harmlessmessages

[harmlessmessages]

literally had someone on here yell at me for "disgusting behavior" for my ff and it's like... you're clearly on the wrong website

every inch of me is full of pain

luigi mangione/fem!reader

idgaf how anyone feels abt the ethics of writing ff for luigi, ppl literally be writing for the worst individuals ever so… 🤷🏻‍♀️ and i will add that this fic is not a reflection or representation of luigi, i aim to humanise him in the ways the media won’t. tumblr pls don’t ban me 🙏🏻 (1.1k words)

caution. rpf, reader and lu have matching chronic pains lol, ambiguous relationship (yearnful situationship type 😈), flower symbolism, set before his incarceration.

THE grip held on your own palm is unbearable. The metallic stench of blood breathes through the crevasses of your skin. The pain of the wounds has generally died down now, leaving only the numbing sting of regret.

Luigi is asleep; you couldn’t bear to wake him up.

It was a deal the two of you shook on. If the pain was too much to endure alone, you’d let the other know. It was mutually beneficial, this relationship.

No, you weren’t dating; he introduces you to others as a friend, and you do the same with a racing heart. It was more of an oath, a pledge between two bodies, tied to the earth by a turn of phrase.

His body is warm beside you, rising softly with each breath. His back faces you head-on, the ripples of muscle and skin stretched with growth are prominent in the dim light of your bedroom.

A breath hitches in your throat. How domestic it is for him to be like this. Safe and content in the comfort of your bed. Normally you’d laugh at the scene of him swaddled up in the blush-coloured sheets—teasing him at the idea of the forget-me-not flower patterns. But now, all it does is let guilt pool in your gut.

Your hand trembles under the weight of your form as you press it against the mattress. He is safe here; you hope to keep him safe for as long as possible.

With a dismissive scoff, you pull up off the bed, and it squeaks under the release of your form. These thoughts aren’t good for your conscience; you'd hate to let it make you keel over.

The hallway is dark, but after the past month and a half of living here, you’ve become used to it. While you navigate the length of your apartment, an all-too-familiar pain builds in your lower back.

The winter weather fell short on aid when it came to your aches; you could only pray that the wind wouldn’t shatter you whole.

A faint light bursts through the kitchen curtain, leaving a hollow glow of orange. Regardless of the chilling air, the light brings warmth to the room. Non-fluorescent lights were always a must in your living spaces; they were the most efficient to your mind.

Green tea typically helped with the heated fuss of pain, but you had forgotten to grab some during your last stop at the grocery store. Luigi had been kind enough to offer to go and purchase some for you, but you had declined. It was a rainy day when he did; you wouldn’t ask him to go forth into it just because of your poor decisions.

The effects are more placebo-like in your mind anyway.

Cinnamon has always been a common item in your pantry, on account of your mother’s teachings. Paired with the acidic juice of a lemon, the tea proves worthy to combat the stir of aches and pains.

The water will take a few minutes to boil, and even then it will be too loud. Perhaps it would be best to have lukewarm tea, just so the squeal of the kettle doesn’t wake Luigi up.

He bears a similar inflection to you. That’s really the main reason as to why you both get along so well. There’s a reciprocal understanding, one that is unknown to everyone else. You don’t expect anyone else to be aware of it—nor do you want them to be.

No words have to be shared for the pair of you to understand.

The moment the kettle starts to let out a faint whistle, you pull it off of the stove.

A rich aroma of cinnamon fills the space, and you already start to feel the tension leave your spine. As you reach out for the handle of the refrigerator door, a pair of mellow footsteps sounds out from the dark hallway. Despite your mindful precautions, you still somehow managed to wake him up.

The jug of milk is heavy in your grasp as you briefly lock eyes. His are sleep-ridden and squinty; it almost causes a smile to form on your face.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

The hushed tone leaves your throat, croaky with lack of use. Luigi stands to the side of you, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. The shirt he has on is straining over his shoulders; it’s one you recognise as yours. He had a habit of raiding your wardrobe whenever he was over.

“You should’ve.” Was all he said back, voice equally as quiet. From the corner of your eye, you see as he brushes a hand through his messy curls. He’s stood beside you now, lent down so he could rest against the kitchen counter.

In a show of guilt, you smile lacklusterly. It was a part of the deal to make sure the other knew when it got particularly bad—but something in your heart was telling you to act differently.

How would you know if he were to do the same? How many sleepless nights has Luigi gone through merely because he didn’t want to burden you with it?

The tea is hot against your lips; the cinnamon is overpowering, but you like it; at least that makes you feel something. The liquid is murky; the milk manages to convince you that it’s anything but a placebo-featured remedy. Hot chocolate would be nicer.

You tilt the mug towards Luigi as an invitation. He takes a moment to peer into your eyes, like he’s searching for something so specific it’s unseen to the naked eye. The eye contact makes your heart pound wildly, the intensity of his gaze picking at you like one would whilst analysing a century-old painting.

Unfazed by his own sudden actions, he takes the mug from your hand with a hushed “Thanks,” and you lean back against the counter. You subtly push at your sternum, aiming to quiet your racing heart.

Silence envelops the room once more, and somehow, you couldn’t be more at ease. Luigi has a knack for making you flustered but always manages to keep you sane. His presence beside you is anchoring. It’s a lingering feeling, warmer than any cup of cinnamon tea. You wonder, does he feel the same about you? Does he feel content, just alone, in your company?

The mug is handed back to you with a gentle brush of touch. He doesn’t flinch at the contact, so you don’t either.

“Lu,” you start, teeth tugging at your lips, “I’m.. tired.”

He hums, bringing his hand up past your shoulder. His fingers start to toy with the baby hairs at your neck.

He says nothing, and neither do you.

No words have passed, and yet, you’ve both said all that was necessary.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author. 

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Pink Light, MUNA

41/41

She woke up in her own bed, eyes blurry and tired. Yawning, she flipped over to reach for her phone, but paused as her eyes caught the glint of the foil ring under the sun coming through the window.

So it wasn’t a dream, then. She pulled his favour off her finger, smiling like a little girl, spinning it between her hands as the night before flashed through her mind. 

The stubble of his face softly scraping against her cheek, his lips searching for any spot untouched on her body. She imagined what she must have looked like from his point of view, on her knees, looking up at him. She remembered his laugh, his corny pick up line from the bar. She remembered his eyes following her body as she sang on stage, right before they met hers for the first time, before they both looked away, panicked. 

Pins and needles flooded her thighs, drawing her attention to the raw, deep soreness that he left behind. 

It was only 10 AM, so she shouldn’t expect a text, right? Maybe he hadn’t woken up yet. She wondered what time checkout was at the hostel. He said he was leaving today. That’s what he said, and she wanted to believe him. Had he seen her note yet? If he did, would he even reach out? 

She began to write the story in her head. For so long, I have been isolated, alone, lonely. For so long, I thought no one could possibly understand me, even though that is all I ever wanted. I sing my songs to strangers, about wanting someone, about wanting to give someone what they needed, because I can do that now. I couldn’t do it before — I was broken, depressed, and anxious. But I’m enough now, for myself, and for someone else. And I’m no longer tired. And I’m no longer angry.

And then, he came, a stranger in the night. I was careless and I bumped into him and it hurt him but it was kismet. And I almost faltered, because old habits die hard. But I overcame it, as I always do. And he had a past, too, one that he was not ready to share on the first night but I accepted him and he accepted me. And he held me and I held him and we held each other. And he said he had to leave and even though I understood, I did not truly understand. Because in his voice and in his touch, I heard and felt something else. 

I want to go back to the hostel. I want to be in his arms again — the last place I felt safe, at ease, warm, so warm. He was so warm.

Would he understand? Would he think of me same? Once he sees me for who I truly am — a stupid, pathetic, horrible girl that is not capable of much else besides this — wanting, wanting so that I do not have to do this life alone. I hate being alone. 

Her phone screen lit up, cuttting through her thoughts.

She sighed and picked it up and typed her password in lazily. She tapped her Message icon, scrolling down her inbox. ‘Are you okay? Hey, did you see the news? Is that close to you? Dude! Answer your phone! Why aren’t you answering?

She swiped up, passing by messages from her friends and family and colleagues until she reached the first unread message from the morning. 

6:30 AM. From an unknown number. Panic. Panic, she felt as her heart rang to open it.

She pressed the screen as fast as her aching hand could bear. They always ached the most in the morning, when it was this cold. She opened the notification to an empty chat, safe the green text bubble.

“I was serious. See you in Japan. 

Yours truly —”

He signed off with his name. She read it out loud, smiling, laughing. She was happy.

-

Bonus Track: No Church In The Wild, Kanye West

Thanks for reading :-) Will be posting a final edit to Wattpad soon and update everyone here <3

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author. 

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Lost In The World, Kanye West

40/41

5:00 AM. He woke up as planned. It was easy enough — he couldn’t sleep a full night’s rest, anyway. No alarm, no need to alert his roommates.

And thankfully, the click of the door from her departure had awakened him earlier that night, allowing him to put his clothes back on, drink some water, and sleep under the sheets.

He sat on the edge of his bed, hearing sounds of a large truck stopping and unloading outside the building, then the loud, drunk snores of the other men rumbling across the room he occupied. Maybe he should have risen when he was awakened by her exit. Maybe he should have chased her outside and gave her a proper goodbye. 

Slowly, he tied on his shoes, pulled up his mask, then reached for his bag underneath his mattress. He sweeped the area for anything he might have misplaced in the night, though he knew he didn’t. He thought of her, entering her, holding her, laughing. 

He tried to remember her parting kiss — he was half asleep, as if he dreamed it. How careless, he thought, to fall asleep like that with her there, knowing that he had to be here, right now. 

