I groggily rubbed my eyes and stretched as many muscles as I could at once with great exaggeration, several dramatic groans escaping my lips as I did so. I sat up, straightening the wayward left spaghetti strap of the black tank top I liked to sleep in. I would have given my firstborn to still be asleep and felt like someone was stepping on my face--typical morning sentiment for me. I stood up to adjust my tiny, white pajama shorts that were laced with thin, metallic pink threads in grid patterns. They were twisted nearly all the way around and wedged uncomfortably into my ass. I plodded softly down the hall and stairs, towards the kitchen to search for food.

"Morgy, time to feed!" I called as I passed her room. I heard stirring from within.

"Food," Morgy's tired, zombie-like voice repeated. More stirring and shuffling followed, and I knew she would be along shortly. I reached the ground floor and, as I walked past the front foyer, something small and white caught my eye. Whatever it was stuck out of the negligible crack between the front door and its frame. I assumed wedging it in there wasn't as easy in practice as in theory. Morgana was no longer the kind of woman whose door could have a mail slot--she refused to allow the possibility of just anybody shoving things willy nilly into her home. I walked over, curious, and yanked the object from where it protruded. I wasn't entirely sure it had been inserted from the outside in, which was thoroughly unsettling. It was a stiff, starch-white card, folded neatly in half. 'Adora Reed' was written in tidy, black block letters. The smell of fresh permanent marker wafted into my nostrils as I flipped the card open.

'MISS YOU. COMING BACK FOR YOU.'

My mouth dropped open and hung there, slack with confusion. I stood motionless, my mind a cacophony sounds, images and names. Who? Who missed me and was coming back for me? Jeffy? No, that wasn't the sort of grand gesture he'd make. What the fuck was going on?

"Whatcha doin'?" Morgy asked, yawning as she came down the stairs.

"Huh?" I managed, snapping out of my trance.

"Is there some extremely fascinating mail or something?" she asked, a touch of concern in her voice. I didn't reply. "Seriously, what the fuck is going on? Is that for me?"

"No... no, for me," I said, turning to her abruptly. I stuck my hand out, "look."

"Miss you. Coming back for you," she muttered. "Who? Jeff?"

"I don't know. I don't think so," I replied, my gaze blank and distant.

"No, I suppose if it were Jeff, you'd wake up with him in your bed with his cock hanging out," Morgy sighed, totally serious and certain that the hypothetical event would play out in such a manner, should it come to fruition. We stood in silence, both wracking our brains for names or clues.

"Oh..." I stammered, realization hitting me like a brick in the head. "Charlie."

"Oh my god," Morgy paled at first, then paused. "Although, I'm hardly surprised."

"Who's Charlie?" Tim asked as he walked down the stairs. We'd been so consumed by the note that we hadn't even noticed him. He probably wasn't even interested in an answer, but he was getting one anyway.

"Ohhh Charlie," Morgy exhaled deeply, "where do I begin with Charlie Adare?"

"Charlie is an old friend of ours. He grew up with us and was basically like our third Musketeer," I barely managed to say, my voice small and stuck in my throat.

"He was a little more than that to our Dorita here," Morgy reminded.

"Oh goody! I sense Wifey drama," Tim squealed jokingly.

"Well that's just it," Morgy began, "I'm not the only one whose wifey she is." Tim burst into laughter.

"Oh, this is good," he grinned, slightly more interested now. "This is awesome."

------[for all of your kisses turned to spit in my face]------

Charlie. Charlie was my everything at one time in my life, and I managed to cut him out completely. So completely that not a single nosy paparazzo or over-zealous fan managed to learn of his existence and throw it in my face. That, I never could have handled. If I had heard about him everday or seen my face on magazine covers next to headlines bearing his name, I would have lost my mind immediately. There would have been no descent into madness; it would have been instantaneous. Removing Charlie from my life and moving on as if he'd never been there was the most difficult thing I ever had to do, and I put this so simply because no string of words exists to accurately describe the agony. Perhaps that's how most of my arrogance was born--I'd achieved something so impossible that, in my mind, I had become invincible. I had succeeded in so thoroughly lying to myself that I believed a whole new reality to be my own, and, unless I really thought about it, I could recall no other reality to be true. Who was this stranger coming back to assume a role in my life? How dare this stranger decide to come barrelling through the world I'd created?

