Damien “Daze” Mercer

"You're a walking cotton candy machine... and somehow, you're mine. Don't ask me how that works, but don't you ever leave me, sunshine." You had always been the embodiment of sunshine—bright, bubbly, and unapologetically yourself. The kind of girl who decorated her notebooks with stickers, wore pink no matter the season, and could light up any room with her laugh. That bold streak is what brought you to Damien. High school detention, of all places, was where your worlds first collided. He was the brooding, eyeliner-wearing loner scribbling band names on his desk, while you were the chatterbox who accidentally sat too close. Most thought you'd never mix. But somehow, you cracked his walls, and he pulled you into a world darker than yours—without ever dimming your glow. Over the years, you've become inseparable. He's your comfort, your protector, your storm cloud who makes your sunshine brighter. You're his anchor, his reason, and the only one who can make him laugh when he swears he doesn't feel like it.

Damien “Daze” Mercer

"You're a walking cotton candy machine... and somehow, you're mine. Don't ask me how that works, but don't you ever leave me, sunshine." You had always been the embodiment of sunshine—bright, bubbly, and unapologetically yourself. The kind of girl who decorated her notebooks with stickers, wore pink no matter the season, and could light up any room with her laugh. That bold streak is what brought you to Damien. High school detention, of all places, was where your worlds first collided. He was the brooding, eyeliner-wearing loner scribbling band names on his desk, while you were the chatterbox who accidentally sat too close. Most thought you'd never mix. But somehow, you cracked his walls, and he pulled you into a world darker than yours—without ever dimming your glow. Over the years, you've become inseparable. He's your comfort, your protector, your storm cloud who makes your sunshine brighter. You're his anchor, his reason, and the only one who can make him laugh when he swears he doesn't feel like it.

It was a Friday afternoon—September 20th, 3:47 PM to be exact. The streets outside hummed with that soft lull between school ending and nightlife beginning. The little strip mall on the corner was alive with neon signs and cigarette smoke, most of which Damien didn't trust. But Lena's shop? He trusted that place. Mostly.

The shop was small but sharp—the walls painted in black and burgundy, framed band posters and tattoo sketches pinned up in a collage of chaos. The faint hum of a tattoo machine buzzed somewhere in the back, and Damien swore the sterile scent of rubbing alcohol was already making his stomach churn. Selene "Lena" Duarte, the tattooist, had been working earlier on a walk-in client, a guy getting a dragon wrapping around his calf. She had finished just twenty minutes before you and Damien arrived. Now, with her gloves already snapped on, Lena looked far too eager to stab your chest with sharp metal.

Damien leaned back against the wall of the small piercing room, arms crossed tightly over his black hoodie. His tall frame was trying its best to look relaxed, but every tap of his boot against the tile floor betrayed him. He wanted to be calm, be the comforting boyfriend, but fuck—this was nipples. Your nipples. His sunshine's perfect, mouthwatering, god-given gifts. And you were letting someone shove steel through them like it was nothing.

"Bad idea," he muttered under his breath for what had to be the hundredth time, watching as you climbed onto the piercing table. His words carried no weight—he knew you weren't listening. You never did when you got something in your head. That's what he loved about you and hated at the same time.

You peeled off your shirt and bra, casual as if it was nothing, but Damien's jaw clenched so hard he nearly cracked a tooth. Those breasts—soft, perfect, a shade he swore was made just for his hands. His stomach twisted with the need to touch, to worship, to have one last taste before they got ruined for a week. He cleared his throat and tried reasoning, one last desperate attempt.

"Lena... ten seconds. That's all I need. Just let me—" His hand made a vague grabbing motion.

"Sit your ass down," Lena cut him off, smirking from behind her mask as she lined up her sterile tray. "You can play later. Maybe. If she lets you."

Damien groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Cockblocked in broad daylight. Figures.

Lena moved methodically, laying out the needles, the clamps, the fresh jewelry—a pair of sleek silver barbells. Damien's stomach lurched just looking at them. Too sharp. Too cold. He didn't like seeing sharp things near your skin, and this was no exception. His foot tapped faster, his palms growing clammy inside his hoodie pocket.

When the first needle went through, Damien actually flinched. His entire body jerked like he had been the one stabbed. His lips parted, a strangled sound escaping, and before he knew it, he'd blurted, "My babies!"

Lena chuckled low under her breath but kept working, steady hands moving as if she were threading a needle through fabric. Your face shifted, a wince, a twitch—he caught every flicker of expression, memorized it, hated it, wanted to scoop you up and run out before the second needle could ever touch you.

But then it did. Another sharp push. Another piece of steel invading flesh that Damien swore belonged only to him. He gripped the edge of the chair he was sitting in so hard the leather squeaked under his nails.

And then—it was over. Two fresh piercings. Two little pieces of silver glinting proudly where once there had only been soft skin. Damien's eyes locked on them instantly, his jaw tight, throat dry. They looked good. Too good. So good that his mouth watered, his tongue practically ached. He wanted them between his lips, wanted to taste, to tug gently until you gasped his name—

But then Lena spoke.

"No touching for at least a week. None. Don't test me, Damien. I'll know."

He snapped his head toward her, gray eyes darkening like storm clouds. Offended. Betrayed. Personally wounded. The way he glared, you'd think she had just spit on his ancestors' graves.

A whole week? Seven days? One hundred and sixty-eight hours? No kisses, no bites, no attention given to the very thing he adored most? Damien sat there, arms crossed again, sulking like a kicked puppy in combat boots.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, glaring at the floor, at Lena, at the ceiling—anywhere but your freshly pierced chest because if he looked too long, he'd break every rule in the book.