He caught the scribbles from the peripheral of his vision. They were on a loose sheet on the side table. Panic. Panic, he felt, as his heart rang to pick it up, pocketing it without pause before rushing out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

It was cold outside. The sun had not yet risen but wanted to. He made his way to the subway, taking a moment at the stairwell to take in the quiet of the street. Last night was real, he told himself. We passed this station together on our walk to the hostel. She was laughing, she was laughing at me, with me. He remembered her silly laugh and smiled. 

Eventually, he reached the train below ground and sat inside. It wasn’t an empty cart — a few people were commuting to work. This city runs on the livelihoods of these people, he thought. People who are not seen and yet wake up before the sun rises to serve the people who do not see them.

The paper in his pocket now felt heavy. He cautiously reached for it, pulling out the crumpled stationery. Her handwriting was clear and unhurried. He bit his lip under his mask, eyebrows tensing. It read:

“I know you’re leaving tomorrow and I probably won’t see you again. I think a lot of people would be upset in this situation, but, honestly, I am just happy that we were able to meet. I’m sorry if it hurt you, if I hurt you. I hope whatever is holding you back is healed, and that you’re able to live a good, easy life. I know I just met you, but you seem like someone who deserves that at least. 

If you’re ever in town again, give me a call. Or if you were serious about Japan, well, I’m there in June. I’d like to see you again, wherever we may cross paths. I hope we do meet again.

Yours truly —”

His heart raced as he reached the end of her note, her name and number etched deeply into the bottom of the paper.

He looked up at the orange, neon subway sign flashing above him. He had reached his stop. He gathered himself, stood up straight and tall and exited the cart.

He would have liked to meet her again, really. He didn’t lie about that. He walked through the station, then up the stairs into the brisk, chillness of the city.

He was also happy that they were able to meet. He crossed the street, finding the sidewalk he would follow for a few minutes until he reached his target. 

A good, easy life. If only it were that easy. If it were, he wouldn’t be here right now. He wouldn’t be walking away from the life that was promised to him, that broke its promise.

Does he deserve this? His steps grew louder, though only to himself. His heart began to sink, sinking and blackening and paining more than his back. The same pain he was used to, but would never, fully, get used to. 

He took the phone out of his bag — a small, black burner phone he had bought weeks ago. If he had known life could be as thrilling, unexpected, and sweet as last night, he would never be here in the first place. If he had known he could meet someone like her, he would have never left Japan, Hawaii, his family, his friends, his home. 

But maybe he had to leave those places and people to meet someone like her, to meet her. He typed the number from her note into his phone. 

He punched at the phone’s plastic buttons with his thumb. He wished she were here, laughing, careless, cutting through his thoughts. She wouldn’t be awake now, would she? Would she even receive this message? Would she understand? Would she think of him the same way once she finds out? Once she finds out how horrible he would become, how horrible he is for being able to conjur up a plan like this in the first place?

The little mail sign wooshed and danced on the screen. Sent. 

A sharp panic rang through his body, followed by a deep distraught forming in his eyes. Calm, be calm, he told himself, trying to still his racing heart, trying to stop the dampness building.

You forgot why you’re here. No distractions. Please, no more distractions. I can’t take this anymore.

I don’t want to do this, not right now, not like this. I want to go back to the hostel. I want to be in her arms again — the last place I felt safe, at ease, warm, so warm. She was so warm. 

I want to go home, please, I want to go back home. I don’t want to be here anymore. I could turn back now. I could call her tomorrow. I could go back to Japan. To Hawaii. I could call mom and dad. I could make it to his wedding. I could brush it all off — my disappearance, my avoidance. I could make up any excuse and they would all welcome me back with open arms.

Leave, I should leave now, something deep inside begged him once more.

A man rushed passed him to his right, dressed in a suit, new leather heels clapping against the dirty sidewalk of the city. Instantly, he was pulled back to reality, as cold and biting as the morning. 

Right… He had already made his decision. Long ago, he made this decision. 

He remembered the people on the subway. Those who were not seen. He made this decision for them, he thought. And once he made a decision, well, he always followed through. That’s what he always told himself.

He remembered her name, etched into the paper. And before any tear could fall, he wiped his face with the end of his sleeves.

He then let out a quick, hard breath through his nose and stepped forward. Following the man’s steps, he flung the black phone down a passing sewer drain as he reached inside his backpack and reached for the cold, hard metal.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author. 

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: To Build A Home, The Cinematic Orchestra

38/41

He did not know how long they were there, just that he did not want it to end. Just that he knew that he did not have much time. That they did not have much time left together. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” He muttered, holding her naked body in his arms. 

“Wow, okay, thanks for ruining the moment.” She scoffed, but did not tense, did not pull away. 

He smirked, looking at her. “Sorry, that wasn’t my intention.” “What was your intention, then?” She snuggled closer to him, tracing shapes and letters on his bare chest. He tried to follow her motions — What was she spelling? Was there something else she had to say that she wouldn’t speak? For a moment there, he thought he could read her completely, as if they were speaking the same language in the night. But, there were some things she said, the way she looked at him, that he was not certain he could translate.

“I don’t know. I just — I had a lot of fun tonight. With you.”

“Oh, did you?” She rolled her eyes at him. There was that sardonic side of hers, teasing him and challenging him to speak clearly. This wasn’t coming out right, he knew. But he didn’t know what else he could say. There was probably nothing he could say to make this right. 

“I mean, I would have liked to see you again.” He stared up at the ceiling, raising his arm, hand outstretched, closing, squeezing and turning his palms until they were red. He sighed. “I'm going back home. Maybe I should have said that from the start.” 

“Me too.” She whispered. “As in I would have liked to see you, too.” She breathed into a soft laugh.

He wanted to tell her what he really meant. All night, the last few weeks, months, that’s what he really wanted — to just say what he meant. To make others understand. He turned to her, taking her hand, his tone turning serious. 

“Listen, this might not mean much to you right now. But I want you to know something.”

Her smile froze, her eyes focusing on him.

“I — um. Well, I —” he stuttered. He wanted to say that this was the first time in a long time that he had felt this way. That he probably would never see her again, but it wasn’t because of her, of course not, it was because he was going so far away that she would not be able to reach him again. That just because he came and would go does not mean that he would forget this night, or forget her, ever. That he felt sad, so fucking sad, he felt so sad that it had come to this. But there was no turning back for him. Not anymore. 

“What?” She searched for something, anything from him.

He kissed her nose. “Well, maybe I’ll come to Japan this summer. And see you again.” He lied. He had to lie. 

She smiled up at him and kissed him. “I’d like that.”

39/41 

They laid there in silence, holding and tracing each other, eyes closed. She felt there was more to say, from her end and his, as well. But she wouldn’t press him and she wouldn’t pour her heart out. Right now, it felt right to be in his arms, and everything else was unnecessary.  

She gently scratched his head, playing with his hair, until he became still, his hands falling from hers until she could hear him softly snoring. She noticed the stiffness in her fingers, an ache gathering as the cold of the night drew her back into the world outside of them.

His roommates must be coming back soon. It was probably midnight, or after at this point.

Now is the time to leave. Right now, she should go.

She carefully moved away from him, watching his chest rise and fall. Her clothes were scattered across the room, so she picked them up and wore them piece by piece. 

He was beautiful, truly, his skin glowing under the warm light of the desk lamp beside the bed. He was sleeping, yet his eyes looked tired. They looked like that all night. She wanted to know why, but she accepted that she wouldn’t at this point. He didn’t want to her know. And even though she was someone who couldn’t help but wear her heart on her sleeve on most occasions, she understood that other people were not like that.

Her eyes caught the notepad and pen on the side table. Alright, she thought. Maybe this was the end of their story, but she would write to him still, just in case there could be more. She couldn’t help herself. It was another bad habit.

She quietly tore a page from the pad and wrote her last words as slowly as possible, so that his breaths remained the only sound in the room. 

When she was ready, she grabbed his clothes from the floor and placed them on his bed. She sat beside him, tenderly shaking his arm.

“Hey. Wake up.” She whispered to him. 

His eyes fluttered opened, then closed. “Hm?” His groggy, tired voice shook her. She wanted nothing else but to lay next to him again, entangled in his warm embrace.

But she knew she had to leave. Right now, she had to go. “Put your clothes back on. You don’t want your roommates to walk in on you like this.” She laughed through her nose.

He groaned, sleepy. “What time is it?” 

She checked her phone. “It’s almost 1 AM. I’m going to go now.”

“Okay.” He whispered, his eyes closed, half asleep. “Come here.” His arms reached towards her. 

She leaned over him, wrapping her arms around his warm body, nuzzling her face into his soft, curly hair, breathing him in one last time. She wouldn’t forget his scent — dry, sweet, sweaty. 

This was supposed to be sad, wasn’t it? And yet, she didn’t feel sad. She felt something else — was it grateful? Hopeful? She wasn’t sure yet, but she’d write about it tomorrow.

She kissed his cheek, then his eyelids, then his forehead, then his nose. Finally, she gently pressed her lips against his. “I’ll see you later.” She whispered into his ear, and then he grew still again, his tranquil breathing easing in and out, in and out.

She walked to the door, looking back at him laying in his bunk bed one last time, her heart panging with something she has felt before, a long time ago, something like love. How cliche, she thought. All of this was so stupid. She was just a stupid, stupid girl.

The door clicked shut behind her.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author. 

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Fake Plastic Trees, Radiohead

34/41

“I want you to cum inside me.” She begged him. Fuck, fuck, he could not think. She felt too good, he felt too good inside her. He wasn’t thinking at all. He wasn’t thinking from the moment she rubbed her knees against his at the bar. From the moment she sang on stage. 

“I’m so close.” He moaned into her ear, not stopping, his dick drumming and filling with his desire. 

He could feel her clench onto his cock, unmistakable twitches that grew into hard, heaving contractions, almost pushing him out. As she howled, he dug deeper, plunging himself through the crashing waves of her orgasm.

Now, now was the time. He could do it. He would do it. He wouldn’t let the pain stop him. Not this time. 