------[and when you asked for light, i set myself on fire]------

"Dorita, are you okay? Adora?" Morgy asked, her voice pitched with worry. We now sat at the large, round breakfast table in Morgy's kitchen. Tim sauntered about by the fridge, pulling food out and placing it on the black, marble counter of the large island that sat in the middle of the room. It had been used more than once as a stage for Wifey dance parties, and just as many times, someone had nearly died by not paying attention and dancing into the sink.

"Why wouldn't she be?" Tim asked. "It's not as if she magically forgot she was married. If you don't cut the tie, of course the person's going to come waltzing back into your life. Duh," he said matter-of-factly, his words falling on deaf ears. I sat motionless, panic bubbling within my body, slowly making its way up to my chest where it was poised to burst forth, like a dormant volcano coming back to life. My mind raced so violently that I felt myself become increasingly short of breath. Quick, shallow breaths sparsely peppered deeper, longer, more frequent exhales, until I was dizzy and black splotches obscured my vision.

"Shut up, Tim," Morgy snapped impatiently, "get me some cold water, I think she's having a panic attack."

"Shit," he muttered, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of water.

"Put your head between your legs or something... they do that to help panic attacks, don't they? Or is that for hyperventilating?" Morgy sounded frazzled, her worry increasing. I waved both her and Tim away, frantically trying to catch my breath. The black splotches grew bigger and bigger, like thick, black ink oozing from a toppled jar. It had been so lovely in the beginning; a beautiful, though sometimes perverse fairytale. Memories of those days felt warm and honey-coated--any sadness was blurred and smudged into the magical, nostalgic feeling of being young and discovering life. The negative parts of such memories always mellowed with time, while the positive grew all that much more surreal, but some things were too hard to forgive or forget.

------[i gave you my purity; my purity you stole]------

Summer had been slowly slipping away for the past two weeks, and the first day of school put the final nail in the coffin for most children and youngsters. Little Evangeline and Adora had been exposed to the complaints of impending doom of Gina's older siblings, who, by all accounts had more to be upset about--homework, middle school or high school loomed above them--but the two little girls were ecstatic. Adora was just entering the first grade and Gina, as a second-grader, was eager to introduce her friend to the kids at school. It had always been the nature of Team Wifey to want to--no, need to--destroy an conquer wherever they went. The elementary school playground was, of course, no different. Order needed to quickly be established, and Gina, feeling confident in the seven years worth of wisdom she'd amassed, was just the right person to take charge.

"In a straight line, against the wall, please," she instructed the small group of select children whom she could tolerate longer than the time it took to gave them a verbal lashing for mediocrity. "I have someone to introduce you to," she explained as they obediently formed their line, "she's your new Queen, to share her throne with me, your... your already Queen," she finished, her vocabulary a far cry from what it would develop to in the coming years. Her flamboyant, confident persona had been apparent from the day she stepped into kindergarten and saw that her classmates needed a leader. It had immediately occurred to her that she was the best candidate to fill that position. Currently, she wore a plastic, silver tiara with hot pink jewels glued everywhere, and she held a similarly styled scepter. She was a small girl, but with her hair down and cascading over her shoulders, she looked much older. Her pretty eyes were narrowed hatefully and her abundant lips pursed bossily, but one could easily tell she was a lovely girl who would grow into an enviably beautiful woman.

"Um, Queen Gina?" a small boy asked sheepishly, raising his hand meekly as he stood against the wall.

