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atlaswav · 3 months

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ADDICTED TO THE RUSH ♢

INFO: 3k words, aiku oliver x fem! reader SYNOPSIS: strange things, a man did, when his knowledge of women was suddenly upturned by your very existence — the anomaly to his capricious heart, the addictive rush he'd been yearning for. WARNINGS: making out 16+ (shame.), hard drugs, hallucinogens, please don't do drugs kids, ESPECIALLY NOT FROM RANDOM STRANGERS LIKE OLIVER THIS BITCHASS, angst?? with happy ending. please be drug safe, not like this guy AUTHOR'S NOTE: not proof read and this is nothing except shame and delusion i'm ashamed and also simultaneously proud but i'll probably look back on this later and barf. listen to waiting for love by openside the title is inspired by that song. ++ if this is romanticising drugs in any way pls lmk idk what came over me. also likes and reblogs are really appreciated i'll give you a cookie 🫂

Contrary to what many would think, Oliver Aiku didn’t exactly consider himself one for parties. If anything, the thrumming bass that vibrated through the crowd, the alcohol stagnant in the air and the humidity of sweating bodies was an immediate line in the sand. He did have a reputation to keep, however, so what was one girl from the next when his name became a mantra on their lips?

Oliver wasn’t one for drinking, drugs or anything of the sort, either. Despite what his teammates may think, he would never have taken anything beyond a celebratory drink. Even though he’d been offered far worse on multiple occasions.

The professional soccer player couldn’t possibly risk any harm to his health, could he?

But he supposed, if he were to take the strangely glimmering, iridescent pill that was offered to him at the subway station in the dead of night, it’d be catastrophic. Strange things, a man did, when his heart was confused, brimming with reckless abandon.

What was another wound to his soul than what already was?

He’d ingest it against the voice of reason, and his head would start to spin after a few moments. Were there two of those men standing in front of him? The lights would begin to flicker in his vision, and the ground would rise up to meet his face unceremoniously, while he dreamed of a faraway paradise. A paradise filled with gaudy colours, rippling images, and infinite traces of you.

You, you you – your narcotic smell everywhere, your hypnotic laughter around each corner and bend, the hue of your irises flashing in the peripherals of his vision. He’d turn, aching to catch your evasive gaze, but you weren’t there.

Slipping through his fingers like water, fading into the effervescent shoreline. Trying to bottle sunlight – preserve seafoam.

He supposed that’s what loving you was like – would be like – not that he would know. It was an addiction in its own sense; chasing something that wasn’t there, yet yearned to hold.

He supposed that if he ingested that pill, and if all these things happened to him, then loving you was a drug.

He got unbelievably high from your presence, the rapid beating of his heart, your quiet smiles, shared furtive glances, secret whispers, your feather light touch skimming across his skin, your voice’s melodic cadences.

He’d give up anything to try again. To turn time on its head, watch the sand fall inversely through the hourglass and give rise to the words that were lodged in his throat. To stand his ground and not run away like the coward he became when it came to you. But of course, Oliver Aiku was not one for such things either.

And he hated himself for it.

The lights above shone a myriad of colours into his bleary gaze, the ground beneath him rumbling. What was that screeching noise?

It hurt his ears. He wanted to curl into a ball to escape it, but his limbs betrayed him.

His annoyance only spiked as people started to pour onto the platform, the ground shaking with footsteps and indistinct voices.

He told himself that he should move, but the iridescent lights above him were swirling into shapes, and he wanted to watch the bubbles float towards him, shining incandescently.

Wait. Bubbles?

“Oliver? Oh my god.”

He stirred, temples throbbing. Your voice started to haunt him too, it seemed. Lilting, soothing, lovely. He wished you’d speak again. He needed you to say his name again. It sounded like honey when it fell from your lips.

“Oh my god, Oliver, wake up.”

He mumbled something, faintly aware of a face in front of him. Your face. Beautiful, but marked with worry. He willed himself to reach out, to hold your cheek, to brush your hair away from your face, but he couldn’t.

