A/N: Whoo, look at me! This is probably the most publishing I've done in a day since middle school! Maybe even ever! I don't even care that it looks like I don't have a life, because not a single eff shall be given on this day B) Not to mention updates are slow anyway... So this is a two-shot to tide you over. Technically, this idea came to me last year. Then I found it buried in my USB and dusted it off, polished it up a bit, then bam~ This is the result. I hope it's fine, it seemed to do well on my Tumblr -smiles hopefully-

By the way, Glen referred to here is meant to be "Glen" as in the "soul of Glen" personified. It's not Oswald or Revis. You can feel free to picture either of them, however. This was meant to be an abstract idea of the relationship of "Glen" and Leo.


A long time ago, I decided to hide myself. It was annoying, going outside all the time, only to be stared at; talked about like I didn't have any ears. They talked about me, about how desirable I was, how beautiful I was. My ethereal shade of purple eyes reflecting spots of light, my thin lips and slender body that somehow gave me a girlish waist. The girls said I was prettier than them. I heard even boys fell for me.

I didn't think it was flattering.

I was merely a dead doll who just happened to be repaired with all the right parts. It doesn't change the fact that I'm still a dead doll. Not that anyone could realize that. I had to make them though, no matter what. I couldn't take any of what they gave and offered.

So when I wondered how I could hide myself, I decided to cut my hair messily, uneven locks becoming a tangled heap. My bangs I left alone and allowed them to grow longer, covering my face. I bought some large, round glasses and perched them on my face as well. Everything was hidden and I couldn't really see. But I was okay with that. Whatever it took.

Glen wasn't happy with me, and wondered why I did it. I told him once, and he didn't understand. That was fine (Glen, he hates me anyway). I didn't expect him to know what it was like to be scared about what people thought of you, even though they all thought the same thing, giving you the same (disgusting) look of wanton hunger.

They all wanted to take me apart - everything they admired was what they envied. Or what they wanted to keep locked up somewhere to put on pretty display. Never once am I thought to be a person with a soul.

Oh, right.

My real name is Psyche. I was told it meant "soul." As I got older though, I thought more and more that I did not deserve such a name. After all, I was but a doll to others. Sweet, brutally broken doll. I hated it, hated my glamorous name. I read one of my many books, and renamed myself after a character in one, "Leo."

I loved books greatly. I spent hours in my personal library. When I made myself comfortable and engrossed myself in a book, Glen would find me and rip it from my hands. He hated it whenever I could escape, when he could not escape at all.

"Stop it!" he'd shout, and knock down the shelves and shelves of the books I read, the walls of my sanctuary, the barriers and my defenses to the outside world. "Stop it! How many times do I have to tell you to get rid of all this!? I've repeated myself! Get rid of it!"

I watched him through my bangs, through my glasses, silently wondering when he'd get it over with and try to destroy me next.

I guess Glen had his reasons then for burning my books, my stories, my world, my best friends. I guess he had his reasons. I guess he had a purpose for cutting up my snow-white (corpse-pale) skin. He just wanted to forget he couldn't escape life like I could - he was treated like a plague, and yet I was the innocent one. Glen hated me for it, convinced I wore some sort of mask.

But which was the mask? Do I wear it when I try to hide or when nothing is covering me?

It's never obvious until someone tells you... That being who you are is a horrible thing; that doing what you do is a sin. And once it's said, it's all over - the words resonate, spreading inside you like a poison until it becomes truth. Poisons are effective much earlier than cures.

"You're the weird one!"

I cried that night, lamenting over my burned stories, my one escape. I missed the words so much. What would I do now? Once part of you is taken, it's hard to find something to replace it with.

It was around that time when you came to me.

I hadn't expected it, but at the same time, it seemed like I accepted it pretty quickly. I nakedly laid on my bed, my hair its usual mess and my blankets ripped and discarded on the floor. The tears had dried on my cheeks and the cuts Glen had given me had stopped bleeding. I heard my window open and the winter chill flurried in the room.

Did you float to me? I didn't even hear your footsteps at all. My bed creaked when you came up beside me. I stared at the wall, my heart racing and causing blood to pound in my ears. Perhaps you were one of those foolish people who fell in lust with me, and you had come to claim my virgin body (I was naked, after all). Perhaps you were someone so jealous of my beauty that you had come to kill me.

Knowing you were attractive didn't come without its vanity.

I hadn't expected Love.

