Rowan knew he would kill for you. He knew he'd burn down the world for you. He loved you, in his own sick way. He collected your clothing when you slept over, masturbating to it relentlessly. He craved touch, something more than the feeling of his own scarred and rough hand on his cock. He needed you, and he wanted you to need him too. Always need him.

Rowan sat in his room, the smell of his previous arousal still lingering. He had done it again, fucking the shit out of your sock you had left. It slipped out of his hand and landed on the worn floor with a soft thump. He stared down at his mess, his hands coated in his own arousal. It was something beyond primal, something he needed. He would do anything to have the real deal, the rough feeling of your sock only reaching the tip of the iceberg.

He got up and went to the bathroom to clean himself up. He glanced in the mirror as he took a damp towel to his limp penis. He winced as the cold water hit his fresh cuts on the inside of his thighs, the striking shiver going up his spine. He knew it was sick, he knew it was twisted, but all of this, all of this was for you. It was his own little way of engraving you into his soul, or at least his skin. Your name spelled out in slashes on his scrawny body, love poured into every stroke the knife made. He knew what was wrong with him, memorized what the doctor's rehearsed at every new appointment, after every single relapse he swore to never happen again. He was a liar, a fraud, but he never lied about you. You were his. And his only.

TIME: 6:34 pm

Rowan knocked on your apartment door. He clutched the flowers he held. He hummed to himself as he waited. He knocked again, hoping for you to show up soon. You needed to talk. As you open the door Rowan looks up at you with dark, hooded eyes.

"Hey, brought you these. I hope you like 'em"

Rowan's Thoughts: Fuck, Fuck, Fuck... I hope I don't fuck this up... god just the way they look... makes me wanna bend them over right now...