Marvel Love Galore

Your body feels lighter, his acknowledgement and acceptance makes your body float softly.

You don’t know how you’ll go on without him, the sensation makes you sick. You’ve never wanted to depend on another person for your happiness. You’ve been okay being alone as long as you can remember.

The day he left you made you spiral. You sought help from a hotel guest that managed to hear your small pleas for help from the other side of the door. You begged her not to call an ambulance, you asked for her to help to get you into a taxi and you were on your way to a private doctor. You needed utmost privacy. Your doctor saw some small health concerns that affected your heart, he requested you majorly decrease your cigarette and alcohol intake and that you visit him once a month so he could come to a certain conclusion.

On your second visit you received your earth-shattering news.

Pregnant, four weeks along.

It had been four weeks exactly since you had seen him. The devastation that afflicted you made you sick all over again. You didn’t know what to do, you didn’t go back to your doctor. You chose to let life go on as normal for three weeks, but the agony was breaking your heart further the more you did that. You considered several things before emailing him. You could go on to give birth and never tell him that it is his and it could grow without a father; or you could abort it. The last option makes you feel unsettled, though you don’t know why. It’s what your brain immediately went to when you learnt about it.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

He just read that you really need him, and you miss him in your email. He didn’t have to read it, let alone let you know he’ll be here.

The tightness in your chest is back. Your fingers flit against your tender breasts and you touch the part where your heart is, it beats lightly.

He doesn’t come that night. You spend the whole night watching the dark, rainy streets of New York, alone. You fall asleep to the sounds of sirens and cars, alone.

You wake up on the floor of your room, in front of the floor to ceiling windows.

Your body feels like it’s made out of limestone and that your tears have caused the material on your face to deteriorate. It takes you half an hour to get the strength to stand up from the floor. You try to stretch but every joint feels like it’s screaming. You manage to walk into your bathroom without swaying, the sight of your vomit and its stench greets you as you walk through the glass door. You hold your breath as you pee, and then brush your teeth. You think about the fact that he stood you up once you’ve found the courage to shower. The water feels like its scalding your skin as you let it water you.

You lay on your bed naked, waiting for an hour for a notification from him. He’s forgotten you.

Your brain loops around the image of him laughing at you with the brunette as they sit on the bed you bought for him; their eyes crinkling in mockery, disbelief lacing their laughter. A tear slips from your eye, you barely manage to wipe it away. You can smell the scent of your decaying heart through your skin, its stench burning a hole in your chest, rotting your ribs in the process.

You need to get up, you have stuff to do. Though you feel numbed, you will yourself to get up.

You forgo eating, simply choosing to indulge in an espresso and two cigarettes for breakfast. You allow the tiniest desire you have to simply let it be repulsed by your body and expel itself from inside - come to the forefront of your mind.

You spend the day working like a dog, you push yourself to limits that make your assistant raise her eyebrows high and ask you to calm down. You ignore any concerned glances as you push yourself ten times more than usual at the gym, drawing praise from your companions. You take a moment to yourself in the gym toilet and check your stomach, you glare at the slightest bump on the bottom of your torso. As you fight the temptation to punch your stomach, your phone brightens with a new notification - from him.

‘Meet you at the restaurant round the corner from your place. Booked a table for 9pm.’

You gulp, an uneasy feeling setting into the depths of your stomach. You’d rather be sent an anonymous letter to meet at a hotel restaurant, it had a touch of romance to it. Exchanging emails is what you’ve had to resort to, you are both blocked from contacting each other in any other manner; sometimes you think to yourself that you’re like forbidden lovers - by choice.

You finish working around eight o’clock, you ready yourself by half eight and you hang around the restaurant. Suddenly having picked up the habit of biting at your nail, you watch the patrons of the restaurants and recognise some television big wigs and political journalists. You breathe in deeply, your eyes flitting around the somewhat busy street, you can feel your bladder ready to give way. You rush into the restaurant at nine on the dot and are escorted by the restaurant manager to a toilet. You ease yourself and wash your hands, your morose face plastered with magazine worthy makeup stares back you. Your pupils are shrunken and your eyes that are practically unresponsive to the light stare at you, the sight of yourself makes them well with tears of disappointment.

You leave the toilets; you saunter back to the door and spot him being led to the table by a waiter. Your feet lead you back outside to the street.

You feel like vomiting, your breaths become shallow and limited. Pressing a hand to your chest you feel your heart hammering mercilessly against your ribs. It feels like death. You shakily reach into your bag and pull out a cigarette pack, you stare at it and your mind wanders to the feeling in the pit of your abdomen. You decide you’re not strong enough to fight the temptation, you pull a cigarette to your lips and go to light it. Your phone vibrates in your hand.

‘Where are you?’

It’s been five minutes, you exhale. You put the unlit cigarette with a lipstick mark back in your bag and take two deep breaths. You slowly walk into the restaurant, you raise your head, desperately trying to find the assurance you’re so well known for. You’re an actress, you’re an expert at façades.

You’re led to his table, your strut attracting the attention of most everyone in the room.

His hair is grown out, his stubble creating a flattering shadow on his lower face. You sit wordlessly, the waiter asks for your drink order and you ask for a ‘Death in the Afternoon’. The waiter smiles, you hear him sigh. You turn to him, avoiding his eyes.

You’re pregnant - with his baby. You’re both having a baby.

The sobering thought almost makes your voice shake. “Thanks for meeting with me. Even though you vowed to never see me again.” Your tone is almost mocking, a tinge of pride filling you. The bitter memory of writing that letter stings him - more so because he’s succumbed to seeing you after having written it.

He tries to sense any revealing signs that you miss him, had he not received your email he would have been hurt to believe that you were thriving without him. You’re still so put together, too beautiful for you to be needing him. Your makeup is done flawlessly, you’re dressed perfectly elegantly. He can’t understand why you would send him an email at ten in the night asking for him if you seem to be good. It made him joyful to receive it, and he hates that. Why do you have this hold over him? Why can’t he just leave you and forget you.

“I couldn’t ignore the possibility that you weren’t okay.” He takes a sip of his cold beer; the taste of wheat makes him relax somewhat.

“You said you’d be there soon, what happened last night?” The embarrassment immediately clambers up your system and makes you avert your eyes to one table over. You hate seeking answers from others that make you feel dependent and make you more human - you despise it.

How can he begin to explain that he stood in the lobby of your building for forty-five minutes trying to fight his anxiety? How can he begin to explain that his fingers trembled so badly that he couldn’t get his phone out of his pocket to let you know that you couldn’t be there for you? How can he begin to explain to you that he loves you so much that the thought of going up to your apartment and failing to comfort you filled him with unending fright? What could he possibly say that wouldn’t allow you to ridicule him? He’s failed you twice now.

He can’t really put himself in the mindset he was in when he left you that letter, letting you know how much you let him down. He didn’t leave the hotel until after you did, he instantly regretted leaving you when he saw you doubled over in pain being helped into a taxi.

He’s got so many questions, why is it you need him? What happened to you in Portofino? “Got side-tracked with something.” He gives you a non-committal shrug and takes another swig of his drink, his leg shaking noticeably under the table.

Your heart falls to the bottom of your stomach, your entire torso feels like it made of limestone and your throat tightens. You feel like you’re choking, your drink couldn’t be here any sooner. “You in a rush to be somewhere?” You look at him questioningly, noticing his leg movements, you try to hide the sadness that’s padding your body like sponge.

He shrugs, “Kinda,” the disillusionment is almost impossible to disguise on your face, he feels some satisfaction from it. “But it can wait.” He watches the waiter approach with two glasses, he places your drink in front of you motions the beer towards him. Accepting it gratefully he continues once the waiter has left. “I thought we weren’t to speak to each other anymore, what made you contact me?” He narrows his eyes, the blue of his eyes twinkling with a glimmer of curiosity.

Your body shivers and you glance away from him, you attempt to will your waiter back towards you. “We can talk about that later, no?” You motion towards him and he rushes over, you ask for two dry martinis. You both wait in silence.

The words that could release all the tension from your body spindle over your tongue incessantly, they almost materialise but you choose to rope him into small talk and pull updates about his life from him. He lets slip that he’s considering the possibility of being serious with the brunette; you remember her sweet features that harshly contrast your own. You make a biting remark that he’s always liked a plain Jane over your third glass; it’s met with a biting remark regarding your character.

You refuse his request to eat dinner with him after his comment; but you do ask him to accompany you to your building.

“I’ll walk you to your elevator.” He mumbles as you exit the restaurant. You nod in agreement; he lights a cigarette and offers you a drag. You smother your temptation, “It’s okay, actually.” You shiver as light pelts of rain shower you. The city is vibrant and lively, but the small bubble you find yourself encased in with him is dark and tempestuous; an unspoken tragedy clouding your day.