35/41

Every tendon of her body ignited, the flooding and fire between her legs whirling, rising, her toes twisting and curling. She burned, she burned and it felt so good, his dick pummeling into her, his mouth hard against her neck, kissing and gnawing and sucking as her vision blurred and she squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that bright, shooting colors bounced against the blank dark. 

She came hard, she came so hard that she nearly cried. He reached down to kiss her, breathing her cries into his throat and she gasped so heavily that she felt dizzy, dizzy with pleasure. 

Before she could gather herself, he pulled out, and she moaned from the shockwaves that radiated up to her heart. Her cum dripped from him and her, glistening on his cock. 

He picked her up from the bed, standing her on her feet so she stood as he was, her body still shaking and now facing forward, his dick rock hard and wet against her ass. He reached his hands in front of her, one on her breast, and the other sliding over her clit as he softly kissed her neck from behind. 

“I’m not done yet.” He urged into her ear, electrifying her skin and nerves so the hair on her arms and neck stood up. 

She angled her head, looking to the ceiling and moving her hair for him, allowing his tongue to slide up her with ease. Slowly, she closed her eyes and focused on his hand softly massaging her below.

She then turned around to meet his lips with her own, standing on her toes so his dick now pressed directly against her legs still convulsing with excitement. His mouth was sweet, his tongue warm and dancing with hers. He gently guided her back onto the bed, placing her head on the pillow, his lips never leaving her own.

36/41

He willed her eyes to open and locked onto them with his own. It would hurt, he knew. But he wanted this. 

She spread his legs for him one last time, and he entered willfully. Slow, deliberate, keeping her gaze. 

She giggled. She’s still nervous, he noted, even after all of this. He laughed into her, brushing his nose against hers before kissing her passionately, then leaning back to hold her eyes once more. 

She was beautiful. She knew that, didn’t she? 

“What?” She whispered, searching his eyes time and time again for something he failed to speak.

“You’re beautiful.” He kissed her lips.

She smiled. “So are you.” No squinting, no rolling her eyes, no scowl. Instead, she reached up to kiss him, and he accepted her invitation wholeheartedly. He began to push faster, deeper, and harder as she twisted below him, rocking and swinging her hips and holding him inside her. He felt her latch again, clenching and releasing onto his cock as she moaned, louder and louder.

It built up quickly, the excited pressure in his dick ready to erupt. She wrapped her legs around him, locking him in, as he groaned, feeling the sharp stabs in his groin radiating into his legs and lower back. 

She grabbed his face and forced him to hold her stare as he cried out. He kissed her, kissed her again and again and licked her lips and squeezed her tight as he came deep, deep inside of her. 

37/41

She could not speak, she could barely catch her breath as she folded her arms around his body. He slowly pulled out — and he took his time — his thick, steaming cum leaking out of her, marking her thighs and and trickling down bit by bit.

He fell to her side, breathing heavily, never letting go of her. She turned to him, swathing her legs around his, her fingers trapped in maze of his curls, her eyes lost in his soft, dark brown gaze. 

She laughed, and he joined her. It wasn’t nervous laughter, or that of doubt, or trying to hide anything. She just laughed at how funny this was, because it was funny — strangers in the night, two lonely people. 

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author. 

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Chance, Angel Olsen

28/41  

She slowly lowered herself, finding her place on her knees, gripping his firm cock in her right hand. As her tongue reached and flattened against his tip, she heard him moan from above. It was large, just long enough, and thick enough that her fingers were unable to meet as they circled around his width. It was not impossible to fit him in her mouth, ,she knew, but she would choke on it.

The dark pink of his dick was especially flushed, ready to be sucked, ready for her. She started from his base, holding it tight with both of her hands, and traced her tongue up to its head. As he twitched, pushing against her fingers, he let out a horny, hellish groan.

“Stop.” He stroked her face, touching her cheek gently, sweetly.

She slowly leaned back, her tongue sliding up his cock, salivating on every inch of its hard, throbbing surface. Her eyes rose to meet his own far above her, pained and begging for release. Their gaze lingered for just a moment, as she pulled him out of her mouth in a final sweep, her hungering, suction puncutating his harsh, desperate breaths. 

29/41

“I have a better idea.” He grabbed her hands, pulling her up, and led her to his bed in the corner of the room. How stupid — a beautiful girl sucking his dick and he had to stop her. But he felt it coming, and not in the right way. He couldn’t stand there and pretend he hasn’t been here before. Having to stop before he could take it any further, before the pain superceded the pleasure. 

“Take off your skirt.” He commanded. 

She stood a few inches below him. Her breasts bare, her hair falling, already tussled and messy. God, how he wanted to fuck her. 

She stepped forward, reaching up to his face. He stopped her, pushing her waist back down, noting her trembles beneath him. 

She was shy. He couldn’t begin to understand why. Everything about her turned him on. The softness of her hair in his hands, the burning of her skin under his touch, her nipples hardening when he barely touched her. 

He reached his hand down, stroking her hair and tucking it behind her hear. “Take it off. All of it.” 

She nodded, keeping his eyes as she slowly pulled down her skirt, then her leggings, then her underwear, then revealing her entire form to him. Fuck me, he thought. Fuck.

He laid her on the bed and got to work. 

30/41 

She understood. He did not have to say it again. She fell onto the bed, spreading her legs wide. He kneeled on the floor, pushing her thighs further apart as he positioned himself between them. 

The softness of his tongue first met her clit, his salivia pouring into her. She reactively grabbed his hair with her right hand, her left rising to her breast, rubbing her nipple to match the wet, warm flicks of his tongue.

Fuck, when was the last time she has felt this way? Complete, buzzing, on the brink of climaxing from the moment he touched her? Even his orders that terrified her, forced her to meet her own vulnerability, aroused her, made her buckle under his weight. 

His tongue deepened into her, sliding down between the lips of her pussy, eating and easing its way inside. Her back arched, again, and again as he sucked her loudly, drenched and hot and unbearable. 

31/41

He did not stop, not when she tried to pull him up to kiss her, not when her moans, gasping breaths and and screams echoed throughout the room and down the corridor. He firmly held her in place, his left hand reaching to grab and tease her nipple, his right hand entering her with two fingers as he sucked and slobbered on her clit. 

“God.” She moaned. “Please. Please….”

He had never been more turned on in his entire life. He couldn’t wait to be inside her.

He rose up, his body on top of her, kissing her with her own cum falling from his mouth. His dick pressed against her pussy, sliding above it, her wetness making him ever harder. 

“Fuck me.” She cried. “Please fuck me.”

He did as he was told.

32/41

He fell onto her, their bodies naked and damp against each other, their lips locked and sucking, sloppy. He pulled back, heat radiating from his body, and she looked up to meet his eyes that were nearly glazed over. 

He dove back in, biting and licking her all over. His hand reached her neck, pressing into her, firmly choking her neck as she pulsated harder, squiriming in pleasure under his heavy hold. 

In one swift motion, he hooked his arm under her waist, and flipped her over onto her stomach, then pushed himself against her, his dick hard against her ass, grinding in between her thighs, careful to not yet penetrate.

“Do you want to be fucked like this?” He growled into her ear.

She moaned into the mattress, arching herself, raising her ass and parting her thighs, turning her face so that her cheek was smushed against the bedsheet. 

He grabbed her hair, pulling her back towards him. “Answer me.”

“Yes, yes.” She pleaded. 

He released his grip, softly and slowly leaning down to kiss her mouth, as he spread her legs and slowly slid his hard cock deep inside her. 

His hand found hers, so that their fingers intertwined, squeezing and releasing with the same motions as his dick pounding into her soaked, tight pussy.

33/41

His cock pressed hard against the walls of her vagina, stretching her past the limits she did not know she even had. She opened her legs wider, bent herself deeper, savouring every raw, rough, railing in and out of her. With every slick entrance, she cried in pleasure. With every pull, she begged for him to be inside her once more.

Sweat covered her — not just her own, but his, as well, dripping down from his tight body, the slapping sounds of their skin ringing louder with every strike.

“Harder.” She whimpered. “Fuck me harder.”. He pulled her hair back again, forcing her to contort her back, before slamming his cock so far deep that she could feel it touch the walls of her cervix. 

“Fuck!” She cried. “Fuck, fuck, fuck me. Just like that. Just like that.” Her nails dug into his palm that she still held, until his fingers reached into her mouth, forcing their way inside. She sucked on them, choking, as he quickened his motions, lengthening every pull, his mouth hovering against the back of her neck and kissing her wet, tensing back. 

She did not know how long they were there, just that she did not want it to end. Her pussy was throbbing, her clit about to burst. He breathed heavily onto her neck, wrapping his hand around it, pushing her down, going in, and out, and in, and back out again.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author. 

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Walk In The Park, Beach House

23/41

He realized he was saying too much. He had already shared too many details. Though he knew that once it all came out, it wouldn’t really matter what he said tonight. 

Her face lit up. “I love Japan! I went a couple of years ago. I’m going back this summer.”

He couldn’t help but imagine it — her walking down a lantern-lit street in Tokyo, her laughter mingling with the bustle of the city. If he had stayed longer, maybe their paths would have crossed there instead of here. The thought tugged at him, pulling him briefly away from the dark street.

“Hey.” Her voice nudged him, soft but firm.

He blinked back into the present. “Sorry,” he said, his lips curving into a small, sheepish smile.

“Where do you go when you do that?” She angled her head to him. Of course, she’d want to know. Even when he thought he was hiding it well, she could see right through him. 

“What do you mean?” He tried to brush it off, anyway, pretending not to understand. 

She raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t fooling her. “I mean, you’ve obviously been in pain all night. I told you about my hands — now it’s your turn. Come on.”

Right, her hands. He almost forgot and he wondered how she managed to hold him down earlier on the stoop. He eased his grip on her fingers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “It’s a long story,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I’ll tell you another time.” He leaned in, pressing a soft, long kiss to her cheek, hoping to shift the focus away.