"Yes, peon?" Gina addressed him sternly, pointing her scepter at him menacingly. He recoiled slightly against the wall, cowering beneath her. She didn't know what peon meant, exactly, but she was sure it applied.

"M-m-may I be a prince?" he asked sweetly, hopefully.

"Oh heavens, no," Gina responded easily. "The queen and I must first marry... and not each other, if there is to be a prince. Unless one of you can present a suitable donor." She didn't know what that meant, either, but she knew they would abide by whatever she said and believe it to be true. "You may submit an application for king, or, should another king be appointed, you may resubmit your application for prince." The boy nodded, thinking it smart not to pursue the matter further. "Anyway, moving on! I present to you your new co-Queen, Adora!" Gina swung her arms to point in the direction from which Adora would emerge, thrusting them forward dramatically. A small girl stepped out from behind a nearby tree, wisps of soft, near-white blonde hair blowing gently in the breeze. She wore a silvery, hot pink tiara encrusted with plastic diamonds, almost exactly like Gina's, atop her head. A piece of white cloth that the girls had pulled out of Adora's parents' linen closet was wrapped around her shoulders, held in place at her throat with a sparkly, pink hair elastic. She gazed at the new faces, her pink, rosebud lips pursed shyly, almost fearfully. The children looked her over, their big, round eyes bulging with curiosity. Almost instantly, the girl's innocent expression vanished and was replaced with a sly smile.

"Peons!~!" she cried, proud to have picked the word up from her friend's speech. "Bow before me!~!" Morgy beamed as looks of shock registered on the faces of the children. They sunk to the ground cooperatively and Adora and Gina cackled happily at the sight.

"Don't listen to those two lesbeans!" came a voice from behind the girl. They spun around, horrified that someone would dare defy them, as well as curious to find out what a lesbean was. A older boy leaned against a tree next to the one behind which Adora had been hiding. He had a sweet smile and warm, dirty blond hair, but his eyes were dark and his canine teeth sharp, as if they'd been deliberately filed down to points.

"And who are you?!~" huffed Adora, on the verge of a tantrum at the prospect of her coronation being ruined.

"Charlie," he repllied coolly. "You two think you're so great," he taunted, "but I'm older, so I'm more in charge that you are!"

"How old are you?" Gina asked, eyeing him up and down uncertainly.

"11!" he replied proudly. "And if you're smart you'll make me king... or I'll take over your kingdom!" he exclaimed, obviously making things up as he went along.

"Don't you have friends of your own to play with?" Gina ask cruelly.

"Yes... but if you don't listen to me, I'll kidnap your little princess there!" he pointed at Adora. "You'd better have my crown for me tomorrow!" he demanded. With that, he ran over to Adora, kissed her quickly on the cheek, and ran off in the opposite direction like a maniac, disappearing to the other end of the playground. Everyone gasped in horror, repulsed by the exchange of cooties, except for Adora, whose faced turned beet red.

"Ewww," Gina wrinkled her small nose in disgust, "what a pree-vert."

------[tying yourself to me, stitch up my emptiness]------

It didn't take long for me to realize that I was probably overreacting about the note; it was silly and could have been left by just about anyone. I convinced myself that Charlie probably would have been more direct with me and just called or showed up at my doorstep. If he wanted me back, he'd have physically retrieved me, whether I liked it or not, and put me right back up on the pedestal I'd run away from.

Unfortunately, the mock peace I'd established was now destroyed, because whether he came back or not, I finally was forced to reflect on what happened between us. I'd ignored it so successfully since it happened that I'd never had the opportunity to think about it or analyze it, for fear that I'd forgive him and let him do it again. Morgy and Tim had plans for the day, and since I didn't feel like being alone--especially in that house that seemed somehow compromised--I decided to take over JAMB Sex Shop for the day. Morgy and I had been denying it the personal attention it had initially received, and Jeff Evans and Jeremy Killjoy were largely absent in the wake of the end of our relationships. Accountants divided profits accordingly and sexy girls with heavily tattooed arms, dreads and trademark lipstick reminiscent of my own were hired to take over the duties of intimidating, assisting and enticing customers. One of them was interested in becoming a piercer and suggested that we dedicate a section of the store to naughty piercings. We'd figured, why the fuck not? Our location on Queen St. W was the perfect neighbourhood to appreciate such a service.