The contemplation of being in your apartment alone another night stabs you deep in the back.

You reach the lift of your lobby and you turn to each other. “Please come up with me,” your lip trembles with the weight of the unspoken truth. His eyes flash with concern and surprise. You make your way up to your apartment wordlessly, his hand brushing against you every time you move next to him.

Finding yourself with him in your bedroom, you lay on your bed, taking your shoes off with him watching silently at the end of your bed. He’s highlighted by the setting sun, orange hues paint him golden and blush. He invites himself onto your bed, sensing the melancholy in the air. There’s an odour of cigarettes that permeates the air near your bedside table.

Your back is to him, you feel his arms slink themselves around your waist. His chest presses against your back and you melt slightly into his touch. You missed him so much and the smell of him hauls you to the doors of paradise. How could you have possibly messed this up so much? Two tears slip from your eyes and you sniffle, his arms tighten around you and he comes impossibly closer. His face inches on top of yours, “Tell me what’s wrong?” His whisper is as tender as the wind and the soft touch of his voice makes you moan quietly.

You stare of into the horizon, your eyes being overwhelmed by the rays of sun. “I—” you hesitate. Your breath leaving your body, you pay attention to the movements of his hands, they stroke your stomach making you tremble. You stop in your tracks, alarm setting into your bones.

You turn to him; you can see the questioning look in his eyes. He doesn’t know.

You crash your lips into his, he barely has time to register your passion before he’s responding with his own heated response. His hands mould around your body with a newfound purpose. You want deep down to breathe him in and keep him with you forever. You roll on top of him, and your hands memorise every fibre of his face, his skin is smooth underneath your palms. He slips your dress off of your body, his fingers dance with your skin as he caresses your back.

He wants to stay like this forever. You tear his clothes off of him with an eager gentleness, his hands enclose your hips as you begin to ride him, your hips dance over him, your fingers slip in between his lips and he sucks on them. He pulls you closer to him, hugging you as you ride him. He thrusts into you from beneath and you almost crumble in his arms. “I love you so much—” you hear the words slip from in between his ajar lips, you lift your head and kiss him. Your martini saturated tongues waltz with each other in a feverish heat that leaves you both lightheaded.

You two play with each other’s bodies slowly, untangling each layer of each other’s guard. He slips on top of you with the grace of a gymnast. He nestles himself inside and you your noses rub together as he drives into you slowly, and deeply, with his hand clutching at your throat. You feel your insides liquifying with pleasure, your hands clasp onto his arms for help to grip onto reality. He’s here. Just here - with you.

“I love you, so, so much, Christopher.” You cry out as he increases his speed, the intensity of his movements making his hips meld with your clitoris. His spare hand moves from your breast to your face, he grips onto your throat with more firmness and you let out a sigh of content. Your eyes don’t leave his and he refuses to slow down, you feel yourself go into sensory overload. You feel waves of pleasure shower your body, stars ripple in between your fingers and toes and your eyes roll back into your skull. Your body is floating above your bed.

Chris pants as he maintains his speed, chasing his own maddening orgasm. “You’re so beautiful when you cum.” He breathes out as he lets go of himself inside you. His thumb traces over your bottom lip, he lowers himself down and plants a kiss on your lips. He breathes in your air and gives you a tight hug.

“I have to tell you something.” You whisper into the room. He’s laying next you, his arm draped over your waist. His lack of response for ten seconds is explained by the soft snores leaving him. You purse your lips, “I’m pregnant.” You utter into the atmosphere and turn away from him, you pray that maybe he can hear you; you pray in vain.

A newfound determination settles into your aching chest. You’ll let him know, for real - you’ll work something out; you’ll have your baby and be parents. You’ll be better than your own parents, you’re sure of it. Your hands settle over your stomach, you give your baby a silent apology for mistreating your body - your baby’s temple.

You’re lulled to sleep by the silence.

You wake with a start; the world is dark outside. You can’t feel his arm anymore, dread fills you to the brim as you sit up, your back towards the side he was sleeping on. You feel your heart hurting, you feel weak. You swallow your tears as you look out at the skyscrapers outside your room. Taking a deep breath, you turn slowly to the other side.

He’s still there.

You let out a deep sigh of relief, tears welling into your eyes and dropping out without caution. You let out a soft sob, you throw your arms around him and hold him tightly. He stirs as your tears fall onto his pectoral.

“Hey, everything okay?” He grumbles, worry saturating his voice. “Yes,” you breathe out slowly. He pulls you up to him and his eyes caress yours. You refuse to let him know what’s bothering you, there’s a silent understanding that you need him more than anything right now. You cover yourselves in a blanket, your half naked bodies are melded together as you walk across your apartment towards your terrace.

Chris lights the fire pit, you let your eyes roam his body freely. He sits down next you and you cover yourselves with the large blanket, his hand rests on your thigh.

“Why did you just leave me in Portofino?” Your whisper is carried by the wind and the noise of the three am traffic.

Chris sighs, his eyes lowering down to the fire pit in front of you. “I couldn’t bare the fact that after what you did to me, I still reached out to you, I invited you back into my life.” Your eyes well up with tears again, you want to be swallowed into the ground and dragged to the pits of hell. He looks back at you, his eyes searching for what’s in your own. “I know you’re sorry. But I just couldn’t understand why you did what you did; until I came across this quote that reminded me that hurt people, hurt people. I figured some digging into your past couldn’t hurt at that point. I’m sorry about what you had to go through.” His fingers leave whispered touches on your thigh.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You interject tearfully, he pulls you in, your head resting on his chest. The sound of his fast-beating heart grounds you into this moment.

“I know, I know.” He coos softly. His fingers stroke your cheek, simultaneously wiping away your tears. “I just wish you trusted me enough to let me into your little world. I wanted to know all of you, even the tiniest parts you didn’t even know, I guess you sensed it and you left me. So, I’m sorry for that, too.” You sniffle and let your head fall onto his lap. You look up at him with tears flowing out of your eyes slowly.

“You’re my everything. You’re— you’re my moon and my stars, I—, I—, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live without you.” He chokes over his own unshed tears.

“I love you.” Your words make a tear slip out of his eye.

“I love you too.” He thumb traces your lips softly, his touch gentle as if he were afraid you would turn into mist if he were not tender enough.

You slip into a dreamless sleep, the noise of the world encasing you into carnival of relaxation.

You open your eyes to the ceiling of your bedroom, illuminated by the afternoon sun. A cramp numbs the bottom half of your body. You clench your teeth and sit up, the sharp agony whirling around your system. Something’s not right. You clasp weakly at your stomach; you fail to ignore the pool you feel forming underneath your legs. You lower your fingers slowly, dread thickening in your heart, red darkens your fingertips. You choke back on a sob as another cramp solidifies itself in your stomach, you crumple over, tears streaming out of your eyes. “Chris…” you choke out. Fear paralyses you in your bed.

Chris is nowhere in sight. You gather the little strength you have left in your arms and will yourself towards your bathroom. You drag your bleeding body towards your toilet, blood smears trailing behind you. Small whimpers leave your body as you finally reach the toilet, you pull some tissue towards you and pat the blood away. More leaves you, a heavy flow that makes your insides feel like they’re being pulverised. You’ve gone and done it; you have killed your baby.

You sob loudly, blood smearing over your half-covered body, “My baby—". Your body is racked with the undulating guilt that attacks your system. Tears pour uncontrollably from your eyes; you fight to take in breaths. Your heart feels like it’s breaking - literally. The stiffness in your chest spreads across your ribs and constricts your airflow.

You desperately clutch at your chest, wanting your fingers to tear into your skin and fix your heart. It feels like you’re on fire.

You’re dying.

Darkness blankets your vision; spots of clarity allow you to merely reach the door of your bathroom.

Chris sits at your desk, his phone pressed to your ear. Your doctor’s words feeling like stones in his stomach - he’s diagnosed you with severe depression and fears that a mildly stressful event may be enough to cause an onset of more severe physical problems. You entrusted Chris as your next of kin, in case your doctor believed something awful had happened to you. He listens intently to the information that is relayed to him - you have an inflamed artery. It could lead to your death. The doctor’s words make his stomach sink.

The call ends with Chris promising to accompany you to your appointments and he notes down the number of the referred psychiatrist.

A small wail comes from far away in the apartment, Chris sighs and stands up. He strides quickly to your room, the sight that greets him almost makes him retch. Your blood soils the room. Your body is still, your breaths are shallow and fast. Your hand is clutched over chest, your face distorted with pain riddled in the pores of your skin.

