Lana Del Rey Oneshots

23. Touch

C/W: smut.
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my cherries and wine,
rosemary and thyme.

...

"Quick, that's her. Run!" Ralph, some fifty years old, clad with a camera hooked in his hand, yells this out as he leaps over the curb and makes a dash across the street.

You, lost in the quickness of his cue and impressed by his agility, which jumps the hurdles of his age or physique, start to painfully catch up, equipped with your own camera.

In the dash, you start to notice the handful of other competing paparazzis emerging from tinted cars, behind some that are parked, and even from the bushes.

"Lana!" Ralph yells, being the first to approach this public figure you don't truly recognize.

She's dressed in leggings and a simple blank top, casual enough to go unnoticed to the untrained eye, but her gestures graceful enough to notice she isn't exactly an ordinary person.

She has a little bag draped over her shoulder, and a nervous but well meaning smile on her pink and glossy lips as she sees herself consumed by the mob.

She's very attractive, and you put it at that for the sake of keeping your attention on doing your job.

"Over here..." another paparazzi commands, the click of the cameras drowning the thin trail of his voice.

You can't help but just stand there and observe her, your own camera positioned in your hands, but without actually taking any photos.

Something in you is captured on her disposition, as if your eyes are the camera which absorbs the vision, and your mind taking it all in as the photographer.

She tries to start walking with her head turned town and her dark hair streaming down the sides of her face, but the crowd makes it impossible, leaving her in a nervous shuffle.

"Looking great," the man next to you calls out, using his flash and his protruding lens to photograph her precisely. "Where 'ya heading off to?" he remarks snidely.

You can't help but give him a strange look. Your eyes go back to her, who brushes off the invasion of privacy and only smiles awkwardly into the mist.

You have the sudden urge to say something in her defense, but realize the hypocrisy, considering you're part of this detestable, invasive group.

"Ooo, what's in there, taking home any demos?" another man says, pointing his camera at her bag and getting too close for her immediate comfort. He uses his flash to get a glimpse through a sizable crack in the zipper of the bag.

Is that legal? you think in shock as you observe, starting to get pushed further away from the center of the crowd due to your stillness and their persistence.

Her cheeks turn red just as quickly as she rips her bag off of her shoulder and hugs it into her chest. You can feel her frightful irritation permeating the air. "Can I just get by, please?" her light voice says to contrast it all, her eyes pained by how uncomfortable everything was starting to get.

There's a hum of questions in the crowd, and for a second, it seems like they'll let her through. But just over a few more steps, the swarm closes in again with a million more questions.

This sudden feeling of compassion makes a crack in your tough heart. You decide to make it your mission to help her out as much as you possibly can.

You're closer to the center now, and seeing your position, you try to push the paps behind you to clear her a path.