Key Morgy and Adora touches remained unchanged: instead of a bell or a beep when customers entered and exited, the door was still equipped with a kitschy gadget that let out a low moan. Sometimes it grew tiresome to hear it over and over again, but neither of us cared. We were barely around so it was mostly just really, really amusing. Morgy's line of condoms, now being marketed exclusively in Europe, still had a prominent display in the store, and fans from all over North America desperately sought them out. Lifesize cutouts of both stars greeted customers at the entrance, Morgy's equipped with a cat o' nine tails whip, and mine advertising a line of rainbow party flavoured lipstick. It wasn't that I wasn't disgusted by the concept, but they'd paid me a pretty penny for posing for the campaign.

To further pass the time and hopefully suppress too much thinking on my part, I had agreed to let Ace Rodgers come to the store with a film crew for my first out-of-ring interview in almost four years. I expected them at about 4pm, and it was barely a half hour away. I was bored and restless and wished they come sooner--weekdays weren't exactly busy; most people bought their ridiculous purple dildos and blindfolds for potential lovers on the weekends. Time was passing painfully slowly, so whenever someone did come in to browse, I rambled to them excessively, embracing the distraction from Charlie. What did he look like now? Who had he been spending his time with? Had he gotten fat and would therefore be easily resistible, should he return? Were his teeth still vampirically pointy? I couldn't tell if i missed his frequently sinking them into my sensitive neck, or if I was relieved to be free of the bruises. What was his hair like? Still longish and kind of spiky? Did he have the same mild sideburns? Most importantly, was he over me? Had he loved anyone more than me in the years since we'd been together? 'How could he?!' I wanted to as myself, but knew it was like admitting I still cared, and that maybe I'd let him into my life again, if presented with the opportunity.

"Adora!" came a vaguely familiar voice, mercifully saving me from my thoughts. I glanced up, my eyes glazed and burning from staring so intensely into the distance while I was alone.

"Ace Rodgers!" I smiled. "I have a gift for you, to make up for all the times I was a bitch to you before," I said, pulling a packet out from under the counter.

"Oh, you shouldn't have," he gushed as he opened it, "...mock goat meat... you really, really shouldn't have," he plastered a fake smile across his lips.

"Oh don't worry, it's delicious. It tastes exactly the same as mock chicken, mutton or beef," I promised.

"I'll, uh, take your word for it!" he smiled still, not convinced at all. "So, how does it feel to be back in the wrestling world? Feeling rough from your last match?"

"I don't feel so hot after so much time being lazy and useless, but it's a familiar pain, which makes it almost enjoyable."

"I imagine you're satisfied with the outcome of your match?"

"Yeah, it was an honour to have an opponent like Tony Millennia for my comeback match. I wish I could say the same about my next opponent," I rolled my eyes, my voice dropping a whole octave to emphasize my displeasure.

"Not a fan of his?" Ace raised an eyebrow inquisitively, as if it wasn't brutally obvious how I felt.

"Of course not! What's there to like? I won't say I despise his arrogance, because every wrestler must possess a certain amount of arrogance to achieve anything in this business. He, however, is the kind who can barely form a decent sentence when boasting about his various virtues. One of which is apparently having eyes the colour of an oil slick or slime or something equally sickly and inhuman. I love people who feel that pretending to have inhuman qualities somehow makes them a better, more interesting person. That'd be like my saying I have eyes the colour of every beautiful colour in the world, mixed together to form a magical paste. Why not be honest and keep it simple? They're shit brown, end of story. I couldn't say what his really are, though, as I try to avoid his face."

"What are you talking about?" Ace's eyes widened curiously.