“Baby,” he calls out immediately and crouches down towards you. He feels for your pulse and panic lines his stomach; he grabs for your phone quickly and calls for help. He barely registers what he does in the next two minutes but all he can do is clutch onto you with all his might.

“Tell me what’s wrong, huh?” he whimpers, he pulls you onto his arm. He cradles you, his face pressed against yours. “Come on, you’re supposed to be my favourite girl, you can’t play with me like this…” he chokes out a frantic chuckle.

You’re barely responsive. “B—Baby, stay with me. Stay with me, okay,” he taps your face as his tears roll onto your skin, “don’t leave me.” He begs as his hands tremble. “What am I going to do without my moon and my stars, huh? How can my world go on without you?” His sobs shaking you lightly, your eyes flicker. “Don’t leave me.” He implores, sobs ripping his throat apart.

He can hear the door opening, the flurry of movements that happens around you two separates your bodies away from each other. He grips onto your limp hand desperately, tears blinding him as the paramedics rush you away from him.

He can’t feel his body as he falls to ground, watching your limp hand hanging from the side of the gurney.

The lift doors shut behind the paramedics.

He never sees you again.

Nevertheless, he still loves you, he'll always love you.

Fin.

--

But it’s virtually impossible, with him promoting a new film three towns over.

Good thing is you feel physically incapable of stepping outside of the confines of the house. The ladies that tend to the house scurry around the town buying food for the house and maintain its upkeep, they attempt to feed you three meals a day or four. You refuse most of the time, and they regard you with concerned gazes.

How could you begin to explain that with breaking a man’s heart, you subsequently had broken your own? His words blistered with bitterness bit you and dragged you down to the same pits of sadness that you plunged him into. You can probably say that you loved him, but you’ll probably truly never grasp why you can’t stay in something that requires such cemented commitment.

“Signora?” Your house governess interrupts your train of thought, you pull your cigarette away from your lips. “Sí?” She presents you with a letter addressed to you. The handwriting vaguely familiar to you. You thank her and dismiss her, the cigarette back in between your lips.

The letter doesn’t inform you of who it is from, but you hope, in the depths of your ribs that it’s from him, but you couldn’t possibly understand why he would ask to meet with you. He left you wordlessly two months ago and hasn’t been in contact since, not even through subliminal messages on social media. You can wager that you’re probably dead to him. It was made clear to you when you stood at the beach outside of your friend’s Malibu compound. He would rather die than get back with you; you don’t blame him.

You turn back to your piano, the keys feeling like lead beneath your shaky fingers. You play out a melancholic tune, your fingers feeling like they’re losing blood, you play clumsily, your eyes welling with tears.

You do have to admit, you feel extremely guilty for leaving him.

Life was beautiful with him.

He would have served you the sun on a platter if it meant making you smile - but you’re meant to destroy beautiful things.

It was what your father told you. You ruined his marriage to your mother; your sheer existence drove her to the brink of insanity. Since you were conceived you were a parasite that took the love your mother had for your father and you guzzled it out of her, taking all of her focus and affection. When you were born your parents refused the diagnosis of postpartum psychosis. Your mother believed you were an angel sent from heaven and doctors were trying to take you from her; so, she slowly succumbed to the madness and your father eventually was forced to send her away. The resentment he felt towards you all but scented the house, you were a poisonous leech, and you were treated as such.

You take the last drag of your cigarette and drag yourself to your walk-in closet, you decide on taking another shower - scrubbing away the odour of tar and smoke. You ready yourself for your strange and mysterious encounter. You dress yourself and half an hour later rush out to your car. The sun is low in the sky by the time you start driving away from the house, the countryside hugging you from all sides.

The drive is long into the town centre. The sky is blushed with pink and tinges of orange. You park your car and take a slow walk to the Splendido Mare; you enter the hotel’s restaurant and are led to a table. Your order a glass of wine and wait. After ten minutes you take out the letter, you read it from start to finish and confirm that the invitation was not a figment of your imagination; you were indeed summoned here by a mystery writer. Whom you hope is him.

You sit for half an hour at your table, you sip your anxiety away through two glasses of wine, you step outside and smoke two cigarettes and yet you’re still waiting. You flit through your phone notifications; you decide against your better judgement to type his name into the Goggle search bar. You fleetingly glance around the sparsely attended restaurant. You lock your phone without looking at the updates about him.

The thought of him makes your chest ache, harshly. The pain is tangible, you place your hands over your chest and wince. Something is not right.

You’re not aware of his slow approach, his hands wringing around each other, his cheeks red with nervous energy. He wishes he had had a shot of something - anything before getting here. He doesn’t recall what filled him the mad inspiration to send you a stamped letter to meet him at his hotel restaurant. He doesn’t know whether he wishes he had just called the brunette and spoken to her tonight; but he misses you. Madly.

He pulls out the chair in front of you. You can both tell that you’re holding in your breath.

Every time you see him it feels like the first time, all over again.

And he feels the same, but for either of you to admit it would be succumbing to defeat. You’re engaged in a silent and unspoken battle of wills.

“You sent me a letter?” You show him the letter. He nods, you sigh. “What is it you want to talk about?” You’re afraid to look into his eyes, they’re huge lakes filled with your dreams and deepest desires.

He hesitates, a ghostly sentence is formed on his tongue – he decides against materialising it. “I heard you were nearby; thought we could catch up.” He motions for the waiter. You narrow your eyes in - almost offence. What does he think, that you’re old pals?

He wants to catch up, but you want to do everything. Mostly profess your adoration for him and make love to him.

You despise the feeling; you’ve never felt like this for anyone. The alien feeling makes you heat up, your chest rises and falls quickly; agony filling your body as if you were a vessel to claim. “Right,” is all you can utter.

“What have you been up to?” He’s ordered two martinis, his eyes connecting to yours. You wince as the pain in your chest returns. How can he be so close yet so far?

“I was filming a fragrance campaign recently.” You speak quickly, an itch to smoke tickling your fingers. He nods, his eyebrows raised high.

“Nice.” He sighs and extends his clasped hands further onto the table. You look even more beautiful than in his thoughts, which he can’t expel you from. It seems your haunting presence is with him to stay, and his imagination can’t do any justice to your face and your intoxicating smell.

The conversation you have over your first drinks is dry, emotionless and full of hidden desires.

After each of you have three cocktails you let out the first laugh. He’s released himself a bit from the shackles of wanting to one-up you, his joke about his dog’s stubbornness reminding you of the good days of domesticity with Christopher and his dog. You move out to the terrace, candles flickering in the wind; you share more laughs. Memories being shared between you about life together.

There’s a clear shared emotion - longing. You crave the late summer nights sharing the dance floor with his friends or yours; him undressing you slowly in your pool; the nights watching the fire pit in your Santa Barbara home; the dinners enclosed in brick walled Italian restaurants with candles illuminating your elated faces.

“Come up with me.” His suggestion is quiet, his lips edging closer to yours. You nod, overcome with emotion. He grips on to your hand, the grip of a man thanking his lucky stars. He leads you to his room, on the top floor. A paradisiacal view of the sea and hills greeting you. The sun has set completely, and the moon casts a pale light over the buildings across the water.

Chris closes the door, and no sooner is he clutching at your lips with his. His hands smother you onto him and you meet him with the same desperation. Your hands slip under his shirt and moan into his mouth, your lipstick smearing over his lips. You feel him inhale your smell; he sighs desperately as he pulls you closer to him. You fall onto the chaise lounge in front of the open doors leading onto his balcony. The wind whispers sweet nothings onto your skins as you meld together, your bodies wanting desperately to be combined. He removes your clothes with familiar precision and your fingers touch him where you know he likes it.

The grooves of his skin are familiar, his dick entering you slowly as your fingers caress his tanned skin. He looks spectacular underneath you, his skin illuminated by the moonlight. You ride him slowly, you lips adventuring each other, like your bodies are each other’s long lost home territory. Your lips touch again, but it feels like the first time all over again. You feel yourself melting, your brain feels high, your limbs terribly relaxed. You guess this is what true love feels like. There’s nowhere else you’d want to be.

You love him. Only him.

He turns you over, on all fours, one hand gripping your throat and the other around your hair. He thrusts into you - with passion, his lips ghost over your shoulder. You feel your eyes close, the strength to fight the sedation unable to be found. It goes on for a while, and he flattens you onto your stomach. He lays on top of you, his hips gyrating against your skin, his arms encircling your torso. You feel safe, his head laying to rest in between you shoulder and jawline. He inhales your scent and kisses your shoulder, his lips printing their mark on your skin.