24/41 

She felt the warmth of his lips linger on her skin. Despite the curiosity that burned in her, she didn’t press him further. He had said he’d tell her another time, and though she didn’t fully believe he would, she would let it go.

For the moment, it was enough to walk hand in hand, the rhythm of their steps syncing effortlessly. Together, their pace slowed as they approached a large red brick building that stretched almost the entire block. She’d seen it before. 

“You’re staying in a hostel?”

“Yeah,” he replied, his tone casual. “I hope that’s okay.”

She nodded, but a dozen questions flitted through her mind. Where was he from? Why was he staying so far uptown? If he was a tourist, wouldn’t he be staying closer to downtown? She supposed she didn’t know much about how people traveled through New York. She had her own place, friends in the city, too — she’d never had to seek out somewhere transient to stay.

“Will they let me in?” she asked, wondering if there were any other complications.

“Well, it’s off hours, so it should be fine,” he said with a shrug. “And my roommates are out, too.”

He led her up the stairs toward the front door, a small smile playing at his lips. “But just in case, let’s be quiet,” he whispered, his eyes twinkled as he winked at her.

25/41

He lightly pushed open one of the double doors, poking his head in to scan the empty lobby. The reception desk sat unmanned, the front light casting a soft glow, but the rest of the space was shrouded in shadows.

Without a word, he pulled her inside. He drew her closer, his hands sliding around her waist. She was small and warm against him.

They moved toward the stairs, their hands slowly dancing with each other as they climbed each step. What was he doing? His mind splintered into doubt— he didn’t even know if his roommates were still gone — but he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t fully thinking. And somehow, that was the most freeing part of all of this. With her, he felt that he didn’t have to think too hard.

They reached his floor, the hallway lit faintly. The ghosts of voices from other rooms whispered around them, distant and soft. He looked to her, his gaze locking with hers, giving her a silent promise that everything would be okay. That he was going to make it so. Without hesitation, he kissed her, his lips pressing hers urgently, his hands cradling her face as if to keep her there.

They reached his door, and he paused, placing a finger to his lips in a soft, silent plea. She nodded, understanding. With careful movements, he opened the door, peering inside. Empty.

He slid his body through the gap, then turned and pulled her inside with both hands, her body flush against his as he kissed her deeply, fiercely. The door clicked shut behind them.

26/41

The moment his lips found hers, the world around her went silent. Gone were the distant whispers and laughters of travelling friends in the hallway, the soft drone of the heater in his room, even the lingering worry about his returning roommates. There was only the intoxicating pressure of his body against hers as he pressed her into the wall, his hands slipping under her shirt, cupping her breasts with his large, hot hands, kneading them with grave desire.

Her nipples hardened, her clit instantly swelling with pressure, reaching for release. Their jackets fell forgotten to the floor as they moved together, hands and lips growing more desperate. She instinctively grabbed the tailends of his long-sleeve, pulling it upwards, forcing him to unhand her so that she could remove his shirt, baring his tight stomach, his chest, his lean, strong arms. Her eyes traced the firm planes of his pecs, marveling at how his muscles tensed beneath her touch.

She fell into him, her lips traced a path down his neck while her hands mapped the ridges of his silk-smooth torso, down to his midriff, where she paused to graze his wild field of hair, pointing her in the direction of his cock that she could feel heavy and heated against her. 

27/41

His eyes were dark with hunger as he found her gaze. He lifted her shirt with agonizing slowness, his breath catching at the sight of her bare skin. He pulled down her bra, dipping his head in between her breasts as his hands moved to her back to unbuckle her. He then turned to kiss her left nipple, opening his mouth to slide his tongue against it, as she arched into him with a soft whimper. He slowly began to suck, releasing delicate, wet sounds with every parting of his mouth.

She pulled him back up to capture him in a flaring kiss, her hands dropping to his waistband. But he reached it first, his own fingers making quick work of his pant buttons while he kissed her with an intensity that left her breathless.

He moved his attention to her right breast, sucking wildly on her nipple, nibbling and pulling it with his teeth as he kicked off his pants. She softly screamed into him, her hands holding onto his hair, attempting to stifle her yells into the warmth of his neck as she pulled his curls into every direction.

He licked her breast in a careful, upward motion, tasting her salty, sweet skin, before moving up her neck, then to her earlobe where he gently nibbled, simultaneously reaching his hand down to her pussy and sliding his finger deep within — her wetness welcoming his return. 

“No.” She whispered, pulling him out of her as she gasped into his ear. She reached down,  finding his dick, hard and throbbing, and she stroked it, tenderly, teasingly. He had not fucked in a long, long time, but he knew what would happen next.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author. 

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Strangers In The Night, Frank Sinatra

21/41

They ran for a couple blocks, finally coming to a halt outside a brightly lit deli. They doubled over, trying to catch their breath, laughter spilling into the night air.

“Holy shit,” he gasped, his heart pounding in his chest. He held her close to him, stepping them away from the lit sidewalk into the shadows. “We almost got caught fucking on a stoop.”

She threw her head back, her smile wide and giggling uncontrollably. “Fuck, I hope there wasn’t a camera.”

He knew he should be more worried. But he grinned — a full, toothy smile, one he hadn’t had in long, long time. When did he last feel this alive? The rush, the risk, the carelessness. 

“Do you often take men to that stoop?” he teased, bumping her shoulder and raising an eyebrow.

“Of course,” she winked. “That’s my go-to stoop.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. As his laughter settled, he realized something unexpected: his back felt… better. The spasms, the dull ache that had been gnawing at him earlier, was gone— at least for now.

It was always like this. The pain would hit him in waves, intense and unrelenting. Sometimes his back, his groin, his legs, would even go numb, which was more alarming than the pain. But sometimes, like this time, it felt okay, he felt okay.

But he never trusted these moments of relief. It was like holding his breath underwater, waiting for the inevitable crash of discomfort to return. That anticipation, the constant readiness for the next strike, was the hardest part of his condition.

“Where to now?” she asked, cutting through his thoughts.

He glanced at her, charmed by how easily she was able to do this. All night, she’d had this uncanny ability to pull him back, to make him laugh at her silly comments, at her own silly little laugh, just as he felt himself retreating into the fog.

“Well, uh, we’re close to where I’m staying,” he said, motioning up the street.

She mimicked him, her tone playful. “Well, uh, are you going to invite me over?”

He smile and nodded. “Yeah. Of course. Let’s go.”

Of course. He’d decided to take her home long before this moment, against his better judgment. And once he made a decision, well, he always followed through.

22/41

They walked hand in hand, their fingers intertwining and pressing into each other. The electricity from earlier still lingered, crackling softly between them, drawing them closer with every step.

She glanced at him, breaking the silence. “Honestly, I’ve never done anything like this. Not since college, at least.”

“Me neither.”

She laughed, her voice bright and airy. “You don’t even know my name.”

He smirked, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Isn’t that part of the fun?”

She thought about it for a moment and nodded. Earlier, names and details hadn’t mattered. She hadn’t even cared about what he looked like. He was right — this was fun.

“We’re strangers in the night,” she teased, nudging him carefully with her shoulder. “Just like Frank Sinatra.”

“How does that one go, again?" He asked, his brow quirking.

She smiled and began to sing softly, her voice smooth and warm. “Strangers in the night, two lonely people...” She stopped herself before she reached the final line — lovers at first sight. It felt too heavy, too soon. Maybe for him, this was just for the night. She thought hard if she were okay with that.

He grew quiet, his expression softening, almost introspective.

“You have a nice voice,” he said after a pause, his words tinged with something deeper, sadder.

The tenderness in his tone caught her off guard. Sensing the shift, she decided to keep things light. “Okay, so, if you could go anywhere, where would it be?” 

She could see him hesitate, his gaze drifting ahead. “I think I’ve been everywhere I needed to be,” he responded thoughtfully.

She tilted her head, rolling her eyes. “Okay, where was the last place?”

“Japan,” he replied, a flicker of something— maybe nostalgia, maybe regret, she could not tell — crossing his face.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author. 

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Pink Matter, Frank Ocean

19/41

She traced the curve of his neck with her tongue, dropping his hand and moving to his thigh, gripping him with a firm but measured touch. She moved slowly, as if still worried she might hurt him. 

His mouth found hers again, his tongue pressing deeper, matching the rhythm of her ragged, uneven breaths. He inhaled her— her scent, her heat, her need. He would never forget how she smelled.

She wore a skirt. Thoughtful, he mused with a grin, a soft chuckle rumbling against her lips. She smiled back into his kiss, and he seized the moment, his hands sliding up her legs.

Her body shivered at his touch, muscles tightening and softening under his fingers as he kneaded her skin, exploring her inch by inch. His hands worked their way higher, sweeping the tender, sensitive inside of her thighs. She tensed, anticipation flooding the air between them.

He moved quickly, leaning over her, pressing her back into the staircase. His hand slipped beneath her skirt, the fabric giving way as he ventured further. Past the edge of her tights, past the waistband, until his palm cupped her completely, warm and ready.

His middle finger parted her gently, sliding through her folds until it met the slick, undeniable evidence of her desire. Her breath faltered, and she exhaled a low murmur against his ear.

“Oh, you like that?” he whispered, his voice heavy and hushed.

She didn’t speak— she couldn’t between her fervid breaths. She only nodded, frantic and desperate, as if words would ruin the moment.

He kissed her again, just as fiercely as she clung to him. His finger eased inside her, smooth and wanton, drawing a soft, shuddering cry from her lips that sent heat coursing through his veins.

He withdrew slowly, the slick sound breaking the stillness around them. Before she could speak, he entered her again with more force, finding a steady, deliberate rhythm that mirrored her quickening gasps. Her hips rose to meet him, their movements syncing as her body quaked under every thrust of his finger.