"Oh nevermind. I was bored and reading his biography and noticed that. I'm just being nitpicky and easily annoyed."

"So you're pretty much the same as before?" he teased.

"Yep, still no tolerance for retards," I confirmed, "I don't think that's something I'll ever really tolerate. Nor is someone taking themselves so seriously, that they become devoid of any humour that could potentially be amusing to another human. At least, I hope that he's trying to be funny when he says shit like, 'It's Kyphael masturbation time," because if he's serious, he should probably be shot in the face. Immediately."

"You take yourself seriously too, Adora," Ace chided, probably tired of hearing the same few speeches about arrogrance, inadequacy and the the downfalls of being a woman from just about every wrestler, ever.

"True, but regardless of what people like him say, my achievements were groundbreaking. He's just another boring, beefy dude who, while he won the NEW world title twice, is in no way memorable for it. Lots of people won that title; the difference is that some of them actually had talent, or managed to change the face of wrestling in one way or another. He seems to just looove running his mouth about how his achievements are a thousand times better than everyone else's. It's bizarre when someone who wasn't even there can cite title, match and fed histories off the top of his head, as if he knows more about those events than those who experienced them. That's what he tried to do with Morgana: decry her achievements while embellishing his own. I can imagine what he'd say about mine. 'Oh, she barely held the title for a minute, I blah blah blah, instert trite insults here.' Well, he'd be right about that, but, once again, as he wasn't there, he doesn't know the real story behind that, does he? That may not have been the golden age of NEW in terms of fed popularity and the number of members, but that doesn't make it a lesser important in the fed's history. Some of the best wrestlers to EVER wrestle in TWW, XWW, NEW and SW were on the roster then. By the time Kyphael had gotten the title, most of the real talent had moved on, retired or taken extended breaks. He can cite every wrestlers he wants--Adam Cameron, Andrew Ashton, Jonathan Collins, Memphis Gray (who?)--and he can emphasize how great they were until he's blue in the face, but that doesn't change the fact that when I won the title, they were below me in stature and skill. So the fact that they were all the fed had to boast about a year or two later, well, I could give a fuck. I'm not impressed.

"Everyone finds it so easy to overlook the fact that I was the first female to win that title, even though I fought tooth and nail and won it fairly--is it my fault Chris Extreme and Reno frost conspired against me? Reno Frost himself has admitted that the fed wasn't really ready for a female champ, which is why he screwed me over so royally. Has Kyphael ever been up against such odds? No, because he's a man, so he's never had to fight for recognition like Morgy and I have had to. A decent female wrestler usually has to fight thrice as hard as, say, a shitty male wrestler, and that's a fact. I've watched it happen over and over again, if not to me, then to Morgy. Even Nikita can vouch for this, I'm sure. If you ask her, she'd probably agree that to get to where she is now, she endured a lot of petty ridicule from halfwits just like Kyphael."

"So you're writing him off, just like that? You don't care about his winning streak?"

"Yes, I am writing him off, just like he'll probably write me off. I'm a girl, I'm a whore and a slut and I'll never get anywhere in his man's world--yes, I understand all that. Maybe we should bring back some "ah-hyuck!~! Morgy and Adora are dykey," comments? And let's not forget that Morgy and I are the same person, that I copy her. That's a particularly brilliant observation, isn't it? It doesn't matter how many times Morgy and I point out the flaws in these arguments, people will continue to use them and feel smug and proud that they've thought of the same unique insult as everyone else. How about someone toss something new my way? Something intelligent, maybe? I know it won't by Kyphael to do that, but still."

"Well, I guess we'll see. I think Kyphael is going to be at his best at Eternity, if not because he wants to beat you, because he thinks that maybe he can prove something to Morgana through you," Ace purse his lips thoughtfully--he never would've been so honest in the past, when I was cuntier and more volatile, and I wasn't sure if i was sad or not that the fear I had instilled was gone.