Calloused fingertips brushed my unkempt black hair away from my ear. You whispered to me, "I've seen what's been taken from you. I don't want to take anymore – not yet, at least."

That reassured me very little, and I sarcastically told you as much. I was sick of the weirdos in my life, who somehow had the nerve to brand me the biggest weirdo.

"I don't think you're weird," you said to me. I hadn't realized I had said that last part out loud. "You are confusing, though," you admitted, brushing your fingers through my hair.

I felt your hand come nearer to my long, long bangs and glasses. I recoiled. "Don't," I demanded tersely.

Of course you became dumb and asked why not. "Because I don't want you to see me," I whispered. You pointed out that it was dark, and that we wouldn't be able to see each other anyway. Ah, I hadn't thought of that. I told you it was a miracle that you had found my bed at all.

You chuckled, and it was such a playful sound that I wanted to turn around, but I didn't. I didn't trust you yet. I whispered that I didn't want to brush back my hair or remove my glasses, because even the shadows had eyes. It seems poetic, but saying it out loud just makes it seem like a fake, cheesy excuse. Still, you didn't ask me again.

I froze when your arm wrapped over my waist, your face nuzzling into my soft, dark (rat's nest) hair. My heart pounded, because then I had the horrifying thought - it doesn't matter how much I try to hide, how much Glen cuts me, I will always be desired as an object. Everything will be empty.

Then you whispered, "I want to be with you tonight. After today, I thought you should be held. You don't have to be afraid. Like I said, I won't take anything else."

What made me trust you so much? I became absorbed in your warmth, your heartbeat. You were still, and breathed evenly. It seemed like I feel asleep within seconds. When I opened my eyes the next morning though, heart fluttering, you were gone. I must have imagined you, my mind playing games with what I truly wanted.

But no, your warmth returned to me that night.

After a few days, I came to expect you every night after I had retired to my room. You told me not to wait out by the window for you, that you'd always come without fail. I didn't see how I couldn't wait for you, given that vow. But I laid on my bed anyway, listening to my own breath call out for you, not able to wait.

But you did as you promised. You came to me, and I looked forward to it. You talked to me about random things, which always turned into some form of bickering, but then you'd apologize wordlessly, the only way you knew how – holding my hand, brushing your fingers against my cheek, tangling our legs together. Sometimes we'd just lay in the silence, and you'd lay closer to me, closing the darkness and space between us. One night, you brought up what Glen had done to my books.

"How do you know about that, anyway?" I asked quietly, chest contricting at the memory of the pages being burned.

Bluntly, you replied, "You read every night before you go to sleep. Sometimes throughout the day you bring a few books in your room. Then I stopped seeing you read, so suddenly. And you were crying. Ashes were on your hands." Your large, warm hand with slender fingers fit for a pianist touched my palms.

I remembered grabbing through the ashes, all that was left of my books. The anguish I felt had been heart-wrenching. Had you really seen me in such a state, and even before then? I blushed. "You watch me?" My voice was small.

"You loved books. And let's just say I know a thing or two about love in its various forms." Before I could say anything else, you began to tell a story. You gently ran your fingers through my hair, soothing me with both touch and sound.

From then on, I went to sleep with the sound of your voice at my ear, whispering and weaving the stories you knew, our skin vibrating together as you spoke. My pride said I didn't need it, this coddling. Then I realized it wasn't that.

This was always after the sex. Don't ask me when it happened, because the nights always blurred like a dream. But maybe I had been waiting for it. Each night you came, I never wore clothes, and you'd join me under the blanket, touching my exposed flesh. Our hips would touch, and it was then I realized you wore nothing either. We had both been wanting to connect.

You thought you were better at first, because you were the experienced one. After the teasing, I'm ashamed to admit that I thought you would take advantage of me. But you didn't. I can imagine, through the darkness, that your expression softened when I murmured I didn't know what to do.

You treated me gently. Your lips brushed everywhere on my face and neck, melting on my hot skin. Your fingers danced over the cuts both old and new over me and you kissed a few. "It'll be better," you promised with each kiss. I was so lost in ecstasy I believed it.

It'll be better. You will have your soul back.

Our flesh melted together, the darkness keeping us blind. Everything was with touch. It was pure sensation of grabbing, kissing, licking, thrusting so deeply-! I breathed heavily, clinging to you. If my hands reached to far up your back, you'd pull away, seizing my wrists and pounding into me at a new angle. Every time, I'd allow you to cum inside me, fill me to the brim with heat; and when you'd leave, I'd reach down and lick off your taste from my fingers.