“He’s off. On a trip to another universe. What did that guy give him?” another voice, this one less lovely. A dissonant cadence that had him remembering training. He hated training. Only because his team mates wouldn’t stop pestering him about you, once they’d finally found out about you.

“Hang in there, Oliver. We’ll get you home.”

Home? To him, home was wherever you were. He was entirely content to fall asleep in your arms, on the grimy platform floor.

Arms tried to lift him, but the six foot man was liquid in their arms.

“C’mon, can you move?” his teammate asked. “What did that guy even give you?”

He grumbled something. Tried to get his legs to move. Stumbled backwards, hitting his back on a wall.

“He said “a ticket to heaven for a night”, whatever that means.” You supply.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Sendo, let’s just carry him. It isn’t too far anyway.” you huffed, looping one of his arms around you. He tried to cling to you with both arms, but his limbs flailed uselessly by his sides.

“Alright, fine. You’re buying me a drink after this, Aiku.” His teammate’s voice irked him, even in this state of bliss.

The walk back to his apartment took far longer than it should’ve. It was quiet, occasionally broken by the heaving of breaths, clouding in the winter air. Wisps of colour followed them out of the subway station. Was that a whale swimming towards them? No, that was just the light. The stupid, colourful light.

He creaked open his eyes, and the world started to swirl in his vision. Were they standing at his elevator? Is that why the wind had stopped blowing into his face? He leaned into your warmth, cheeks red from the cold.

“You can go now, I got him from here.”

“You sure?” His balance slips as Sendo removes himself from Oliver’s grip.

“Yeah. ‘Night, Sendo.”

“Yeah, yeah, message me if something happens. Goodnight.”

You stand there in silence with him, waiting for the elevator to arrive. His face presses into the crook of your neck, stubble grazing your skin as he mumbles something.

“Oliver, what did you do?” you sigh.

He frowns.

“You okay?”

He huffs.

“Silent treatment, or high out of your mind?”

He doesn’t respond. Spots start to appear all over the place. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Waves of dizziness wash over him, and his grip on your arm tightens.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” you haul him into the elevator, leaning against the wall as the ascent starts. Oliver wobbles dangerously, threatening to collapse as his knees start to give out.

“Why did you do this?” you mutter. “Is it because of what I said?”

His eyes snap open. As close to snapping open as his traitorous body would allow in this state of his. Your eyes meet his, and he feels himself wanting to drown in your gaze forever. His mind was just as traitorous as his body.

No, he wants to say. It could never be your fault.

But he doesn’t. His tongue is lead in his mouth, so he just looks at you in a stupor before you sigh and shake your head.

“You don’t have to reciprocate anything. We can still be friends.”

Your confession only hours before had felt like a weight finally lifted from your chest, quickly replaced by another. Heavier, more suffocating. When he’d run from you, it took everything within you to not run after him and beg.

He hated anything remotely permanent, he’d once confided to you. He found an appreciation for the fleeting moments of affection of one night stands and miscellaneous, faceless, nameless women – no strings attached, tying him down. Heaven forbid you become the object of his hatred, along with the object of his – disgust? You couldn’t tell, with Oliver. There was never any telling what he’d do.

You drew the keys from his pocket, unlocking his front door as he stumbled forward, nearly face planting on the floors.

“Come on, you big baby.”

“...Stars.”

“What?”

“Stars on the… ceiling.” me mumbled, eyes half closed.

Worry rushed through you as you seated him on the couch. Just how strong was the drug he took?

“What did you take?” you grasp his shoulders, shaking him lightly. He mumbles something close to ‘Don’t worry’. If anything, you begin to worry more as his head falls to one side.

“Oliver.” Your voice is a song in his ears, drawing up images of the waves at sunrise, bleeding orange, pink and purple into the deep blue of the water.

“Oliver, stay with me.”