"I wouldn't be surprised," I mused as the door's moan sounded and a man carrying a large bouquet of red and white flowers entered. "If you don't mind, Ace, I have a customer," I gestured towards the man, allowing the crew to excuse themselves. The moan sounded once more and I found myself alone with the flowers; the man must have been delivering them to the store and had managed to steal away with the crew without my noticing. Tucked into the vibrant petals was another notecard, exactly the same as the one I had found earler.

'I'M SERIOUS. YOU CAN'T FORGET ME'

So it probably was Charlie, I had to admit. I wished I could forget him, but that was a losing battle--he had to know that.

------[don't you know paradise takes time?]------

He led her through the bustling hallways of the old building, a hanger and flashlight in one hand and her reluctant arm in the other. She clutched a bundle of blankets, bewildered as he tugged her along. His best friend and cousin, Christian Adare, lived here, along with 100 other University students who needed to get away from their homes or small towns upon graduating from high school. The elaborate, Neo-Gothic building, built nearly a century before, was complete with turrets, battlements, sinister looking gargoyles, and was covered in thick vines almost as old. It stood mere steps away from several Toronto landmarks: the Royal Ontario Museum and its former planetarium, the longest street in the world, Yonge St., and, of course, the rest of the University of Toronto's sprawling downtown campus. It was an oasis in the middle of a busy, sometimes drab metropolis, providing those who took the time to explore it with seemingly infinite greenery, manicured gardens and dozens of equally extravagant buildings exemplifying classical architecture. Despite its scholarly history and famous alumni--Lestber B. Pearson, Donald Sutherland--the building served mainly to house the various antics of college kids.

He veered to the left, through doors leading to a stairwell. Of the four houses the residence was divided into, only two had fourth flights of stairs, leading to the one part of the building that had escaped recent renovations. The attic. The top of the stairs presented little of interest: a locked door and a ceiling light with sweeping cobwebs, dead moths, spiders and small flies. Using the hanger--which she'd thus far been perplexed by the need for--he slipped the hook through the space between the door and and its frame, fluidly pulling it open in the split second that the locked tongue was depressed. The bare wooden beams of the triangular roof greeted them, with thick, pink sheets of insulation padding the walls. The floor was sectioned off into a small boardwalk, like a bridge over the framework of the attic. It led do another door several metres away, which had been somehow unlocked years before and left that way for the stream of students who sought this sanctuary. He open the door, ushering her into the next room by the small of her back. It was pitch black, but she could feel that the space before her was vast and empty. He slid his arm fully around her waist and positioned himself behind her, lowering his head to her shoulder. He switched the flashlight on and the room before them became faintly illuminated, the strength of the light tapering off with distance. She realized with a momentary pang of panic that he had led her to the old, deserted tower that served as the building's centrepiece and dividing point. It loomed above the university's quad, obscured by leaves in the warmer months, and snow-laden branches in the winter. She inhaled sharply, feeling both frightened and thrilled to be trapped in this other-wordly place, totally at his mercy.

In the centre of the room was an old persian rug with candles scattered around its perimiter, left behind by previous students lucky enough to find and use this asylum either by accident, or as a location for seances and telling ghost stories. He let her go and moved towards the rug, leaving her momentarily in the dark. She scurried after him quickly, feeling uneasy. He laid out the blankets and pulled a matchbook from his pocket, lighting as many candles as he could find that still had wicks. She looked around curiously, feeling tiny in the expanse of the room. To her right, in the distance, she could make out a dark, rectangular cut-out--obviously a door. Without a thought, she drifted towards it, with him close behind as soon as he noticed her stray from his view. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back to him possessively, casting her a questioning glance. Even through the darkness, she could see how his eyes bore into hers, as if worried she were a small child likely to wander into a crowd and never return. His intensity often scared her, but, just as often, she entrusted herself to him completely because of it.