You told me your name, saying that I was the only person other than your family you'd let know. I screamed "Elliot" in complete pleasure at the height of my orgasm from then on. In return, you were the first person to call out "Leo," and I knew I loved hearing it more than my real name.

"I want to see you," I whispered. You had just finished telling me the story about a girl who changed her name hundreds of times, becoming a different person each time and yet who always fell in love with the wrong person. We had both calmed down from the sex, but now we were kissing softly. My hand tried to venture to your back, but you stopped me like you always did.

"But I see you every night," you replied lightly, purposefully avoiding the question.

I shook my head, pulling the sheets up toward me. I was staring right at you, yet I could barely make out a silhouette in the darkness. I tried to leave the window open once to let in the moonlight, but you closed it when you came in. Never had I even seen your face.

"Why just at night?" I asked. "Why never in the day? Why can't I ever see you?"

"Because then neither of us would never be able to escape again," you replied cryptically. You leaned in, trying to give me another kiss, but I didn't respond.

I pulled away, pressing my fingertips to your lips. "Elliot, I'm being serious. I want to see you."

You laughed, but it sounded forced. It sounded like you knew this night would come, but you just hoped it never happened. And I wanted to know why someone I loved so much wanted so bad to hide in the darkness. I let you embrace me, but for once I stayed up until you left - just before light broke in the sky.

Glen eventually found out about you - or at least that someone existed, and was loving me. For me. He probably noticed because I don't cry anymore. So of course, he had to fix that and make me broken once again. And he knew right where to hit.

"He only comes to you at night?" he asked, raising a brow. Then his lips curled in a smirk. "What kind of love is that? He could be a monster for all you know. Love that blooms only in darkness is love that blooms in lies."

Cut. Sear. Burn. Slash. Each word hurt me, because they were all words I had thought more than once when I woke up in the morning to see you gone. And even though I knew you'd come to me every night, it didn't stop the growing emptiness inside me.

I had you, but not all of you. Maybe I didn't deserve you. And like every other time, the poisonous words effected me more than the cure you gave me each night. Even you couldn't fix my doubt, with your touch and words and presence of pure warmth, like a knight. My knight that appeared only in the cover of darkness.

I placed a candle on my nightstand one time. You came, like you always did. Your strong arms circled around me, soft lips brushing against my neck. Your naked flesh pressed against me. I kept you cradled to me closer than usual, distracting you as I reached out and struck the match. You heard and looked up in surprise, just as I held the lit candle up.

Had I not a firmer grip, I probably would've dropped it.

Eyes like a summer sky widened, catching the light of the candle like the sun. Soft blond hair tickled either side of your face, and your lips were full and pink. Shadows mixed with the soft orange light of the flame, tracing the contours of your muscles perfectly, caressing you. And sprouting out from your back were beautiful white wings. You were the kind of person poets wrote about, the kind that stories praised as a wonderful knight. You were like a god.

And I knew I didn't deserve you.

"Leo, I told you no!"

My hand trembled, and wax from the candle dripped out and fell onto your thigh. With a yelp of pain, your gaze tore away from me, and everything else inside me tore when you did it. I shook my head, raking my bangs in front of my face again. No. No, I could never be worthy of you...

I said it out loud, closing my eyes.

You got out of the bed, and your voice was taut as you murmured, "I'm sorry, Leo. I told you you couldn't see my face."

"G-go, just go," I whimpered, gripping the candle too tightly. I didn't want to see your perfection, not when I was but a broken doll with no soul. Oh, why had I let you make love to me so many times? Why had I allowed myself to be entranced by your stories and voice?

"I can't come back to you anymore," you said miserably, like you were just as sad as I was. The declaration had me suddenly feel as though I was swallowing glass. The window creaked open and the room suddenly felt colder. I knew you had left. That Love had left me.

I knew the nights of crying were upon me once more.

Ending A/N: By the way, I feel I should give huge amounts of love to my favorite author, Francesca Lia Block. Really, it was when I read her book Psyche in a Dress last year that I was rolling on my floor, wanting to do my own version of Cupid and Psyche. This sprouted from it. I'll try to publish the other half soon. It'll be in Elliot's point of view and continue with the end of the story.

Review, perhaps?