“‘M fine.” he manages. “Dizzy.”

“Let me get you some water.” your presence – the warmth of your touch – disappears, and his eyes open in alarm.

He hears the sound of water being poured, then soft footsteps shuffling around. His apartment is dark, the only light drifting in from the balcony, illuminating the room with a pale glow.

“Here, drink.” you lift the glass to his lips, and he begrudgingly takes a couple of sips. Some water spills from the corner of his lips, down his neck. His Adam's apple bobs. His trembling hand comes up weakly to lower the glass, but he doesn’t release his grip as he meets your eyes. Pupils blown out, hardly on this plane of existence.

“I love you.”

You nearly drop the glass.

“You’re high. Say that to me when you’re sober.” you pry free from his grip, setting the glass onto the low coffee table in front of you. “Want to go to bed?”

He shakes his head, the movement apparently as much as he can muster. “Here.”

“Huh?”

“Here. With you.” he mumbles.

“What?”

Then you take a seat next to him, and his head falls onto your shoulder. His body seems to relax in your presence, wholly at peace.

You sigh. If “heaven for one night” meant anything, he’d be fine by morning, but you debated calling an ambulance anyway. Should you call the ambulance? Was that crook at the subway trustworthy? You glance at the peacefully sleeping man beside you, chest evenly rising and falling. He seemed fine, but he had taken drugs from a stranger.

You reach for your phone just as he grumbles, flopping his entire upper body onto your lap.

Okay, no, then.

Oliver’s soft snoring is almost endearing as he nuzzles his face into your thighs. You heave a sigh, running a hand through his neon green edged hair. He seemed to lean into the touch. No, it was your imagination. You lean back against the leather sofa and close your eyes, hoping for the night to pass sooner. Hoping that he’d sober up by morning, and spare you a trip to the emergency room.

Hoping to hear those three words in the lustre of clarity.

—

His dreams were filled with phantoms; phantom hands, faces, touches. Phantom words spoken into the air, disappearing in smoke, and only spurring his guilt. Yet as he woke from his stupor, the world smelled like you. Coaxing him back to the dreamscape. Exhaustion hit him like a tsunami, meeting him with a thundering headache.

His vision didn’t fare any better as he opened his eyes, the world a mess of swirls and blurring patterns. He groaned and flipped over, only to realise where he was.

The disorientation of sleep melted away as he finally came to his senses. Sweat, thinly beaded across his skin, his clothes clinging to his body. He lay curled up on the couch, head nuzzled into the pillows – warm, soft –

“Oliver? You awake?”

He snaps to attention, sitting up the moment he hears your voice.

The plight of his dreams, the palliative cadences that he wished he could despair in.

His head throbbed from the blood rushing to his head, and he swore quietly, swaying as he adjusted.

“How are you feeling? Are you alright?” your eyes are wide with concern, and something in his heart tugs.

The night before is an empty slot in his reel of memory, a smudge of bright, neon lights and dancing shapes as he attempts to recall exactly what happened. How he ended up sleeping on your lap, how you’d ended up at his apartment. Did you sleep over? It looks like you didn’t sleep at all, with the dark circles under your red rimmed eyes.

You abruptly get off the couch, heading into his kitchen. He hears the pouring of water, then you return, gingerly handing him the glass. He takes it, confusion slowly turning to realisation as he remembers.

And the memory of his cowardliness, his recklessness, his awful string of decisions that led him to seeing stars rushes through him like ice cold water.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft. Treading on eggshells.

He nods, downing the glass of water.

Quiet, strung on a humming wire, envelops you as he attempts to find the words that kept escaping him. The words that he swore he’d never speak, even though you were right in front of him, still worried. Despite it all. You’d stayed, despite everything.

Would he have been a coward for pushing you away? Sparing you from the inevitable heartbreak that he’d dole out like his meaningless plethora of apologies, incapable of anything prolonged more than one night?

