Feet don't fail me now
Take me to the finish line
Oh my heart it breaks every step that I take
But I'm hoping at the gates they'll tell me that you're mine
-Lana Del Rey; Born to Die
His hands on my waist are all I've dreamt of for as long as I can remember. Call it a sick obsession, an undying fantasy that's begun to haunt me for nights on end. Is that so bad?
At some point he was only an idol for me to look up to, some image I wanted to mold myself into. I wanted to be like him, strong and unrelenting in the way he stands, confident in every word he speaks. Now all I want is to hear that voice say my name, even if it's in some scolding manner that has me flinching and recoiling in fear.
I've always had a little crush on him, and I was only a kid when that infatuation arose. But now… now my heart skips to a dead halt whenever he graces the area with his presence, my stomach twists like knotted rope, my pale complexion bursts to life as blood rushes to tinge the apples of my cheeks red.
Maybe it is bad.
It gets embarrassing, that's for sure. Especially when I find myself sitting in my room, practically daydreaming to the most spiteful songs that should leave a bad taste in my mouth at even the thought of him. It's shameful, really. An evil young man like myself, sulking in the dark over a practical god who wouldn't bat a lash my way.
The thing that keeps me around is, sometimes it feels like he does look my way. Is it just in my head when I hear genuine appreciation in his little murmurs of appraisal after I do something right? Is he being formal when he says my name or does he like the way it tastes, the way it rolls off his tongue?
I don't know. And that just makes it all the more difficult.
I try keeping my distance every time we're in the same vicinity, and I do well in the beginning. I give him that little glance of acknowledgment and nothing more. No squeals of excitement, no fawning over him. Nothing. Nevertheless, there's always this pull to him that has me at his beck and call. Maybe he's that manipulative and I'm that much of a sucker.
I've spent nights scolding myself over that. You'd think all that guilt would be enough to encourage me into moving on at this point.
I blame my past for that.
When I was young, all the more naïve than I am now, all I wanted was his attention. I'd have gotten on hands and knees and kissed the ground he if it meant getting even a single glance from him, and I'd like to think I'm more mature now. I've grown, physically and emotionally, and I may not be someone of equal ground, but I'm someone worth looking out for.
I've matured is what I tell myself in the midst of picturing thick muscle hiding beneath armor.
I'm not just some kid anymore is my self-reassurance as I sink teeth into my lip 'til the skin breaks. I could spend entire nights imagining it's his teeth instead.
Realistically, I haven't changed that mindset at all. I'm more reserved than I've ever been, more intelligent and courageous and cunning than I could have ever dreamt, and it's done nothing to rid me of this pitiful attraction.
I pray I'm not in love.
"Am I to assume you're here for something important? Surely you wouldn't waste my time, Spicer," rumbles Chase from where he sits, elbow propped against an armrest and chin resting in palm.
It's close to my name, at least.
My chest swells with the deep breath I so desperately suck in to compose myself, and comes out as steady as I can manage.
"Just thought I'd ask about that apprenticeship again. It's been a few years since I last asked."
If he turns me down again, that's it. No more, Jack, move on. is what I had told myself before I even left the house. It helped to ease the terrified quake of my nerves, I think.
He watches in silence, eyes narrowed in some scrutiny that has me paralyzed again.
I'm sure he can smell the fear that probably permeates the air around me.
Taste it, even.
Is it fear or is it the apprehensive feeling of lust?
Chase must be able to tell the difference.
The regret that floods into my system when he rises from his seat is overwhelming.
My heart beats harder and harder against my will with every step he takes, and I know he can hear it drumming against its cage.
When there's naught but a mere few inches left between us, he pauses, expression contemplative as he all but places me beneath his jaded gaze like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.
"I highly doubt that's the reason," Chase drawls, seemingly bored with my presence. Despite that, the low rumble of his voice has chills clawing up my spine, hooking between vertebrae until I have to physically suppress a shudder.
My lips part to speak, but anything I had to say gets caught in my throat. I'm taking forever to speak - he's getting aggravated.
Gloved fingers grasp my jaw, tight and threatening to break bone should he so choose to.
"No, it's," I begin, voice softer than I imagined it'd come out, slight tremble beginning like an earthquake in the base of my throat, "it's not."
A hand raises to curl fingers around the one on my jaw, gentle in prying it off to give me room. Caution is thrown to the wind as I lean in, eyes closing quick before I get the chance to see the anger that'll inevitably boil in his eyes, lips molding to lips.
A second passes.
He doesn't move.
Two seconds.
He is still as a statue, and I - I struggle to contain the excited shaking of my body, try to keep myself steady against him.
Chase Young is a man who could crush me with bare hands alone.
Instead?
Instead those hands lower to seek out the structure of my hips, digits curling around each side to grip.
"It's about time you've taken something you wanted, Jack," comes the growl through the kiss; and with those being his final words he pulls me flush against him, leaning in, laving attention to the hollow of my throat with slow, tantalizing caresses of his lips that leave me feeling vulnerable and exposed and all too content.
Call this what you will.
A crush.
An obsession.
Love?
Whatever.
I stood up, I grabbed ahold of my prize, and I've gotten what I wanted: Chase Young's hands on my waist.