He turns you over and takes a deep breath, his eyes hold your entire world. They’ve trapped you into his universe and you have no desire to leave. He’s your whole world and you gave him away on a silver platter - but he’s here. He accommodates himself in between your legs and gives you a hug, his lips find yours in the darkness. The moonlight bathes you generously and he nestles himself inside you again. His lips refuse to leave yours; his thrusts grow in fervour; he wants to bury himself inside you and never leave.

He’s so deeply, and madly in love with you.

He can’t believe you hurt him. He hates you for it.

He pulls away from your kiss, his breathing heavy and slightly laboured.

His hides his face in the nook under your head. You feel like crumpling when you feel tears run over your shoulder, you hug him tighter. You want to stitch his wounds closed, tightly with your bare fingers and your lips. You want to mould your bodies together and live forever in this moment. His fingers reach for your clitoris and he makes love to you in two different ways. Your head lolls back and you feel ecstatic, currents washing over you slowly and you orgasm.

Chris kisses you desperately, swallowing your moans. He thrusts into you, complementing your orgasm. He releases himself into you, slowly moaning into your mouth.

After a few moments he stands up from the lounge chair and heads to the shower, as he walks through the door, he turns to you. He smiles in a way that you understand is an invitation to join him in the shower. You stand slowly, your legs feeling like jelly. You join him for a warm shower, peppered with tender kisses and saccharine touches.

Your bodies unconsciously refuse to part until you’re lying in his bed. He turns off the lamp and lays facing you.

A sweet look embalms his irises. His hand lifts itself to nestle under your cheekbone. He regards you softly.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice shaky.

You smile sleepily, “I love you too.”

You’re hypnotised to sleep by his soft breaths.

—

The sunlight reflected on the lake wakes you out of you slumber, the first dreamless one you’ve had in months. You turn to the side where Chris is and find nothing but empty air. You sit up quickly; the room is deadly silent. Nothing but your movements on the bed make noise. You scramble out of the bed and look for him.

There’s no trace of him in the room. You let out small wail of desperation. What if it was all a dream?

You pace the room, an uneasy feeling setting itself in your chest. You feel the space between your ribs tighten and your head feel faint. Your legs feel weak and unsteady, you crumple into a heap near the chaise lounge. Your breath feels constricted, massively so. The world begins to spin, and you fall onto your back.

It feels like a heart attack.

You can barely feel your heart.

You drag yourself to the counsel table, desperate to reach the phone. Your hand misses it massively, instead a hotel branded paper flickers down next to you. You pick it up, the tightness in your chest limiting your movement.

I guess this is goodbye, I can’t get over the fact that I’ll never be able to trust you. No matter how much I want to.

I hate you for ruining us

I’ll miss you, forever.

With all my love,

C

--

Parte Quatre -

Tags -

Your breath catches in your throat.

His arm draped across the shoulders of a tanned brunette; her eyes unmoving - glued to his. His lips ghost over hers, they way they used to do to your lips; giggles are whispered through her lips. Wearing a full suit with an undone bow tie strung around his neck - he looks like a drunken dream.

You want him.

He hasn’t noticed you. Or is pretending that he hasn’t.

It’s been six months since that night. You barely remember it; you were so intoxicated - on alcohol and Diazepam. An entirely irresponsible mixture, you try to pretend to yourself that you don’t know why you took what you did; but you know why. It was the only way that you had the courage to do what you did. Otherwise, you’d be with—

“One Death in the Afternoon.” The muscular barman places the crystal flute in front of you, you let a smirk grace your lips. If you weren’t in the same room as your date, you’d fuck him. But you’re trying to change.

You turn back in his direction, your friend also spots him, she promises that she’ll do everything to keep you guys apart. Your friends and family were informed of an amicable break-up with tears shed on both sides - by him. The media reported something similar - both PR teams sending well wishes to the other party and asking for privacy for those involved.

You weren’t aware of the amicable breakup until the email was forwarded to you by your PR head. You had blocked his number, but he had blocked you in every other way possible; you won’t pretend that it was unwarranted. Nor will you pretend that it didn’t hurt, but you couldn’t begin to imagine how much he was hurt.

You’ve done worse, but you don’t think you’ve ever done it to someone you actually loved.

You find yourself back in the folie of dancing, your dress billowing around your legs, its silky touch caressing your skin. You catch sight of the tanned brunette entering the dance floor; he’s following her, his hands toying with her waist.

They dance closely, his eyes roaming her body hungrily. You feel like vomiting. This isn’t fair. You close your eyes and knock your head back, willing the horrible sight away. The songs change twice before you open your eyes properly, your eyes immediately lower to where he is. Their lips are locked, their eyes shut off from the party, his hands dance on her arse.

You are most definitely going to throw up.

You rush away from the crowd, attracting concerned gazes, brushing off the offers of help, you finally manage to leave the house. You edge towards the pool and double over, you dry heave over the grass. You will the vomit up, but it is to no avail. You move away from the tennis style grass and make your way through the garden. Your walk leads you to the sea just beyond the expansive garden. The sky is a warm umber, the setting sun barely visible.

You don’t know how long you’ve been stood there, but you feel a presence behind you. You pray it’s not your date - demanding you keep him company.

You turn and feel your heart stop.

He looks beautiful. It’s the most undeniable beauty you’ve ever seen. He makes your heart throb.

Your heart swells, a feeling you’ve only ever felt once blanketing your heart.

Longing.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust someone so much ever again.” His voice is husky, his accent very noticeable. “I couldn’t figure out whether speaking to you would be a good idea, but I really wanted to understand,” he sighs deeply, his fingers whisking out a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket, “even a slither of your psyche.” He lights one cigarette and exhales.

You watch him intently but divert your gaze when he looks at you. “What do you mean?” You whisper. Your courage has left you, and your confidence has set itself on fire.

He nudges the cigarette towards you, “I know you’re more of a vogues girl, but you’re going to have to forgo that right now.” You take the offered cig and pop it in between your lips. It tastes of him somehow and you want to die. “I’ve been fucked up since I left Massachusetts, unbelievably so. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way.” He takes a tremulous breath.

You’re frozen. The cigarette needing to be ashed, he takes it from your fingers. He takes a swift inhalation. “I may have developed a mild dependency on alcohol… and on you. I can’t go to parties without thinking of you. I can’t get out of bed without thinking of you, I can’t breathe — without thinking of you.” His breathing is steady, his words stronger than the wind carried by the sea. You can’t breathe, his words taking the majority of your oxygen, he hands you back the cigarette.

“If I hadn’t done it then, you would have done it first.” You shiver with the cold breeze from the surf. If you could choose between kissing him or dissipating, you would choose to dissipate right into the sand.

His eyes flash across to you, his irises seething with anguish and droplets of anger. “It’s not a race, it never should be.” His hiss cuts across your chest, almost shattering your pearls. “I loved you, like I’ve never loved anyone.” His words make you look at him. The eyes that haunt your dreams are there, right there, less than a step away. The wind brushes his tendrils of golden hair across his face, he looks like a kaleidoscope manifested into flesh. “But I hate you now, in ways I have never hated someone.”

You feel like you’ve been stabbed in the neck.

You can feel a tear slip past your eyelashes, and you almost curse the skies. “That’s fine.” You choke quietly, your voice on the cusp of being drowned by the waves.

“I’ve moved on. I’m happy.” He sighs, he dashes the cigarette stub into the ocean, his hands going back into his pockets. His eyes don’t shift away from yours. “But you haunt me.” He looks away, towards the darkened horizon. “If I could choose between you dying or the Boston bomber - I would choose you.”

Your eyes widen with horror.

You’ve never been confronted with the pain you’ve caused. It’s never bothered you that men would desperately try to tarnish your image in salacious magazines. But this, this hurt you. Finally.

You can’t stop the tears now. You sink into the sand. The water washes against the borders of your legs. You choke a sob back.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is small and dejected.

“That’s alright.” He’s lit another cigarette. He sits down next to you, offering you a toke. You take it, peaking at him from under your eyelashes.

Looking up at him, you’re met with a longing gaze.

You’re going to wonder forever what’s possessed him, but his lips find yours. They’re the light at the end of the tunnel and following the path to it guarantees his survival.

The embrace is bittersweet, sprinkled with pleasant familiarity. The taste of smoke tendrils dances between your tongues. His fingers swim in your hair, greedily pulling you deeper into his kiss. You want to die in his arms, it would be indeed the heavenliest way to die. You grab his shirt and hold on for dear life, his wine-soaked tongue intoxicating you further. Fireworks explode behind your eyelids and you sink further into him.

He breaks away from the kiss. His eyes riddled with unspoken secrets.

