair stand on end and fingers clench.

“I’m sorry,” he said, yet it was low, accompanied by eyes that seemed anything but apologetic. “You should really stand on the side, I must’ve overshot it.”

HOW HE IS IN THE BEGINNING

As you continued staying longer, mutual exchange forgotten, he grew more and more expressionless. The most he would usher you was a glance under firm eyebrows, a wry little twitch of lips when you did something particularly amusing. You felt like a piece of brain tissue on a petri dish.

Kevin was actually scarily kind to your sibling and family though. It was like a flip-switch: he went from helping your mother with carrying dinner to silently staring at you, trying to pick apart your body, all smiles and good-boy mirth gone from his eyes. Most of the time, he fiddled with his technology as you did your own thing. Reading? He’d be clicking away, his incessant typing as your white noise. Crochet? Doing it outside as he practiced archery. Talking? He’d stare to let you know he’s listening.

Unfortunately, this still left you neglected. Initiating physicality was on his own terms, and you’d get a quick look before being brushed off if he wasn’t into it. Speaking about your troubles with him is met with silence. At the beginning, it was even met with slight condescension and mockery. One step forward? It didn’t matter, Kevin himself was never going to be able to fulfill all of your needs.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t have other friends. Most of them didn’t know Kevin. If they did, they didn’t speak of him to you; speaking of him made you jittery, a little doe-eyed, but you always spoke of him fondly. They could never understand why.

Kevin knew all your friends. You were at a house party, introducing them with a blinding grin on your face. He disliked them. If there was one thing he held other than apathy, other than wanting to feel more than he’s capable of, it was the need to harbor your attention. You were his only source of anything. You were clearly fond of him, no matter how strange or unnerving he showed to be. You talked seamlessly and mindlessly about your interests. He knew sunsets were pretty, but because he saw them through you. He knew what cafés were the best, what to get his mother for a gift when Frank pressured him to.

In the same breath, Kevin resented and found himself thinking often on that part of you. There wasn’t a way he could name it, but the feeling was dull. It stung a bit, hearing you speak about anything outside of his reach. He liked the sting somedays: it was proof he felt. Other than his heart thrumming in his ears, he felt something other than disdain and unadulterated anger.

He hated feeling jealousy, though.

It was quiet like the rest of him. Your friend, Matt, kept pushing. It was becoming sickeningly obvious that he thought of you more than a friend, and yet whether it be your own denseness or the fact that you’d known Matt since forever, you didn’t stop him. Not the meaningless touches on your arm, not the compliments on things only Kevin thought he’d noticed about you. Sick. Sick. It was that old, juvenile anger he felt spike again.

There was a barely there acknowledgement of the fact that you were attractive. He found you attractive even faintly. Then, there was the notion of your attractiveness shoved in his face. Others found you attractive.

His family already assumed you were dating. You hung around too often for them to not believe so. Your friends? They didn’t know. Before this, Kevin didn’t necessarily care whether or not you were called his significant other or the person he kept around. It was only then where he realized the perks of you being his: no Matt.

It was impulsive. He kissed you. It was under the porch light after Matt hugged you goodbye, and as he started to pull out of the driveway Kevin ducked in for the kill. It was impulsive, a bit too strong, and left you lightheaded like you drank more than you should’ve. Being with Kevin was like being an alcoholic.

There was an emptiness in his eyes as he pulled away. He didn’t even hold your cheek, he simply ducked forward. You felt… odd. Confused and a bit embarrassed that you let him do that simply for his own whim. What you didn’t see were the indents of Kevin’s fingers in the cup he was holding onto the entire time, the way he fiddled with the lighter in his pocket, the way his jaw clenched.

WHY STAY

There’s a certain value Kevin placed on you. You don’t know if it’s that of a toy, lover, or a third scarier option. There’s a big chance you’d never know either.

What you do know is that he’d give you his jacket when it’s cold, and surprisingly he’d take off yours for you when you enter his house. It’s done so casually that you forget it’s typically uncharacteristic of him.

He played nice with Celia when you were around. He played nice with your family, to the point where you might even misunderstand and believe he wanted them to think highly of him.

Kevin could be awfully kind. It’s never a kindness for the sake of it, but it only ever distinctly shows itself around you. If you were ever sick or vice versa, you’re spending all your time around him for the day.

If he had the fever, he’d push his forehead against yours while you’re both lying down, lazily breathing with his eyes closed. If you were the one ill, Kevin sits on the bed instead, placing one hand on your hand or your forehead. It’s a cool, light feeling. His hand is large enough for it to fully encompass your face if he so wished, or at least your neck, and yet he chose to be gentle.

He doesn’t like the idea of you being special to him though; the fact that you’re exempt from even some of his antagonizing ministrations makes it frustrating. You shouldn’t be. You were something he hung around and dated technically, so the idea of you actually being the definition of a significant other made him heavy in the chest.

If you show that you like the idea of being special to him, at least in the beginning, it’s easier for him to pull away. Whether physically or emotionally, he can shut off completely from you. Deciding to stay is what does it for him. How can you stay? Even with all the silence and work it takes for him to do anything?

His kisses grow less rushed. They’re even somewhat experimental later on. Kevin doesn’t really know if he likes it, but he knows you do. A nip at your lip, eyes closed, fluctuating pressure. He’s a fast learner. He’d pull away prematurely, waiting to see how you’d react. Usually he’d just walk away afterwards like nothing happened, but if he’s feeling the reactive impulse to he’ll duck right back in.

Kisses with Kevin leave you panting. Sometimes you believe he truly is attempting to steal your breath, and he might just be. He has more often than not almost let the arrow hit you when you watch him practice archery. It never does, but it’s always close. There’s a furrow in his brow afterward, like he’s examining how he himself feels on you almost dying by his own hands.

He has also more often than not found that it leaves him annoyed.