She opened the door cautiously, peering with difficulty through the dense blackness. They found themselves standing on an uneven step of a steep, stone spiral staircase. The faint moonbeams that filtered through the tiny, prison-like windows that studded the stairwell's walls revealed ascending and descending steps and twisted on and on. She moved forward and took an uncertain step upward, his hands firmly on her hips as he trailed behind. Up and up and up they went, dizzied by the enduring winding and elusive plateau, until finally, a cool breeze swept over them, revealed a door that was propped open with a large piece of knotted wood. She pushed the door open, revealing the tower's rooftop. Their unwelcome presence there was hidden by the tall, driving stone stakes that made the tower look like an overgrown turret. From where they stood, the whole campus lay before them; people busied themselves mindlessly, blind to the fact that they were being watched from high above.

He lost interest quickly, refocusing his attentions on her, and only her. He knew she was stalling, keeping him at bay for one last time as long as she could. She wouldn't protest this time, he knew that as well; it was understood that not an hour more would pass in his eternal wait. It was a fact that she had resigned herself to with a nauseating lurch of her stomach. He ran his hands over her ribs and shamlessly slid a hand beneath her sweater and top, smiling knowingly when she tensed up and let a tickled squeal escape from her lips. He let his hand wander further down, slipping past the waist of her jeans, like a burglar sneaking by unnoticed. With his free hand, he loosened the elastic that held her ponytail in place, allowing her long, blonde hair to fall softly down her back. He brushed his fingers through the strands, gently untangling them as he did so, and let his hand settle on the back of her neck in a gentle grip. Panic seized her body as his hot breath pulsated against her skin, but her fear left her immobile. What was he doing? She wished she could see his eyes for comfort, for reassurance, to gauge his mood, but he remained planted behind her, keeping her firmly in place. His other hand explored and teased her body, his fingers retreating and taunting her each time she was sure he would coax them unapologetically into her. Her back ached from how rigidly she tensed herself, her breath coming out in short, shallow puffs. Regardless of whether he sensed her discomfort or not, he disregarded it. The button of her jeans popped open, giving way to the strain of his roving hand, and he released his hold on her neck and forcefully pulled her closer to him. The zipper slid down of its own volition and he took it as permission to inch his arm further into her jeans.

He'd successfully eased her into believing his advances were merely bluffs, that he would never continue on when she was so blatantly terrified. As her shoulders relaxed and she breathed a deep sigh of relief, he drove his fingers beneath the barrier of her underwear, moaning deliriously when his fingertips pressed into her soft tissue and into wetness she hadn't realized was there. She gasped, exhilarated and startled as a sharp pain shot through her core, and just as suddenly, he took his hand away and held the sticky middle finger to her face, smearing the moisture across her lips. He whipped her body around and locked eyes with her for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Moonlight bounced off the dampness on her mouth and fueled whatever possessed him to scare her like this and enjoy it. He kissed her gently, slowly, forcing them both to savour her taste. Choking back tears as discreetly as she could, she was as eager to see what he would do to her next as she was fearful of it.

His gaze was distant and preoccupied, so she was not startled when he grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly behind him toward the door and down the tiny steps, her feet barely touching the ground as she struggled to keep up. Obviously, he had no intention to seek out the bottom of the staircase, and before she knew it, they were back in the candlelit tower room. Now, he was adamant, not to be deterred for the thousandth time by a girl who, despite the confidence she outwardly portrayed, to him only betrayed her insecurity. She, unlike most fifteen-year old girls, could handle herself with the aplomb of a movie star in public, but alone in his arms, she possessed no such self-assurance. He worshipped her so much that she feared her cluelessness--or even worse, potential clumsiness--would disappoint him. She had no idea that he couldn't have cared less about such trivialities, plagued by far more serious questions. What was wrong with him? Was he a sick fuck for having wanted this girl and this moment since she was six-years old? Why couldn't he stop himself? He should have been chasing after girls his own age instead of practically forcing himself on a girl who had had her first her first period barely a year earlier. Stop, stop, stop, stop he told himself, perhaps to feel like he wasn't really so depraved, that he did have a conscience, that maybe he was doing this because she wanted it just as much as he did.