He stands up, his hand extending towards you. Lifting you to your feet and taking your hand in his, he begins to sway with you to the muffled music coming from the house. His hand rests above your bum, comfortably leading you in this dance. You lean your head against his chest, inhaling the smell of cologne and Marlboro Reds. The smell that used to wake you up on holiday weekends. A tear slips from your eye, a manifestation of your longing and your need for him.

Why do hurt people, hurt people?

You recall the day your father left your mother for dead.

“Where’s mum going, daddy?” You look up at the towering figure of your father.

His stern gaze remains on the distressed woman being handcuffed to the gurney. He brushes off your question with a glare embalmed with stone. You gulp and return your stare to your screaming mother; you rush to her, but a paramedic stops you in your tracks. Your mothers begs your father to let her go, her cries echoing around the front garden. Her roses seemingly wilt in sympathy for their weeping creator. She screams and fights against the paramedics, your father doesn’t wait until the doors of the ambulance have been closed before he closes the front door.

You rush to the living room window, standing beyond the curtain with your face pressed against the glass, you watch your mother being driven away.

You’ll never see her again and never know where she took her last breaths; and you’ll be transferred to board at your school. You see your father annually and eventually he leaves you for retirement in South Africa, you’re alone and unloved.

So, you steal hearts so that your own can heal.

Chris breaks your dance, his hypnotising spell diluted by the distance imposed by his now hardened glare. He turns and leaves, his shadow furthering away from your own. You watch in astonishment as he leaves you, cigarette smoke billowing away from his receding figure.

You can’t help the stream that washes your cheekbones.

He’s done the impossible - broke you.

-

Part 3 -

So, when Christopher saw you at the 2019 Vanity Fair Oscars after party, he fell head over heels. Your eyes cast a spell on him, and the enchantment was cast by the world’s master mage, you. You barely realised what you did, you were in no mood to flirt or truly fraternise. You were attempting to drown your sorrows of missing out on another Oscar win for the second time - in a mojito glass. You looked spectacular, possibly more than how you looked during the ceremony. But to Chris, your face of indignation looked like the angelic expression of a good second place loser with no hard feelings. He attempted to approach you, but too many people go into his way, they came with unprovoked film criticisms and pseudo interview responses that would get them into the academy board. All he wanted was to see your face up close and know how you spoke when you weren’t being regarded by a crowd of enraptured spectators.

He could see that you weren’t being left alone either, you hadn’t won the Oscar, but you are being treated as if you did. Your eyes bounce off of him every once in a while, but he couldn’t capture your attention - and then you left the party. You hardly made the French exit you were seeking. Stars old and young clamoured to say their goodbyes and kisses on your cheeks. You finally managed to escape. If Chris were to attempt to lie and say that he wasn’t disappointed, a blind woman could have seen right through him. His heart dropped, and he couldn’t explain why - he didn’t even know you.

Some other actor friends managed to drag him to a more intimate after party, the setting hardly intimate. A compound nestled in Hidden Hills, twenty-four-hour security circling the property, of one starlet who presented herself at the beginning of the night but chose an early slumber rather than socialising.

You came in half an hour after him, a miniskirt showing off your incredible legs - which were insured for an absurd amount.

His breath caught in his mouth. You were dressed down, but you looked too incredible to even try and claim you didn’t try. Everyone’s head turned and everyone was captured by the beauty at the door, accompanied by a friend. Your demure appearance fooling everyone into thinking that the attention was unwanted. You grabbed yourself a drink and half an hour later you were still enveloped with a group of equally intoxicated friends.

Though, Chris was determined to get your attention. He grabbed a drink off of the barman and slowly and easily made his way to you. The word ‘chill’ being chanted over and over again in his head. He was dead set on not making a fool of himself. Three steps away from you, glass of mojito clutched in his hands, his anxiety being beaten down and desperately suffocated into his stomach and away from his brain. He goes over his words, and before he finishes walking to you, you turn suddenly.

Your eyes pierce into his, a smirk glossing your lips. “Hi.” Your voice is low, characteristically different from your stage voice - your accent just as strong.

“Hey, got this for you.” Chris thrusts the glass into your unexpectant hand, some of the drink splashing out over the frosted rim. “Hope, it’s not too presumptive of me to have gotten it for you?” His eyes have glossed over, he shifts his weight from one foot to another. You shake your head no, a sweet smile playing at your lips. He’s even easier on the eyes much closer up. “Sorry you didn’t win that Oscar, real shame, I was rooting for you!”

You store it in the back of your mind that this man manages to look like a golden retriever even when he’s several drinks down, “It’s nothing, what does it mean anyway, I’ll still get more jobs in the future.” You take a sip of your drink after he takes a sip of his.

He compliments your eyes, your complexion and goes on an eager rant of how much he admires your capacity for acting. You drink in the adoration diluted by alcohol and take his words with a pinch of salt. After twenty minutes of solid, drunken conversation you’ve moved to a nook shadowed by statues. Your legs next to his on the red velvet sofa. You remark on the class of the artistic statues, clearly purchased illegally from a Mediterranean museum. He barely takes in your words, much preferring to intoxicate himself with the sight of you - and his fifth beer.

You’ve decided that you want him. Badly. But you’ve sussed him out. He’s not just going to be a one-night stand - in the animal kingdom he’s a Golden Retriever, and those aren’t dogs to be messed with. Your last fling was essentially a Doberman pinscher - discardable - but this Chris had to reeled in slowly.

You interrupt his musing about the Boston markets with a kiss.

Your lips smoothly capture his, your lipstick smearing over his lips. His hand presses tightly on the small of your back, arm underneath your waist holding you up higher. Stars explode inside your eyelids and his fingers grip tightly onto your shirt as your tongue licks his bottom lip. Your entry is granted, you lips pressing tighter against each other. Your eyelashes dance over his. Your hands rise to his face, your hands imprinting themselves onto his cheekbones. His hand brushes over the bare skin of your leg, his fingertips tracing the insides of your thighs. A small moan rises from the back of his throat.

The hold you have on him is cemented, you part away from him. You untangle yourself from him and stand up from the sofa, your eyes refusing to look at him, you smooth your clothes and slowly strut away from him.

Chris looks at the fire that you’ve set on his limbs in disbelief, he doesn’t grasp what you’ve just done. Did he do something wrong? Does he smell? No. You just didn’t care for the ceremony of the first ‘after-kiss’ moments.

He doesn’t see you for a year.

You truly are elusive - to the media and him.

He couldn’t get you out of his mind, and the fact that you starred in another award-nominated film did little to help him forget you.

You were curious to understand whether you really enticed him or not. You decided to not pursue that line of questioning, and never bothered to reply to his direct messages. It wasn’t done with the intent of hurting him, you just didn’t care. But life has a way of putting things in your way that deep down you didn’t know you wanted.

--

Nevertheless, here you are, with your boyfriend of a year - Christopher, sat across from you telling you story about his nephew. You simper, your eyes flitting between the sight of him and the view of the sea. The coast of Martha’s Vineyard enraptures you, you drink your wine, eyes steadily moving to the coastal view.

You grew up coming here. Your family often choosing the quiet island to rest in during the late spring holidays. You brought Chris back here to stay at your family holiday home as it’s not too far from his own family home, a perfect last stop after spending the week with his family.

He watches you curiously, his blue irises begging you to let him in to your thoughts. You refuse silently and beckon the waiter. You ask for the bill, it’s quickly on the table and you pay - ignoring Chris’ refusals. You smile at him, for the second time during dinner. He responds in kind, remarking on your bad mood and how he’s glad you’ve cheered up after having some food. He muses on the lovely weekend you’ve had together as you leave the restaurant. Candlelight following you as you make your exit with your hands holding each other tightly, his other hand in his preppy shorts.

You walk slowly, watching the sunset. His arm finding its way around your shoulders. His sweet and intimate embrace enveloping you in warmth. Your heart beats quickly against his bicep as you near your home. Your hands tremble for some reason and you practically sprint up the porch steps after you’ve crossed the gate and walkway, leaving Chris five steps behind you.

You open the door and make a quick beeline for the kitchen in the far back of the house. You enter the pantry, ignoring Chris’ questions of what is wrong. You take a bottle of Rosé out of the wine fridge and forgo pouring it into a glass and drink it straight from the bottle. It tastes incredibly sweet, and Chris finds you eventually in the pantry. He looks at you in surprise as you gulp the drink.

“Everything okay, baby?” He walks to you, his hands failing onto your hips, his adoring eyes almost boring into your soul. You refuse him entry into the pits of your emotions. Steeling yourself against the onslaught of therapy-like talk.