“Oliver,” his gaze snaps to you. His name was like ambrosia on your lips. He wanted to hear it spoken again and again, a prayer, a worship, a plea.

“Did we…” he trails off, sheepish. Oliver Aiku, bashful of his escapades.

Your cheeks redden slightly as you shake your head, unwilling to meet his eyes.

Silence, the capricious thing. Teetering on the edge of ruin, speared into disrepair with words that could shatter or mend your heart. Your heart, aching to be given away. Aching for the one that you couldn’t have.

Your name echoes through his empty house. The early morning sunlight peers through the windows, casting warm light on your face. Rejuvenating, almost divine.

“I’m sorry.”

Your heart drops.

“I don’t know how to–” he rubs his face with his hand, heterochromic eyes gazing at some point beyond. “I’ve never had a way with words.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” your bitter smile breaks his heart. Digs the blade in and twists, spilling burning acid into his veins.

He can feel his world crumbling around him as you stand, turning around. Heading for the door, for the threshold beyond that would mean you were finally gone. Finally out of his life, finally gone from the dreams that you haunted, from the touch that he craved.

He should be glad, but instead, like an addicted man, he reaches out, grabbing your arm.

“Wait,”

You turn to face him. Hope glimmers in your eyes and he can only feel guilty. His love wasn’t something that he could offer, his heart wasn’t one that could stay with yours for as long as he would wish, and it was another thing that he despised himself for.

He despised himself for not being able to love you the way you should be.

If only he could put it into words.

“You don’t need to comfort me.”

He sighs. “I’m not trying to comfort you, I just…”

You frown, stepping closer. “Then what, Oliver?”

If only you knew the effect you had. “I don’t have a way with words,” he starts. “But I’ve always believed that actions can speak louder.”

“What are you–”

Your words drown in his mouth as he pulls your mouth down to meet his. He drowns your gasp of shock, offers reassurance with the measured brush of his tongue on your lips. If Oliver had anything to show from his reputation as a womaniser, it was knowing how to treat a woman.

The kiss burns with a fervour that you can only describe as hunger. He kisses like he’s been starved, addicted to your taste, your touch, shivering as your hands wander into his hair. His breath catches in his throat as your nails scrape his scalp, muffling a groan as you bite his lip.

You pull away all too quickly for his liking. His starvation is in his eyes. Your breaths are quick, ragged, and he tries to kiss you again, but you press your index finger to his lips.

“Are you still high?” you ask, voice carrying that hint of joy that he wanted to illuminate.

“No.”

“Are you lying to me?”

A smile breaks out on your face as he sighs heavily, catching your wrist in his hand. “I might be, but I can think straight.”

A laugh from you, and he thinks he’s doomed. Fated to be wrapped around your finger for the remainder of his sorry life, a jester for your amusement. How quickly the tables have turned on him.

“We’ll see, Aiku.” you press a kiss to his forehead, smile luminescent in the dawn sun. Despite the sleepless night, watching over him in his state of oblivion, you were radiant. The object of his secret desires, the hubris to his mercurial heart.

“Wait, what?” As you turn to leave, he scrambles up from the couch, but his limbs won’t let him catch you. “Where are you going?”

“Home.” you cast him a coy smile. “If your actions speak true, come find me when you’re sober.”

Then the door opens and closes, before he can retort. Gone with the wind, scattered like seafoam on the shores of golden sand.

He falls back onto the couch with a huff, the ceiling still swimming slightly in his vision. Never again, he’d take any drug from any sketchy man in a subway station. He didn’t need drugs, alcohol or women anymore, he could discard his reputation completely. He didn’t need such things anymore – not when he had you.

You, you you, with your haunting presence, eluding his grasp like sunlight in a jar. He’d normally relent, turning to the next woman fawning over him, sweep her off her feet with his aloofness and casanova grin.

But now he had you, and the chase was a thrill that no drug could replicate.

You were his dopamine, he was hopelessly addicted.

written by @atlaswav, published 4th of February, 2024

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