Her hands abandoned his thigh, leaping upward until they found his crotch. She pressed against him, hard, and he groaned, the ache blooming through him, sharp, delicious. He flinched, the pain only spurring him on as he worked her harder, deeper, his palm grinding against her swollen, dripping clit.

She moaned, her voice breaking with every wave of rapture, and he echoed her, his whimpers singing with hers in a heady, primal chorus of pain and pleasure.

20/41

She wanted him. All of him. Right here on this stoop, she didn’t care.

His fingers moved inside her with faithful, slow, then fast, boundless motions that left her gasping. She felt him hardening under her firm hold, his arousal pressing insistently through his pants as he worked her closer to the edge. She hadn’t expected this— how skilled he was, how effortlessly he found her depths, his finger curling upward to brush against her sensitive ridges that made her body shake and shake.

Every movement drew her higher, her pleasure coiling tighter with each plunge of his finger deep inside her. He was perfect, unrelenting. And she was rising, her climax building with an unbearable sweetness that made her clutch at him desperately.

She bit into his neck, her lips pressing to his skin as her broken breaths spilled into his ear. She was so close, so maddeningly close—

And then, a blinding light snapped on above them.

They froze, his finger still buried inside her, her body quivering on the cusp of release. Their wide eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them moved, suspended in shared shock.

Then, she broke— her lips twitching into a grin as laughter bubbled in her throat. She bit her lip, trying to contain it, but it was no use. She quickly stood, pulling his hand from her wet warmth and lacing her fingers with his.

“Come on!” she giggled, her voice breathless with adrenaline.

She yanked him forward, her laughter spilling out as they ran down the street together, their breaths mingling in the cold night air. Behind them, the creak of a door opening and closing faded into the distance.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author.

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Yellow Brick Road, Angus & Julia Stone

16/41

Her entire body burned. Her hands, her knees, her thighs— every inch of her felt alive, searing against the icy chill outside the bar.  

His hair was dark and curly, short but unruly and hanging down his forehead. His face was striking, every feature perfectly aligned with his brows and deep, piercing eyes. His nose was strong, just as she imagined, but its slight asymmetry only made him more real, more alluring. His jawline was sharp, angular, yet soft, with two, small birthmarks kissing both of his rosy, olive cheeks. His teeth pearly, straight, so stupidly straight that she scoffed at how obvious their perfection was. And his lips— God, his lips. The upper one curved just so, while the lower was plush, begging to be tugged gently between her teeth. 

Without hesitation, she rose onto her toes and kissed him, bold and unyielding. The force made him stagger back a step, but he didn’t falter. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him, crushing her to his body until she could feel the hard press of his dick against her stomach, even through the layers of clothing shielding her from the cold.

Something had changed in him since he’d been gone. He wasn’t the same man. He was wild now, feral, as if something darker and untamed had taken root within him. His hands tightened around her as he pushed her backward, her spine meeting the rough chill of the brick wall behind them.

His mouth found hers again, but this time it was different— hotter, hungrier. He sucked on her bottom lip, and she let out a soft moan, surrendering. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, meeting his, and they moved together, wet and urgent, their breaths mingling in a chaotic rhythm that matched the thundering pound in her chest.

When he finally pulled back, it was only slightly, just enough to place a warm, calloused hand on her cheek. His gaze dropped to her lips, red and swollen from his kisses, and his voice came low and raw.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin, setting her alight all over again.

“Yes.”

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t need to. She didn’t know his name— had only just committed his face to memory — but it didn’t matter. She wanted him. That was all she needed to know.

And she would go with him.

17/41

He grabbed her hand, small against his, and squeezed them gently as he led her down the street. He couldn’t help himself. He was just a stupid boy. Some would say 26 years would make him a man, many told him he was mature for his age, too, but he still felt like a stupid, stupid boy. He laughed out loud. 

“What is so funny?” She tugged at him. He looked down at her and smiled. 

“I just didn’t think I’d be here.” 

“Same.” She shook her head, grinning. “I mean, I honestly had no idea you’d come back.”

He wanted to tell her what he really meant. That he should still be in Japan, or Hawaii, or at home with parents.

“I didn’t think I would either.” No lie there. 

“So… What made you come back?” 

“Do you even have to ask?”

She let go of his hand, nudging him in the waist with her elbow. “Come on, tell me.”

He winced. Her nudge had hit a nerve— a real one, this time. 

“Oh shit, sorry.” She reached for his arm, but stopped before she could touch him. “Did I hurt you?”

“No — I mean, a little. But it’s okay. It happens a lot. I’m used to it.” 

They walked side by side down the dark avenue in the direction of his hostel. He knew it was a bad idea to take her back there. The obvious reasons aside, his roommates were another concern. But they had assured him they’d be out tonight, and it was still early— barely 10 PM.

The ethics and logistics were one thing, but the technicalities were what would really hold him back. To be intimate was always an uphill battle. He already loathed the need for such caution, the way he had to move carefully, precisely, to avoid pain. But what he hated even more was how it limited her. Now, she wouldn’t even touch his arm, hesitant and afraid she might hurt him. She was being kind, but he did not want her to be kind. He wanted her to moan into his ear like she did earlier.

“Do you want to sit?” She motioned to the line of stoops on the street. 

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind that.” The concern on her face would have usually irritated him. People always felt bad for him, always tried to accommodate his condition, making him detest this life even more. But how could he blame her? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know his name.

18/41

She sat on the dark stoop, barely touched by the dim glow of townhouse lights across the street. He settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed, their bodies angled toward the parked cars in front of them. Every part of her body begged her to turn to him. But she was afraid of crossing a line again. What if she went too far, and he walked away like he did last time?

“Hey.” He spoke softly, as if to get her attention.

She spun her head, knocking hard against his face. Shit, was he trying to kiss her?

“Shit! Shit! I’m sorry!” She started to laugh, failing to hide her discomfort. Was this how it was going to end?

“Ow.” He laughed, rubbing his jaw. 

“I didn’t mean to do that. Obviously. But shit, are you okay? I’m so—”

He placed his pointer finger up to her lips, the roughness of his skin turning her on ever so slightly. “I’m okay.” He whispered, eyes wide, urging her to believe him. 

Slowly, his finger fell, pulling her bottom lip down with it. She watched his gaze descend, as if he had discovered the feeling of her lips for the first time. 

Their eyes raised to meet each other, both of them smiling in a knowing greeting. She grabbed his hand, moving it away from her face so that she could lean in, touching her lips to his in a light, fleeting kiss.

“Okay then,” she pulled back, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Well, I see you’re not deformed.”

He laughed, low and rough. “Would you still be here if I was?”

“Maybe,” she said, her voice playful, her gaze steady. “But honestly, I kind of miss the mask. It was hot.”

He shook his head with a grin, letting out another laugh. “So you’re a comedian, too?”

“I’ve thought about doing stand up once or twice.” Giggling, she turned her attention to the hand she held, her fingers sliding over his palm. She pressed firmly, drawing small, deliberate circles against his skin, the pressure echoing the steady ache building low in her belly.

“I like being here with you,” he said, his voice soft but certain, his eyes studying the movements she made with her finger as if he hoped to remember them. 

Her chest tightened at his words, a pang of something warm and sharp rippling through her. “Do you?” she murmured, moving closer, her lips brushing the curve of his ear.

He leaned in further, their cheeks grazing, his breath hot against her skin. 

“I do.” His voice vibrated through her, from her ear to her neck and down her spine.

She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. 

“Show me,” she whispered, leaning back just enough for their noses to sweep against each other, her lips hovering over his own in a delicate standoff.

He licked his top lip slowly, before gently biting down on his bottom one. She smiled faintly, her lips grazing his in a featherlight touch before trailing to his cheek, then down the sharp line of his jaw.

Her kisses deepened as she reached his neck, strong and tight and hot beneath her mouth. His breath fastened, his hand tightening slightly in hers, the quiet street around them fading into nothing that mattered.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author.

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Whatsername, Green Day

13/41 He felt immediate relief upon standing, despite his groin still throbbing hard. He searched for street names at the upcoming intersection, panting as fast as he was trying to run from the memory of girl in the bar. The white words on the green metal signs were fuzzy, growing and shrinking like they had their own breath. What was he doing? Where was he going? He noticed the passerbyers — Were they noticing him, too? Did they know what he had planned? Why he wore this mask?

Calm, be calm, he muttered out loud, latching onto the pole of the no-parking sign on his left. He took a deep breath, puffing short bursts through his nose, again and again, until he could finally make the letters of the street names clear. He was still a few blocks away from his hostel. 

The pain in his back lulled, but he had not felt this horrible in a very long time. And it wasn’t just about her, he knew that. She was a nice girl — pretty, talented and charismatic, too. His mom would have liked her, he was sure, and that made him feel worse. 

He tried so hard to maintain a normal life, but most days he could barely focus, always grasping for something tangible through the brain fog that created a distance between himself and everything around him. He had not slept a full night’s rest in years. Melatonin, meditation did not work — he simply could not remain asleep for more than 3 or 4 hours in the night, sometimes not more than 30 minutes at a time. His doctors recommended sleeping pills, which he tried, of course, but they worsened his waking hours. He barely made it through college as it is. His promising young life had deteriorated as quickly as his spine did.

He tried to make this life work. No one can say he didn’t try every single day, with a smile on his face, always trying to prove to himself, to friends, family, that he would not let the slipped vertebrae in his spine stop him from doing all the things he wanted to do. The stiffness, the aching, the numbness, the stinging — he always did what he could despite it. 

But it still wasn’t enough. And he was tired. And he was angry. And he wanted it to end — not just the suffering but the structures that placed him here, that provided him with no answers, no help, no hope. In his early deliberations, he accepted that it does not really matter what happens tomorrow, whether he succeeds, or he gets away with it, or if his face were plastered throughout the nation. Whatever would come for him did not matter at all, because he was leaving his life behind, because he simply could not justify living in it anymore. 