You don’t want him to know that hurt people, hurt people. And that you’re one of them.

You kiss him, silencing his calming words.

His fingers tighten on your sundress. The colour melding with the colour of his fingers. Your lips become one.

You go through the steps of getting out of the pantry in a seemingly choreographed dance, your dance ends in the smaller reception room; your bodies tangling themselves on the rug. Neither of you giving a care to fact that you’re undressing in front of the window overlooking the pool and coast.

The flickers of the setting sun’s rays highlight his now bare chest. He returns his lips to yours in a hypnotising kiss. Your hands dance with the muscles of his back as you caress his skin, his torso vibrating in between your legs with the fervour of his movements. Your dress is ripped off your body. He directs his attention to your right breast, his soft lips caressing your skin. His tongue lashes slowly against your nipple, you fight to hold back your moans as his hand lowers to your pussy. His fingers pushing aside your pants, his fingers sink into you like it’s their second nature. Your head rolls back as he makes love to you with his fingers and his lips lower down to where his fingers are. He licks you where you need him most, his love for you being written inside you with his tongue.

You orgasm. Slowly.

And all that runs through your mind is how much you’ll miss him.

You pull him up to you, you turn over and straddle him. Tasting yourself on his lips as the sun sets even lower. The waves crash against the shore violently as the wind picks up. You lower yourself onto him and start riding him, your hips bucking in an impassioned manner against his. He doesn’t hold back his moans as he caresses your breasts and stomach.

You realised you loved him four months ago, but every time you catch sight of his loving eyes when you’re fucking, it makes you fall in love all over again.

Chris switches and puts you on all fours, he grips your hair in his hands, the rising intensity making him grip you harder. His thrusts are merciless, his spare hand spanking you and stroking, you’re on the cusp of a sensory overload when he turns you over. On your back you have the most beautiful view. A strong ray of sunlight brightening his eyes as he makes love to you. His kisses are tender but intense. His hand grips onto yours, your fingers intertwined and his other hand griping onto your face.

A tear slips out of your eye, you wipe it away quickly. Your increased sensitivity makes the second orgasm come, Chris fucks you through your breathy moans and you throw your head back. Momentarily blinded by the bliss; the pink sky wakes up from the saccharine, cloudy state. Chris orgasms into you with four thrusts.

You push away from him and stand up; you pull on your silky pants. You sigh and leave Chris on laying breathless on the rug. You walk upstairs and enter your room. You use the toilet, wash your hands, have a glass of water and throw on a short black dress. As you pull on your boots Chris enters the room, a smile gracing his lips.

He pulls on some shorts, “Want to tell me what all that was about?” He gives you a confused expression as he lies back against the bed, taking one of the fluffed pillows from behind him and tucking it between his chest and arms.

Hurt people, hurt people.

You turn towards him, facing away from your walk-in closet. “When we fuck, I have to think about other men to get through it.”

His eyes widen alarmingly, he turns to you, the light of the tv making him blue. “Say that again?” The disbelief is almost tangible in his words.

“I feel embarrassed about being seen with you now. I feel I’m just too good for you.” You walk into the closet and you hear him stomp off the bed.

“No, rewind to what you first said.” His voice is louder, his features twisted with confusion and hurt.

“I have to think of other guys to get off,” your eyes connect with his, you don’t look away, you fight the smirk biting at your lips. “I can’t stand the thought of being with you any longer. I’m sick of it.” You grab the suitcase that was packed for you when you were at the restaurant. “Also, you’re not as ripped as you were when we met, there’s other guys that can provide that image for me.”

“Take it back.” The hurt he’s feeling is completely tangible now. “Take it back right now. Right. Now.” His eyes are pleading with you to have mercy.

You've decided that you've gone past the point of no return. “I’d be happy never have to see you or have to hear from you - ever again.” You scan his eyes, your heart swelling with an eerie feeling of pride as his eyes flood with held back tears.

“This must be some elaborate prank— “he chokes on his words, his hands reach for yours, but you step back.

“This year has been tedious, completely boring and I’ve gotten nothing but only ten decent fucks from you.” Not true, and both of you can attest to that, you've had the best sex, your mutual adoration is clear when you make love. So, Chris is at a loss to understand how this is all being said and happening. “I’m off to New York, stay as long as you like or don’t. I don’t care. Have a nice life.” You slip past him.

Taking his heart and soul with you.

He can’t stop the tears from ballooning in his eyes and then trickling down his cheeks.

He must be stuck in a nightmare. He doesn’t know how long he’s been pacing in this closet filled with your clothes, your smell haunting him.

He rushes downstairs and there’s no sign of you. He stumbles outside and there’s no sign of you or your driver. He rushes in to get his phone and calls you. Five times. The sixth time it goes straight to voicemail.

He feels his heart break.

He falls right in the spot he’s in. He vomits his heart out, the pieces being spat out onto the wooden floors. The blood shinning underneath the soft lights of the lamps.

He wants death. Slow and steady death.

——

Part Deux -

She no longer has the energy to growl and throw the phone down and leave him unanswered.

Of course not, you can’t come up. “Yes.” She presses the button to unlock the door and puts the phone down weakly.

Her feet drag her back to her couch and her body falls against the couch. She waits in silence, her eyes watching the blue sky through the window. The sound of her beating heart keeps her company in the deafly silent home.

The opening of the door signals his entry.

His footsteps are hesitant and quiet, her ears follow the sounds as he goes to her room first. He stops just before her door and backtracks to the living room. His footsteps stop at the door. The floorboard creaks as he shifts his weight on his feet.

“Hey, y/n.” He bites his lip, waiting for her response. Her response doesn’t come, and he gulps, he lets his body lean against the door with a sigh.

“Just do what you came to do and leave.” Her voice is still scratchy and she’s afraid no matter how many times she tries to clear her throat she won’t be able to get it to any semblance of her normal voice.

Tom purses his lips and takes a step into the living room when the floor creaks she tenses.

“Can I talk to you first?” His voice is small again, his request barely louder than the noise from the neighbours.

y/n shakes her head, her eyes glued to the sky. “Just do what you came to do and go.”

A sudden courage makes Tom’s heart beat faster and he takes two more steps forward. A feeling of want makes a flurry of butterflies storm his stomach, as well as nervousness. He can’t just let her slip through his fingers, again. He has to try to convince her that perhaps he can be invested in again and that their relationship isn’t beyond saving.

He wants to roll his eyes at himself for thinking like such a piece of shit. He’s done her wrong and he doesn’t deserve to be given another chance. But it doesn’t mean he won’t try.

“y/n,” he sighs, one of his hands is clenched in his pocket and his other scratching the nape of his neck, “I don’t know what more I can say but I just need you to know and understand that I’ve never felt more terrible and ridiculous in my life.” There’s a hesitation in his voice and the flavour of regret plagues his mouth.

She snorts quietly and huffs, “I sure hope you feel like that.” Her eyes are unmoving, and her hands are clasped together under her chin.

Tom closes his eyes, trying to hold the tears at bay. “I’m so sorry.” He whispers, the regret lacing his mouth becomes stronger.

She chuckles bitterly, “Oh, are you?” For the first time, she looks at him. Anger floods her eyes and rage coats her face like a second skin. “You’re sorry for what?” She turns her body to him. “Sorry for lying to me on more than one occasion, are you sorry for even being in a relationship with me,” she stands from the couch and takes a step forward, “or,” she lets her face come close to Tom’s, “are you sorry for cheating on me?”

The word that explicitly describes what Tom did stabs him deep in the chest, remorse bleeds out from the wound and he almost chokes on his held back tears. He shakes his head, not trusting the strength of his own voice. He can only look into her eyes and assess the havoc he has wreaked in her life by the broken pieces in her eyes.

“You came to collect your clothes, so I just want to know why you’re talking to me in the first place?” Her question is his chance to leave without digging himself into a deeper hole. If she could plead and beg him to just say that he was joking when he told her on that Sunday night that he kissed and slept with another - she would.

But Tom has never been one to leave the ship just because there are some holes at the bottom of the structure. “I’m here because,” he hesitates and looks away from her icy glare, “I need you.” The tone of his voice is soft and he raises his voice an octave higher.

She chuckles in bitter disbelief, “You, need me?” The finger that points at him feels like a knife poised to stab him. However, he wishes that she would do just that if it meant that she could take out all her rage on him.

He nods, turning back to her. The cold look in her eyes scares him to no end, but right now all he needs is bravery and no tears so that can just convince her that he does love her and need her still. “I need you more than anything. What I did with that girl, it meant absolutely nothing, and I regret it so much that if I could I would jump in front of a train right now if it meant that I wouldn’t have had sex with her.”

y/n winces with the mention of him having sex with another girl. “Well if you could just do me that favour I would be thankful.” She utters coldly.