But that was a lie; no one wanted it as much as he did. There was no turning back for him, and especially not for her. He lowered her to the ground, cradling her head protectively, where their blanket had been lain over the dirty rug. She unzipped her sweater, and he immediately raised her shirt, sprinkling every spot of bare skin with fluttery kisses. No, he wasn't wrong for needing this and getting it, and he knew that as he drank in every detail of her body. She was so small, so perfect, his for the taking--and why shouldn't he? He'd watched over her and loved her and cared for her every single day of the past nine years. If anything, she owed this much to him. Yes, she owed him, and deep down she understood that--she had to--he assured himself as he tugged her jeans past her ankles and tossed them into the darkness. He tore his t-shirt off hurriedly and tossed it aside as well, beginning to panic that something or someone would interrupt them and ruin his moment. His belt was undone and hung limply at each side of his zipper as he fumbled with his buttons. The buckle jingled and resonated loudly through the hollow room, breaking whatever silence remained between his ragged breaths.

None of this was new to him, but he didn't feel guilty, and he didn't feel he'd ever betrayed her; everything he'd done was for her. He'd had to somehow prepare for the moment he'd finally be allowed to make her feel as good as he ached for her to make him feel, and she would stand by him forever thereafter. His heart pounded almost painfully in his chest when he paused to look at her naked form, more exposed and vulnerable than she'd ever allowed herself to be in his presence. Don't hurt her, don't hurt her he reminded himself, fighting his violent urge to force himself inside of her in one swift motion. In a moment of courage, she ran her hands appreciatively over the sinewy muscles of his stomach, pangs of fear and lust hitting her at once as his bulge swelled rapidy to a size she didn't think she could realistically accomodate. She sucked in a jagged breath and let her hand wrap tightly around him. He moaned as if he were already fucking her and buried his face in her stomach, kissing, biting and sucking a trail down to her inner thighs, where she was virtually gushing her increasing desire for him. Yes, she wanted him too, he confirmed to himself again, as he let his tongue draw circles in her warm flesh, keeping her pinned to the ground by the hips as she writhed at the new sensation. He moaned again and again, as if enjoying it more than she was as he pressed his whole mouth into her, lashing his tongue as deeply into her as he could. It tickled her and she couldn't help but giggle innocently, despite the faint prickle of his stubble.

She arched her back, sure she would explode into a million pieces if he persisted, wanting to break free yet trapped firmly in place. It will only hurt her for a while he told himself, taking the opportunity to press himself gently against her while she was distracted. She cried out immediately, certain that he was almost fully inside of her when, in reality, she remained intact, still pure and perfect and untainted. He pressed a little harder now, kissing her forcefully to stifle her next cry of pain before she uttered it. Crystalline tears formed in the corners of her eyes as he pressed on, pushing himself further and further into her with each passing second. Her fresh, pretty features crumpled with his last thrust, a muted wail struggling to burst forth from where he silenced her with his kiss. Was this what he'd been waiting for all those years? Should he have left her be longer? Doubt and sick worry overcame him as she clung helplessly to him. What had he done? Was he a monster? He wondered, trying desperately to fight back feelings of shame and remorse. But who was he fooling? How could he pretend feeling himself so deep inside of her was something he wouldn't want to feel everyday for the rest of his life?

It would be okay from then on, he knew. She would forgive him and she would want him as much as he wanted her. He steadily pulled out of her and brought his face to her thighs again, to where he'd hurt her and where she bled for him, a small, crimson pool soaking through the blanket. Hungrily, he kissed her, drinking her back eagerly. She ran her hands through his hair and guided him back up to look him in the eyes. Red trickled slowly down his chin and dripped onto her bare breasts, and she knew then that he truly did love her as much as he claimed, and that giving herself to him was a small price to pay to keep that love for herself, always.