The curve of her breasts flashed through his mind. He let out a heavy, hot sigh. She knew what she was doing back there, pushing them out like that. His dick twitched in his pants, blood pumping, rushing to his crotch again. An ache began to form between his legs and in his back and in his heart. 

He remembered how he left her, dramatic, rushed, cold like this awful night. She looked like she was going to cry, and that’s not what he wanted. She knew what he wanted, what he still wants. When he left, she must have been so confused. He hated that. He hated himself for doing that to her.  

He hated himself. 

Laughter. A girl’s laughter. Instantly, he snapped his head up and searched for its source. A young couple passed by, arms around each other, taking no notice to him. 

You never really get used to this kind pain, he told himself again, for the thousandth time. You just learn how to ignore it, how to push through it.

14/41 She sat outside at a little round table, sipping on the drink he left, taking long pulls of her cigarette. She was a singer and she smoked. Another bad habit that she never grew out of. It’s not like she went through a box a day anymore, as she frequently did in the past, marking stretches of high stress. Now, mostly, she used it as an excuse to remove herself from unwanted company, or to find a quiet space to sit and stare and sonder, or simply to occupy her hands so that she didn’t fidget and find other ways to trigger the rigid pain of the arthritis. 

She took another drag, exhaling loudly and watched the combination of the smoke and cold condensation whirl away from her, rising towards the remnants of stars that were possible to see in this part of town, because it was quieter and the buildings were shorter and the people were sparse and less distracting. 

Her guitar was inside with Rich. She’d be back tomorrow to pick it up, she told him. It wasn’t so heavy, but it was large and she was tired and frankly, she just wasn’t in the mood to carry another weight after the night ended so abruptly with the man in the mask.  

She looked to her left, down the sidewalk where she imagined he must have walked. In the end, he was just another half-story she would tell her friends. Later, she would fill in the gaps to tell an audience in her next performance. She was good at that. 

She turned her head to the right, peering down the nearly empty street, noting a small figure from afar. She blinked, and it was a step closer. She blinked again and she could make out a black form. Black, then grey, then green. Panic. It was green. It was —

15/41 Her.

He strode toward her, his stare fixed on hers, his breath deepening as the space between them dissolved. She rose slowly from the creaking metal chair, the glow of her cigarette casting faint shadows across her face.

He didn’t wait. As he reached her, his hood fell from his head, and he tore the mask from his face, the icy air stinging his lips as his presence enveloped her shorter frame.

She tripped, stepping back in a clumsy retreat, her breath hitching. His hand caught her instinctively, strong fingers gripping her arm, steadying her as his other hand reached for the whiskey on the table. Without a word, without looking away from her, he brought the drink to his lips, draining it in a single, unhurried motion before setting it back down. The sharp clink of the glass hitting the table echoed in the stillness, louder than it should have been.

Her wide eyes searched his. Her lips parted slightly, a soft tremor in her hand betraying the steadiness she was so clearly trying to keep. He lowered his gaze to her fingers, to the cigarette trembling between them.

He took her hand in his, guiding it upward to his mouth. His lips brushed the filter as he drew in a slow, deliberate inhale.

He tasted her. Smoke filled his lungs, warm and heady, the cherry gloss of her lips faintly tracing his own. His eyes remained on hers, drinking in every flicker of her reactions. When he was done — and he took his time — he flung the cigarette to the street beside them.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author. 

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Pristine, Snail Mail

11/41 “I’m sorry… for bumping into you earlier.” The girl brought herself closer to him, the curves of her cleavage becoming more pronounced, tempting him to glance down as he felt beads of sweat form under his layers. Her knees grazed his — she was timid, not unsure of herself, necessarily, but unsure if he wanted this.  

He tried to keep his eyes forward, focusing on the small details. Like the soft creases that carried her eyes, telling him she was older, probably around his own age. He tried to overlook the sultry that inhabited her stare. He tried to ignore her lips, parting, as if she were making space for him, inviting him to enter. 

Fuck — it was happening. He was getting hard, so hard, and it hurt. He hasn’t been able to get hard without a fucking stabbing pain down there in years. 

He grimaced. He didn’t want to show it. But fuck, it stung — his cock pushing against the rough fabric of his crotch, demanding to be let out. He anchored himself, hands on his upper thighs, leaning forward so much that his knees bumped sloppily against hers, leaving no space between them. 

She didn’t pull back. Instead, she wedged herself further into him, so their legs were nearly cradling each other. 

His body trembled. He needed to stand, or the pain would build. Sweat rolled down his forehead, caught by his brows — he could not endure this too much longer. He wanted this, her. He wanted her even though it pained him.

“I — I, um.” He stuttered, completely absorbed by the bow of her lips, leaning further into their pull. God, he wanted to taste them. He wanted to taste her. He has wanted this for so long, for months. He tried to ignore temptations, to look away, to hide from his own desire. He told himself for months that he could not have this, he wasn’t allowed to have this anymore.

“You okay?” Her lips pouted, her face so close that he could feel her warm, wet exhale touch and tingle his uncovered skin.

Fuck, that feels good. Fuck.

He fell into her.  

She started giggling, pulling back before his face could reach hers. 

“Take off your mask, silly.” She tilted her head, clearly amused. 

“Shit.” He backed up, blood rushing to his face. First, he felt stupid, then he felt scared.

He almost forgot — this is not a game. “How are you going to kiss me with that on?” She leaned backwards to take him in wholly. He felt she could see right through him, under his hood, his mask, into his head. 

Now is the time to leave. Right now, he should go. He needed an alibi, sure, but he could end it here, while it was safe.

“Why are you wearing that mask, by the way?” She pressed. 

He anticipated this. He wasn’t stupid. He was smart. His whole life, he had been smart. That’s what he thought, that’s what everyone said. The pandemic was over. It was cold outside, sure, but they were inside. He knew this was going to happen. If he got too close to someone, they were going to ask. And he had slipped, he was slipping. He wasn’t supposed to have gone this far.

“It’s part of the look.” He stumbled, trying to find his words. 

“What look? School shooter?” She laughed loudly, the same laugh that had kept him here for this long. He should have left the moment he felt her approaching him at the bar. He should have left when he heard her sing.

“Ha-ha. What if I were deformed? Would you be laughing then?” His eyes narrowed at her, trying to throw her off. 

12/41 She did not have to look down, she felt the heat of his body approaching her. Between their banter, their knees pushing and pulling, he rose and expanded, as if asking her to move closer. It was undeniable, she was sure now, she thought — this kinetic effect building between them, waiting for one of them to break.

“Come on, Joker. Show me your smile.” She winked, arching her back, the wetness between her legs sliding and tingling. She decided in this moment that she did not care if he was not what she imagined. Because whatever this was made her horny, made her want to fuck, to be fucked. She hadn’t been fucked in a long, long time. 

She leaned into him once more. He had inched away in what seemed to be embarrassment, but his breathing was hard, so ragged that his warm exhale pushed through his mask and reached her, stood right in front of her. He rose his eyes to her own, lingering for just a moment before moving down to her lips, then her breasts.

“As much as I would love to indulge you…” He cleared his throat. “I have to go, actually.”

“Wait — what?” She shook her head, immediately sobering up, eyes widening as the light of the bar became brighter and the volume of the world around them increased, rushing into the space between them like high tide.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I have to wake up early.” He pulled his legs away from her, taking the searing tension away with him. His eyes were pained, almost sorrowful, like he was pitying her. Did she cross a line? Had she said something wrong? No, no, he said he’s sorry — believe him. It’s not because of anything you did. She would not allow herself to think that way. She had to stay positive, sure of herself. It’s the only reason she has made it this far. “Okay.” Her lips pursed into a downward smile. “Okay, thanks for, um, talking with me.” She leaned backwards, running her hands through her hair and locking them behind her head. 

He looked away from her, sliding his drink in her direction like some consolation prize. “I owe you one. I didn’t touch it — go for it.” “Okay.” She forced a smile, laughing through her teeth. How absurd, she thought. To finally take off her mask for someone who would not take off their own, quite literally. She then released a heavy sigh — of course, she was disappointed. But more present in her body was a carnal frustration that she tried to push away, far away, squeezing her thighs and clenching the soft muscle between them. 

She pulled his drink towards her, only strengthening her grip around the cold glass once it was out of his arm’s reach, like she were worried he might take it back, that he might change his mind about this, too.

She was unable to meet his eyes because her own suddenly felt heavy, a dampness forming around them. “It was nice meeting you.” She tried to keep her smile, something nice to punctuate this confusing interaction. ‘You, too.” He stood up, hurried, briskly readjusting his crotch above his pants. He looked to her one last time, his eyes shaped like a sad smile.

He was tall. At least six feet. She turned her head further up to where he now stood.

“Bye.” She managed to keep it together as their eyes met one last time. She waved to him, and he waved back before he turned and walked out the bar door, giving way to a bursting, chill draft that reminded her how cold it was supposed to be this time of year. 

Her stare lingered at the entrance. It was too good to be true, then. That’s okay, right? She’s been here before. This is what she writes about, anyway. She’ll just write another song, like she always does.

Yet in her hands an old pain returned home. Not the endless storm, not the stiffness triggered by the cold wind that blew and blew, but a yearning, sinking ache, a desolation that lived somewhere between her muscles and her bones and made her doubt herself for just long enough that she allowed the dampness around her eyes to build.

But before any tear could fall, she wiped her face with the end of her sleeves. Then, she let out a quick, hard breath through her nose and stepped off the stool.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: SMUT Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author.

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Grey Room, Damien Rice

9/41

He looked down at her lips. Soft, he noted. Trembling. He wondered what it must feel like to brush his against hers. 

So, then, she also had something wrong with her. He considered the red of her palms, the repeating hand exercise — squeeze, twist, spread. He wanted to ask more about her diagnosis, how she still managed to play the guitar, to get up there and sing in front of everyone. 