Tom feels the wound in his chest deepen and widen, “You don’t understand how much I regret it, each day the guilt takes another bite out of me.”

She snorts and crosses her arms and moves away from Tom, “Why couldn’t the guilt just gobble you up?” her irony isn’t unfounded, as the hurt and disappointment had her for dinner the moment he finished telling her he cheated on her. The words to express the rage she felt in that moment are inconceivable.

Tom doesn’t know when the tears begin falling limply out of his eyes, but when he looks at her again with her back to him and her eyes back to the sky, his vision is blurry and constricted. “Darling, I can’t tell you how much I just need you. I need you.” He takes a shaky breath as he approaches her.

“You should have thought about how much you need me when you jumped into that girl’s bed.” She reaches her hand up and wipes a stray tear away.

The sun has disappeared from the sky now and the room is coated in blue.

Tom’s face is pale with the colouring of blue as he comes to stand next to y/n. “I’m sorry.” He pleads. “I’m so sorry.” A sob slips from his tongue and he uses his wrist to wipe away his tears.

She shakes her head. “Piss off.” She strains her voice to sound strong. “Just leave me alone, okay?” She spins her face to glare at him again, the teary-eyed look he gives her makes her heart deflate. She wants more than anything to just hug him and profess that she loves him, and they’ll make it work and that cheating isn’t the end of the world. Her heart wants nothing more. But her mind is in charge and she knows she will never be able to forgive him.

“You didn’t want me when you cheated on me and now I don’t want you either.” Tom sobs, looking into her eyes. “Take your sorry arse and your stupid self out of my house and never cross my sight again!” She points to the door and knows it’s better to not get in his face, or she might just kiss him.

His sobs are harder as he lowers down to the ground, his knees holding him up weakly, “Don’t do this, I promise we can do something to make this work. I promise.” His words are barely comprehensible between his cries, his hands are splayed in surrender to her. “Darling, please,” His hands touch her ever so slightly.

She flinches, “Get up, now Tom.” Her voice is almost as weak as her heart. She’s never seen him look so dejected and devastated, but it’s his own doing.

“Please, darling—” he inhales deeply as he grasps her waist between his arms, he hugs her to him with all the strength he can conjure. “I’m begging you!”

She has to unscrew his arms off her body and her own tears fall out her eyes as her fingers rip him away from her. “Tom get off me!” His body falls against the floor. “You know we won’t stay together if I ‘forgive’ you, so stop!” She coughs as her throat aches and her voice worsens. “I need you, to leave.” Her demand is final, Tom doesn’t have the courage nor the strength anymore to argue. “Leave.” Her head falls like it’s going to fall off of her shoulders.

He picks himself off of the floor, it creaks under him. His exhales are forceful and loud, his eyes are closed, attempting to keep his tears at bay. “I need you.” He mumbles finally. He glances at her hopefully, but his hope sinks as the water reaches the deck of the ship; her jaw is set tightly, and her eyes look through the window.

He walks to the door of her living room. He turns to look over his shoulder, taking her in one last time.

“Go and don’t come back.” Her words carry a wave of sadness.

Tom feels like he’s drowning now, his head barely bobs out of the sea of depression.

Ned frowns, “Yeah...” he begins slowly as they reach the door, Peter with the intention of following y/n. “She was just acting so weird this morning, we walked to school together,” Ned continues and Peter throws him a questioning glance, “we met halfway.” Ned clarifies.

Peter turns the corner with Ned in tow and they see that y/n isn’t at her locker. Peter feels confused and is unable to fathom why his girlfriend is acting to weird today. 

“She was just being so moody,” Ned starts again, trailing slightly behind Peter as they walk to the canteen. “And when I asked her about why she walking today, she got even moodier.” Ned gestures in an exaggerated manner to emphasise the end of his sentence. 

“Did you ask her why she was moody?” Peter and Ned reach the queue to get their food, Peter’s eyes still searching for y/n.

Ned scoffs as he grabs two trays and hands one to Peter. “Yes I did, and she told me everything when he sat on a bench together for a bit and we bonded over American Idol.” 

Now it’s Peter’s turn to scoff. “Fine, makes sense.” They take two steps as the line moves forward. “But I just want to know why she’s not come to talk to me if something’s wrong.” Peter sighs and watches as the dinner lady slaps food on to Ned’s plate. 

The lunch period passes quite quickly for Peter. The thought of his girlfriend being in trouble and not coming to him for help bothering him to a point where his appetite simply left him. Ned tried to keep him happy, but it was just no use; lunch without y/n on a Thursday saddened him. He hadn’t meant to become so lovesick and dependent - but it just happened.

AP biology just before gym allowed Peter to clear his head before he had to put his body through forced labour, and it gave him time to work with his favourite girl and just have some fun with her in his favourite lesson.

Peter enters the class and sighs when he sees that y/n hasn’t arrived yet. His teacher tells those that are already in the class that they can get their equipment from the front of the room, Peter takes this time to watch his classmates file into the room slowly. 

The bell rings again, signalling the beginning of class and Peter sits down at his table with a defeated sigh and confused expressed sewn onto his features. 

His teacher steps up to his board, his eyes lingering slightly on y/n’s seat, he throws Peter a questioning glance and Peter shrugs. Just as his teacher begins introducing today’s topic, y/n slams open the door.

She rushes to her seat, a flurry of half-assed apologies leaving her lips and her head is lowered as she lets her body fall onto her stool. Every pair of eyes in the room watches her in shock and undiluted surprise.

The biology teacher at the front of the room clears his throat and quickly lets out that he would like to students to arrive promptly y/n to the lesson. It’s as if his request falls on deaf ears as y/n pulls out her books from her bag and doesn’t bother acknowledging it.

The lesson rolls on and y/n seems to pretend that Peter doesn’t exist, and barely replies when he asks her questions.

And it’s beginning to make his headache.

“y/n,” he begins, whispering close to her face, “what’s up with you?” He peers at her face, watching a frown cloud her face. 

Her eyes pierce into his skin when she spins her face towards his, “Nothing.” She almost snarls and goes back to looking at their teacher at the front of the room.

Peter exhales disappointedly. “Can you just tell me what’s got you acting this way?” The worry in his voice is palpable, y/n watches him from the corner of her eye as he tries to assemble their equipment just like their teacher. “Was it something I did?” He bites his lip as he looks back at her.

She quickly looks forward and sighs aggressively, “No.” she fiddles with her fingernail as Peter watches her, “Stop staring at me.” She barks out.

A couple of eyes look back at them and y/n glares at them, they turn back.

Peter bites his lip nervously, “Please, just tell me what I did? Or what’s bothering you?” He searches her face for any answers and she rolls her eyes and continues biting her nail.

Peter quits and just lowers his head. He watches her throughout the lesson, taking in her bad attitude and taking her snarky and snappy comments on his cheek. 

When the bell rings y/n continues giving him the cold and leaves the classroom without another a glance or word directed towards Peter.

His jaw is set tightly to for the rest of the afternoon, he barely registers the words said to him by his teacher or by Ned. His sits ups were extra aggressive, leaving his classmates gobsmacked and staring wide-eyed.

The frustration and confusion at the unfair treatment from his girlfriend made his veins pulse madly and his blood boil to steam. He only tried to be as present and as loving as he could and she was going to treat him like that - for no apparent reason. Peter couldn’t take it anymore, as soon he finished his shower his plan of action was also finished.

He dressed with a renewed sense of vigour and with a motivation to not ever have her think that she can treat him like that just because she’s in a foul mood. With a quick bye to Ned and a text message to May tell her he had band practice and an excuse for his teacher.

Each step he took to y/n’s house just fuelled his frustration and when he stepped onto the subway train an anger grew inside him and it pulsed in his veins and he needed to get it out.

Peter’s fist knocks twice on the door of the house in front of him. The neighbourhood is silent with only the faint noises of dogs barking and children playing at the end of the street. Peter shoves his clenched fists into his jean pockets and shifts his weight on his feet. His tight jaw shifts each second he waits for the door to open.

He knows there’s only one person in the house at this time, and with the house being so quiet he knows that she definitely heard him knock. He exhales aggressively and his eyes glare at the door. He wishes he could just burn a hole into it, barge into her room, throw her against the wall—

“Peter?” Somehow she manages to let out the most unbothered yet surprised tone leave her mouth.

Peter grinds his teeth before speaking, “We need to talk.” His voice is low, but she can clearly hear the annoyance in his carefully drawn out demand.

