Obsessed | Camila x Reader

sixteen

Sunlight on your skin feels like honey on a sore throat.

I realise this as I sit on the edge of her deck, swinging my legs to and fro. My eyes are closed, a set of her freshly cleaned clothes now adorn me, and a smaller towel than before curls around my shoulders to protect the shirt she gave me from my still-wet hair. Behind me somewhere, Camila is strumming her guitar while birds in the nearly leaf-less trees sing along. I take a deep breath of fresh air, clearing my lungs and mind. This must be what heaven feels like, surely.

The steady music coming from behind stops suddenly and after a moment filled with light footsteps, I feel a pair of legs slide down beside my own. Looking down, I trail my eyes over the exposed olive skin of her legs thanks to the maroon knee-length athletic shorts she's wearing. Her fingers loop themselves around my hair, pulling back the parts that have fallen against my neck and down my front.

"It should be dry enough now." She comments in a purr. Before long, I feel a brush running through it, starting at the still dripping ends and pausing every time it reaches a knot.

She seems to take care not to hurt me as she untangles every knot in my hair, brushing it back over once done. As soon as she is, she gets to her feet and holds a hand out to me.

"Get up." She instructs, though softly.

Taking her hand and tug myself to my feet, my arms are swiftly bound behind my back once again as she leads me into the house, retrieving her guitar on the way. A sigh escapes me as she closes the French doors, locking them shut. The cool air of the air conditioning removes any trace of the suns gentle touch as she continues to push me towards the basement.

"I'll bring food and water later." She announces as she forces me down the first few steps before darting out and locking the door shut.

Frowning, I look over to the chains that hang from the wall. She hadn't fastened them to my limbs, something which seemed like an impossibility just earlier this morning. I am one step closer to freedom, it appears.

With the frown still etched into my face, I sink down on the last step, leaning against the wall and letting my head fall back to rest against the stone.

I don't bother trying to escape this time. I know it's no use. With her still around, she'd catch me within seconds.

...

"Go to the wall." She holds a plate in her hands as she stands at the top step of the staircase.

"I don't want to." I refuse, eyes flitting to the other side of the room.

"Go to the wall so I can feed you," She repeats calmly, "Or you won't be getting any food today."

With a small huff, I stand and make my way over to the further wall from the door, the one with the chains bolted into it. There, I stand and send her a challenging gaze.

"Sit." She demands as she descends the staircase.

Before I think, I do. I drop to my knees before my backside, watching as she sets the plate, laden with a sandwich cut into two halves, aside before restraining my limbs as usual.

Then, less like usual, she straddles my thighs before retrieving the plate, tearing a piece of the sandwich off, and holding it out to me. Trying to fight both the raised brow and deep red blush that threaten to make themselves known, I take the food and distract myself with chewing. We follow this silent pattern until half of the sandwich is gone.

"Have you ever been bullied, Y/n?" She speaks up as she tears off another bite-size piece of sandwich.

I nod, not particularly wanting to get into it. When she continues, however, it seems that wasn't her plan at all.

"When I was younger, I was bullied so badly we had to move. That's why we really came to America." She doesn't make eye contact with me once, not even when she presents the food to my awaiting mouth. Her gaze rises only to my mouth before falling lower, more like the base of my neck, though her eyes appear too glazed over to really be looking at anything.

"It was my uncle." She explains, "He saw me playing with my cousins' dolls and told me 'that's no way for a boy to behave.'" Her voice — which is already steadily slipping into an accent — begins to quiver as she takes a deep breath before saying, "He taught me the first lesson that day. Then, every time I spent the day at his house while Mami and Papi were both working and my grandparents couldn't take me, he'd teach me another. I didn't dare tell my parents. Then, when I was five or six years old, he decided to show me what real men do. We smoked cigars and drank obscene amounts of alcohol while he gambled with his friends. I came home with more than one bruise that day. My parents noticed and they said "Carlos, what did you do with your Tio today?" and I finally told them about the lessons he'd been teaching me."

"Camila..." I breathe, watching as she hangs her head in what seems like shame, but she isn't done. She puts the plate on the ground and begins to fiddle with the bottom of her shirt.

"We moved to America so I could be myself without having to worry about my Tio. It was good for a while, but in middle school when my friends found out I used to be a boy, they thought I was crazy and started to treat me as such. I would have told my parents, but Sofi had just started school and made her own friends. I didn't want to move her, so I stayed put and I how to deal with the new lessons from the people at school."

"Why are you telling me all of this?" I question softly as she finally connects our eyes. Hers are dampened by tears.

"Because before, you tried to run away." She answers, "But today, you didn't. You're starting to trust me, and you shouldn't trust somebody if you don't really know them. Nobody really knows me, but now you know a little bit more."

I only nod, taking a deep breath as she wraps her arms around my waist and rests her head on my shoulder, nose nuzzling into the nook between my shoulder and neck.

"I think that's why I hurt you, Y/n." She whispers softly, thumbs drawing shapes through the back of my shirt, "I don't mean to. It's just how I've been taught."

"I think so too." I confirm, not offering an 'it's okay' despite the way the words want to roll off of my tongue. It's not okay, it's not fine, and it's not an excuse, but I'm not about to tell her that.

She squeezes tightly for a moment before releasing the strength of her hold, and I feel her eyelashes brush against my skin as her eyes softly close. In the warm glow of the lamp, it almost feels romantic.

—
Oddly satisfying, this has 1234 words.