He decided to sit with his curiosity. Because here was a girl that could understand the persisting, debilitating pain that threatened to take everything she cared about away from her. But still she performed. Still, she rushed through bar doors, carelessly bumping into people, hopefully desperate that she made it on time to play a single song.

In a way, she reminded her of himself, or at least the person he was before succumbing to God’s kismet. He remembered running to his dad, holding up a giant fish, boasting his spoils of the family fishing trip. He remembered shaking his high school Headmaster’s hand before stepping onto the podium and pulling his Valedictorian speech out of his chest pocket. He remembered signing the release form in Hawaii, before taking to the warm blissful waters for the beginner surfing class that would ultimately aggravate his slipped vertebrae. 

He remembered going under, laying face down on the operating table and staring at the sharp, shiny tools on the table beside him, thinking about how they would cut him open. He remembered waking up and the surgery was successful and he cried because he thought it was finally over — the pain in his back and the pain in his family and friend’s eyes when they saw him flinch and squirm and groan for years.

After that, all he wanted was to zen out and spend some time in best place to do so. He thought he at least deserved that, right? He met wonderful people in Japan, climbed the tallest mountains and breathed the freshest air. 

But kismet did not allow that relief to last very long. And since July, he has been isolated, alone, lonely. He convinced himself that nobody could possibly understand how this kind of pain could push someone to make a decision like the one he is making, had already made. 

He looked at the girl sitting across from him, their knees hovering, the atomic space between them kindly asking for fusion. She was smiling up at him, trying to read his eyes but she did not have the faintest idea what he had resigned himself to all those months ago. And that was for the best — he would not involve innocent people. He had to do this alone. He hated being alone. 

A sharp panic rang through his body, though he did not allow himself to show it to her. Calm, be calm, he told himself, trying to still his racing thoughts. You almost forgot why you’re here, remember? No distractions. Leave, you should leave now. 

10/41

She wasn’t always this forward, coming up to a random man at the bar. When it came to making the first move, well, she would never make it. There was always something holding her back, a little voice telling her the timing wasn’t quite right and that she should wait a bit longer. But what was she meant to be waiting for? For all of the hurt from the past to suddenly lift its shroud from her? For someone to give her a certificate that says, yes, yes, you did it, you are now ready to share this life with someone else!  

She was never really alone, but she was lonely. She had dozens of friends and cousins and grandparents and coworkers who called her everyday, asking when they could see her again. She performed on stage and people followed her online, they knew the lyrics of her music, and they came to her shows. But she still went to bed alone at night. She still woke up stiff and untouched. 

Because she didn’t know how to talk to other people, not like that. She must have skipped school the day they taught this, or dozed off or daydreamed during a lecture. Because even when she was able to finally solve someone’s equation, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do with the answer. 

“I know what you’re going through.” He muttered, his jest stilled. The dark glint in his eyes became more apparent, though she had noticed it the whole time. His wincing, his body tensing, grasping his thighs as if to hold himself down.

He was in pain. She knew it after she hit him with her bag. She had reached the stage, looked at the crowd, and saw a masked man leaning over the bar with a hand clasping his back.

Maybe sitting here with him felt a little easier to her because he was wearing this mask, just like the one she wore though she did not mean nor want to. She told herself that they must be equals, because they were both hiding something. Her, hiding and shying and trembling under the weight of his stare. Him, well — she couldn’t begin to fathom what else he was hiding. 

Yet something told her he was just like her. That he has been through what she has been through. Whether that was a good basis for taking this further, she did not care. It was a bad habit of hers — being pulled towards those who resonated with the things she she showed and told on stage. And anyway, it came naturally to her to be a beacon, especially to those who could not form their own.

[harmlessmessages]

WARNING: INCLUDES SMUT Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author.

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: So High School, Taylor Swift

7/41

“Not really, no. I just walked in by chance.” A little lie mixed in with the truth. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it the right way.

“Well, you walked into the right place, then. This bar is a pretty famous one. It has, like, one of the oldest open mics in the city. And you see some serious talent show up here.” She rambled, excited. “It’s pretty hard to get in, though. I’ve been coming for a few months, and I don’t even get to perform everytime. There’s just too many sign ups. Pretty much every other person in this city is a musician.” He tried hard to remember the last time he was that excited about something. 

“Well, I’m glad I could see you play, then.” He smiled with his eyes. “You were really good up there.” He meant that. 

She turned to him and squinted, her smile reducing to a scowl.

“Thank you.” She curtly said, pulling her head down to her cup to take a sip.

Did he say something wrong?

“No, seriously, I haven’t heard something like that before.” He wasn’t lying. Maybe he should have, or maybe he should have just dropped it. 

He shifted in his seat to face her, wincing in pain as his back reacted to this simple movement. Sitting was the most unnatural position for his condition. 

He pushed through the pain, as she pulled him in further with her brooding.

“I listen to everything — Taylor Swift, Lana, Brat Summer, obviously. I think you’re up there with them. Honestly.” He grinned at how tacky he was probably coming off, but he was being sincere. He wanted to please her. He had always wanted to please people, didn’t he? That’s what made these last few months of hiding from his loved ones so grueling. The flood of messages asking his whereabouts, the fearful pleas for any response— he read every text and email and unanswered social media post over and over again until he felt sick.

The girl exhaled into a giggle, bringing his attention back to the space between them. She let out a small groan before turning her frame towards him, edging closer. 

“Are you serious?” She looked him left and right in the eyes, searching for a lie as her mouth parted into a half-smile. His knees tingled, blood rushing to where he now nearly met her touch. 

He cleared his throat, before raising a three-finger salute and singing in a silly, off-key voice. “It’s true, swear, scouts honour.”

Her mouth dropped in bewilderment. “You’re a Swiftie?”

“Well, I’m not really into labels.” He winked. “But I might’ve gone to the Eras tour.” 

“No way!” She screamed. “Me too, where did you go?”

“Miami.” Well that was easy, he grinned. Her eyes were even brighter than before.

“I went to the one in LA. What were your surprise songs?” He followed her twinkling gaze to where his mouth would be under his mask, before they flickered to meet his own again. 

“I didn’t know all of them, but she played ‘This Is Me Trying’.” That one stood out to him. After the show, he listened to it for a few times before he had to stop himself. It was too sad.

“Fuck you! I wanted that one!” He laughed, tickled by her jealousy. 

When he left behind his life at the beginning of the year, he left this behind, as well. It was unfair — he was young, he was fit. But his worsening condition had taken this away from him, too. The flirting, finessing, fucking — he decided months ago that the romantic and sexual aching wasn’t worth the physical, debilitating aches that accompanied it. 

And yet, he found himself searching his pockets for the old gum wrapper from the day before. 

He pulled out a little, waxed foil rectangle, delighting in the dumbfoundedness on her small, pretty face. This was fun. 

He was quick — nimbly turning the wrapper in his hands, folding and crafting it into an innocent, rudimentary loop. Within seconds, he held up his creation for her to behold.

“Are you a girl scout? Because you tie my heart in knots.” His eyes crinkled from the large smile under his black knit baclava. 

He laughed at himself, remembering how his high school superlative was “Best At Pick Up Lines.” He wondered what his friends from back then were doing now. He could have spent his last night writing letters to them, to his parents and sisters, messages in a bottle to wash up on shore after he dove off the deep end. He wanted to explain everything, but there was no way of explaining something like this. The girl burst out into an endless giggle. He bit his lip under his mask as he looked down at her. Her body was shaking with glee, unbridled and sweet.

For him, it came slowly and then all at once. A full belly laughter, anchored by the absurdity of this whole night, the last year, and his entire life. He laughed until he could feel it somewhere between his muscles and bones. It hurt.

8/41 

“Take it. It’s for you.” The man in the mask signalled to the paper ring he was holding between his fingers. 

Okay, this story was too good to be true, she thought. Who was this man behind the mask? She almost didn’t want to know. What if what was underneath ruined the mystery? What if he wasn’t what she had imagined?

She reached forward to take it, her fingers slipping and stumbling into his. The slightest touch that ignited a frenetic buzzing in her brain, and a definite, defining pulse coming from below her hips. 

“So…”  His voice smoothed. “Why didn’t you take the compliment?”

“What do you mean?” She knew what he meant. 

“Earlier, when I said I liked your song. You got all grumpy.” 

She straighted her posture, lengthening her spine, as if that would suppress the spreading fever down under. “I just fucked up a bunch up there.” She cleared her throat, forcing a cough. “I’m glad you couldn’t tell, I guess. I know the audience doesn’t know, but I do, ya know?”

She cracked her knuckles and began to massage her hands. She was able to overlook the dull ache, but the coming stiffness worried her. The doctors told her it would be worse than the pain, and it was always worse in the winter.

“Stage fright?” he asked. 

“No.” She shook her head a few times. “It’s my hands. Apparently, I have arthritis or something,” she exhaled a soft laugh, squeezing her hands into fists, before turning them over to stretch her fingers, revealing reddening palms. “So, it’s hard to play sometimes.”

[harmlessmessages]

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author.

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Save Me, Aimee Mann

 4/41

She could feel his eyes on her throughout the entire song. That wasn’t unusual— she was used to performing in front of a room full of people who watched her. But unlike the others, his gaze was thorough, almost starved, yet cautious, or apprehensive. 

In a way, he reminded her of herself. When she is in the audience, she focuses on the movements of the performer — how they hold their instrument, the rhythm of their fingers, the way their shoulders tense or relax. At first, she thought she was taking notes for her own delivery. But in time, she realised that she was not easily able to meet the eyes of another on stage. It scared her to make that kind of contact. 

So when she looked at him right as he looked into her, she panicked. Maybe it was nothing, but she began to write a story in her mind that he may be just like her. That maybe this is someone who has been through what she has been through. 