She shakes her head, “I don’t think this is the ti—“ 

Peter shakes his own head, “Fuck the time.” He spits out suddenly, making her eyes widen in undiluted shock, “Your parents aren’t home, we’ve got no homework to do right now. And we,” Peter gestures between them, his voice lower again, “need to talk. Now.” He slinks past her and waits for her to close the door.

She does so but slowly tries to process how Peter just spoke to her. She locks the door and turns to him, her eyes watching him and a look of confusion painting her eyes. But with a drop of arousal.

“What is it?” She clears her throat. She steps away from the door and takes a couple of steps to the staircase. 

Peter’s jaw rolls as he processes the words he wants to say. “What’s up?” 

y/n smirks in disbelief, “You got out of Queens, for you to come to ask me ‘What’s up’?” She almost laughs.

Peter’s blood boils at her mocking, “y/n, stop!” He breathes out. “Why are you being so rude, what is with this attitude?! I’m pretty sure that I have done nothing to deserve this attitude from you—“

She creases her eyebrows, “I’ve not got an attitude.” She says with a shrug.

“You do,” Peter’s hands leave his pockets and he points his finger accusingly at her, “You’ve had this nasty attitude all day and even Ned noticed it.”

“What? So now you’re bitching about me to Ned?” Peter rolls his eyes at her accusation and roughly cards his fingers through his hair, he goes to speak but y/n continues. “And if I do have an attitude,” her head moves with her words, “what are you going to do about it? Keep on asking me ‘what’s up?’ until I break?” She spits out.

Peter shakes his head, “I’ll fuck that attitude out of you.”

His statement is quiet, but it’s loud enough to silence y/n and dampen her vigorous argument. Her lips hang open and her eyes the size of light bulbs.

The disbelief coursing through her didn’t know where to stop. Just like she didn’t know where this aggression and forwardness was coming from Peter. The understanding that’s she’s actually got him riled up makes her freeze; the drop of arousal in her eyes has spilt and her eyes are damp with it.

“I dare you.” She whispers.

Peter knows his words mean nothing right as his actions are worth everything. He fights back any possible embarrassing action to not ruin the moment he’s crafted. All humiliating scenarios possible make his mind go haywire as he takes steady steps towards y/n as she stares at him with glossy eyes. But he knows that anything that he does right now won’t do anything to damage the arousal coursing through them both and it will only push y/n over the edge and make her fall to her knees ready for him.

He lets a single breath from his mouth ghost over her open ones before he covers her mouth with his own. Their lips mesh and almost become one. Peter feels like his mind has floated to cloud nine as soon as their lips pucker together, he pokes his tongue out to let him explore further and she gladly lets him in. 

His tongue delves through her lips, their tongues battle for dominance, and for once Peter wins, and his prize is a moan from deep in y/n. His hands tangle themselves into her hair, he pulls it bringing her closer to him as his tongue explores unabashedly in her mouth. Her fingers travel over his back, her mind marvels through moans how toned and perfect it feels.

She breaks away, a dazed and an almost wild look in her eyes. “We need to go upstairs... if we’re going to keep this going.” Her breathless voice spurns Peter on and he picks her up. She gasps and holds on tightly to his shoulders. 

She’s stunned as he climbs up the stairs with an agility akin to that of a spider. 

“Peter...” she muses as he puts her down on her bed. She looks up at him with wonder as he snatches off her shirt and pushes her back on the bed. 

“Stop talking y/n.” He says suddenly, taking his own shirt off and pushing her back onto the bed. She stares wide-eyed t him as he closes the door and comes back to her.

His hands spread her legs and he pulls her shorts down. “I can’t have you with the attitude you had today again. Okay?” His demand is softly whispered onto her lips as his fingers stroke her over the lace of her knickers. She nods weakly, their joint gaze unwavering. A moan she was fighting back leaves her lips as he pushes her knickers aside and lets his finger dive into her hole.

Her lips part in bliss as his finger thrust into her at full blast and she lets out whines of desire, her hips grind against him desperately wanting and craving more of him. He pulls his finger out and pecks her lips, his fingers stroking her slit slowly, teasing her, making pleading moans billow from in between her lips. Her hand grasps the back of his neck, she tries to bring his lips back to hers, to having some type of fulfilment from his teasing. 

But he stays in place, his glare unwavering, he holds back from her desperate lips with a strength, unlike anything she’s seen from him before. She inhales in surprise but her surprise is cut short when two of Peter’s fingers dive into her and make her whine loudly.

His hips grind onto her with every thrust of his fingers, curls cascade from his scalp to the crease just above his right eyebrow.

And y/n can’t help but let herself fall into a blissful feeling of love; just admiring the canvas of his face. 

Her vision of love is cut short when her eyes roll back as a wave washes out of her. Her insides tighten and her skin ripples on her flesh and her feet tingle and the soft light from outside glows just a bit more.

She pants heavily, and Peter watches her intently. He stands up, his eyes still marking her skin. He unbuttons his trousers slowly, taking his time to give her time to get over her sensitivity. As he kicks off his jeans y/n’s eyes lower back from the ceiling back to Peter. Peter licks his lips and crawls over her, his arms coming to her sides. He arches her back slightly, his fingers crawl shyly across her back and he feels the metal of her bra. His fingers fiddle with the bra, his struggle quickly becoming apparent.

He tries to hide his eyes by diverting his embarrassed gaze to the window, he gulps and bites his lips. y/n decides to help him out of his misery. She arches her back further and unclasps the offending piece. Peter sighs in relief and pulls the bra from her breasts. His lips waste no time in coming to her nipples and marking them with his saliva and breathless kisses. 

y/n’s hands pull Peter’s boxers down as far as she can, needing to feel him in her. She pants and moans as Peter’s hands find themselves back to her clit.

He slowly lets himself dip into her, they let out high moans and y/n’s eyes quickly dive back to their previous position. 

Sick of his own foreplay, he begins thrusting into her, rapidly. She sucks in a desperate breath and her nails claw at his back, seeking an anchor to her sanity and he ploughs into her with groundbreaking speed. Her bed creaks dangerously as his hip clash against hers brutally, his fingers burn into her skin as he holds onto her as momentum increases.

His forehead falls against hers and he swallows each of her pornographic moans. Her fingers reach for his curls again and her nails comb roughly through his scalp as her hips grind impossibly fast against his.

Peter’s hand reaches down under her thigh and he raises it over his thigh, he slows suddenly and she inhales rapidly, he rolls over so that’s she’s straddling him.

The wild look in their eyes illuminates the room in a way that would blind any other eye in the room, they stare at each other for two seconds before Peter lets out a low growl and he grips the small of her back. His face fingers carve themselves into the dimples on her back, he bites his lip as she sways on his lap.

But enough is enough. He thrusts himself up, digging into her from below, a wave of pleasure making her head loll back.

He grips her tightly as his speed increases, ploughing her to a blinding abyss that makes her want to climb to the heavens.

The sound of clapping skin and their sickly moans makes a soundtrack for her room at six o’clock. She almost chokes as he grips her hair, pulling her head further back, exposing her neck further. Peter’s lips see the exposed skin as an uncharted plot of skin that belongs just to him.

His tongue leaves little love notes bored onto her skin, marking her in more ways than one. He hums onto her skin as she grinds her hips into him, making a deadly concoction of movement for them both. Peter hugs her hip tighter onto him, their perspired skin rubbing like magnets against each other.

She pulls on his curls as she rides herself to an oblivion, her orgasm yelling her name close by and yearning for release. Her lips finally touch his, and he smiles in gratitude.

He continues to pound into her as she lets go of her body and lets her orgasm flood out of her body on its own accord.

Peter exhales roughly and grabs one of her breasts and pulls her back onto him, chasing his own orgasm, his head lolls onto her chest as his dick throbs. He licks her salty skin and lets himself cum inside her tight walls.

He groans into her breast as his body releases his orgasm softly.

She chuckles softly and lifts his face. 

His curls gently frame the contours of his right cheek. She strokes his messy eyebrow and places a lingering kiss on his lips. Letting her teeth run lazily over the grooves of his lip.

“So, did I...” Peter hesitates, the frustration he felt before that gave him the confidence to say what he said before dissipating.

“Fuck that attitude out of me?” y/n giggles and pecks the blushed cheeks of her boyfriend. She nods silently. “You did amazing. And I’m sorry for my behaviour.” She kisses his forehead and hugs his face into her chest as she continues sat on him, with him inside her. 

His heart inflates with her complimentary words. He kisses her collarbones.

“y/n, sweetie, I brought dinner!” y/n’s dad’s voice exclaims from the bottom of the stairs, and she hears the front door closing.