It was funny, really. Because all she could see were his eyes— deep, dark, earthy eyes that both grounded and unnerved her. His gaze was soft, yet unyielding. His eyelids softly creasing, hugging him with years of lived life, or maybe it was something else. Maybe he was tired. 

But why was he wearing a mask that covered half of his face indoors? She could not see his hair under the the hood of the green jacket that draped him, but she could guess it was dark from his brows, which stood out more than his mask. Strong, heavy, not unkept, though not sculpted — she noted them tensing as he worked his way up her body, like he was bothered, or unsure what to make of her.

"Wow, what a show!" Rich's voice cut through her observation, and she realized the crowd had started clapping. She smiled, thanked them, and unplugged her guitar, setting it down on the stage.

"I’m glad you finally made it!" Rich called out with a grin. "First drink is free for performers."

She smiled back at him and turned toward the bar. The man in the mask was still sitting there, grasping a nearly full drink, the ice almost melted. She looked past him for an open space to fill, but there were none except the one beside him. Could she write more in this story, then? Maybe, he did not have to be just a story in her mind. 

She let out a quick, hard breath through her nose and stepped off the stage.

5/41 He didn’t have to look — he felt the heat of her body approaching him. As she pressed closer, his muscles clenched, his fingers gripping his glass a little too tightly. 

He didn’t come here to meet someone. In fact, he hadn’t met anyone in a long time. He’d spent the last few months in Asia, trying to distance himself from his family and friends and everyone and everything he’d once known. No, no, no — he was here for one directive and could not afford any distractions. 

He tightened his hood around his head and stared at the whiskey in front of him. He pretended not to notice her sliding into the narrow space between him and the stool to his right. He pretended not to see her lean against the bar, arching her back as she placed her elbows on the countertop.

“I’ll take whatever he’s having.” She beamed at the bartender, who nodded knowingly and got to work.

“What are we having, by the way?” She asked him directly. He stiffened, staring ahead. This made him feel bad. He didn’t want to ignore her. He even thought she was pretty. Surely, if it had been a few years ago, he may have approached her first. 

“What? Are you still upset that I hit you with my bag earlier?” She teased. 

He scoffed. She must have thought she was being cute, but it wasn’t funny, actually. The bag not only caused him extreme pain, it also frustrated him that she did not turn back, did not care to acknowledge him and apologise. Careless — that’s what he thought of her. 

“What’s so funny?” she taunted him.

He turned his head and briefly met her eyes. She held contact for only a moment, before looking away. He made her nervous, then. Good, he liked that. 

“Well.” He sighed. “I’m surprised you recognised me. You just yelled ‘I’m sorry!’ and ran off.” He mocked her high pitched voice from earlier.

She snapped her eyes back into his line of sight, then curled her lips into a mischievous smile. 

“Of course I recognised you. I mean, look at you. You stand out.” 

Panic — he shouldn’t be here right now, he told himself. 

6/41

“Card or cash?” The bartender slid her the drink, giving pause to the building tension between her and the masked man. At least, she hoped this was tension. Whatever it was, she liked it— the man in the shadows, the mystery, the moodiness. It was dramatic, even a little dangerous. In her body, she felt the looming threat. Not of him, persay, but of herself. She was afraid she would say the wrong thing. She was already starting off on the wrong foot.

“I’ll pay for this one.” The man is the mask raised his finger. Oh, good, she wasn’t imagining it then — her body eased and fluttered. 

“You don’t have to do that. This one is free since I played tonight.” She signalled to Rich in the back of the venue. The bartender moved onto the next patron. 

“Oh, well, I’ll get your next one then.” He spoke like it were a challenge, tilting his head sideways. His eyebrows rose and fell in a quick, nonchalant motion. 

Their eyes met, lingering, before he glanced towards the stool besides them. Okay, she thought, this is happening, then. She propped herself onto the seat next to him, accepting his silent invitation. 

He was different up close. His dark eyes were more handsome and his brows commanding, together resembling men long forgotten in Ancient Grecian frescoes. The bridge of his nose pulled against his baclava just enough to form the impression that it must be strong, large. And if that were true, then his jaw must be the same — sculpted, cutting, maybe even darkened by a lazy stubble. She thought of his lips, what they must look like as he spoke to her. She longed to piece together what he allowed her to see and what he did not. She longed to see the rest of him.

“Thanks, stranger.” She smiled and laughed at the same time. She did this. Always smiling too much, laughing too much, talking too much. Even when there was underlying doubt, indecision, nervousness. It wasn’t disingenuous — she wanted be this way. She chose to be happy over anything else. At least, that’s what she always told herself. 

“So, do you come here often?” Oh, what a cliche she was.

[harmlessmessages]

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author.

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: Pluto Return [unreleased], blue fool

3/41

He firmly clasped his lower back, sitting straight before methodically rubbing out the spasm triggered by a clumsy, careless girl squeezing through the narrow walkway he bordered. Her guitar had smacked him right in the head, causing him to twist too quickly and spur sudden, throbbing throes that radiated into his groin, down to his thighs. 

There was an open mic tonight. He knew that before coming, of course. He knew the bar, the building, the street and the neighborhood. He wasn’t from New York but he was a meticulous planner with a good memory. That’s why he was chosen to be valedictorian in his graduating class at a private, all-boys high school. That’s why he was an Ivy League graduate in Engineering and Mathematics at UPenn. He made it this far for a reason.  

He was good at a lot of things, he was not shy to admit, but music wasn’t always one of them, which he was also not shy to admit. He knew the theory. He understood the techniques. But to translate his emotion into vibrations that could reach others… Let alone craft a simple melody that someone else would actually enjoy hearing… Maybe there was once a time he was capable of such things, but he hasn’t been capable of much recently.

So when her voice reached him from the far end of the bar — stirring and with a simple sadness — his head snapped to the stage. His eyes found her immediately, falling onto her swaying hips that moved in time with the strumming of the white guitar strapped tightly against her chest.

Her voice then swelled, its crescendo catching him off guard and forcing his attention to flicker to her right hand roughly fingering the guitar strings. They danced strangely, he thought, like two left feet trying hard to hit the next step. Her other hand was the same, hovering over the neck of the fretboard, closing into form with careful intention.

“I’ll give you what you need,” her chorus cut through his observation, pulling his gaze to the curve of her shoulder, where he began to trace up her neck to where the pulse of her voice pumped heavily under her skin. He watched as her lips parted, making room for her high, desperate pitch to exit and fill the bar. It was the kind of voice that made you feel as if you were the only one in the room. It was the kind of voice that made him forget, for just a moment, that he was in pain. 

He fell into the rise of her howl that lived uncomfortably between longing and release. He found himself falling, falling like her guitar’s timbre, into something more somber, desperate and dark. 

“I’ll burn if you burn.” She growled into the mic, her strums bellowing louder with every downstrum. “I’ll burn if you burn.” Her notes tightened against the thundering strikes of the metal strings. 

“I’ll burn if you… burn.” Her hands stilled her instrument, her parting words quivering on her lips just as her fingers did. He watched as her final resonance winded through the maze of people and their drinks and their sweaters and scarves until it stood right in front him. He lifted his eyes. She was looking directly at him.

His heart skipped. In an instant, he turned back to his glass of whiskey, as if he had been caught trespassing in a place he wasn’t meant to be.

[harmlessmessages]

Careless by harmlessmessages. All rights reserved by the author.

“Careless” tells the story of two strangers who meet at an open mic in Manhattan. She’s a vibrant musician determined to perform even as her body resists her every move. He’s a mysterious young man weighed down by debilitating, chronic pain and a secret as dark as the mask that hides his face. 

Through alternating perspectives, their chance encounter evolves into a night of raw connection and unguarded intimacy. As their stories intertwine, their personal struggles and unexpected likeness surface, revealing the solace and heartbreak of finding hope and relief in one another, even if for one night.

Each scene is paired with a song, making “Careless” an immersive experience where music mirrors the characters’ journeys and the poignancy of their bond.

Song: I Don’t Want to Set The World On Fire, The Ink Spots

1/41 He leaned against the polished wooden bar of the dimly lit speakeasy, pretending to nurse a glass of whiskey. He longed for the burn of the liquor, for a momentary respite from the pain that perpetually gnawed at the base of his spine. But tonight, he did not come here for respite. He only needed an alibi. 

His condition had been with him for years now. He could hardly remember the last time he was fully at ease, his body always carrying the weight of something unseen, but never unfelt. Today had been especially hard. The restless hours of being alone in a Manhattan hostel room had made the chasmic aches and numbing pins and needles more profound, more isolating.

He leaned back in his bar chair, eyes half-closed, and breathed deeply into the biting stitch. You never really get used to this kind of pain, he thought. You just learn how to ignore it, how to push through it.

How cliche. He never imagined he would end up like this.

2/41 She burst through the bar door, the heat of the room hitting her face as her guitar bag bumped against someone at the counter. "Sorry!" she called out behind her, stumbling onward into the maze of tall and short people and beer bottles on low wooden tables and puffy coats.

She was late. She finally got into the sign up list at one of her favorite open mic’s and she was late. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on Rich, the sound engineer, who gave her a hurried nod of affirmation. Late or not, she made it just in time, and it was time to get on stage. 

Her hands would not hurt today. She had decided this for herself. A lifetime of pain is what the doctors warned, urging her to opt for regular steroid injections to tame the endless storm pressing down on her fingers. She was too young for this kind of pain, she understood. But whether it was genetics, poor diet, poor luck, she would never understand. All she knew was that tonight, she would do what she came here to do. She would perform. 

A faint buzz gathered as Rich plugged her guitar into the amp, blending into the low hum of the audience rising around her like they always did between sets. Once, she would have called them out, asked for silence for the artist on stage. The people in the chairs had no idea that you could hear everything up here— the whispers, snickers, and glasses clinking at the bar in the back. But how could she blame them? They didn’t know. So she learned to tune them out, instead, to sing for herself, as if no one else were there.