stashhjonas's video: Invincible: 6

/ Flashback \ I don't know what had made me feel this way, like an energetic device rupturing with agitation, but I was giddy and high off of sweet nothings. It was an idle Sunday afternoon, with the neighborhood deserted and my friend lounging on my couch for the last time before he would take off to London officially in the morning. So I took this as an advantage, a selfish advantage, and sat beside him as classic cartoons played on the tiny television in my living room. He had called me beautiful the night before, something I had never heard him tell me, even the nights of the Winter and Spring Formals, both of which we attended together. He had never looked at me like the way he had last night, with warm ecru marbles delving into my green aquatic ones. They had never swum with luscious, lustful interest; never had I been so intriguing in his eyes. And again, as I busied myself by dividing the Oreo cookies perfectly in half, I felt his eyes wandering about my body. I was average, plain. I had the eyes and the legs and the lips, all of which boys were interested in, but that was all there was to me. I was just Charlotte Watson, a girl with dreams bigger than the town she lived in. Nothing more. But the way his cool eyes slithered about the lengths and contours of my body, I suddenly felt insecure with my bare legs and revealing chest in my shorts and tank-top. With a flushed face, I sprinkled the black crumbs onto the coffee table and my eyes stuttered their way to meet his piqued gaze. "What, Jack?" "Why hasn't a boy ever called you beautiful before, Charlotte?" I could barely process the words, for my pulsating blood thumped louder than my beating heart. Was my heart even beating? I was surely breathing, for with each inhale and exhale my chest heaved and my throat clenched and my hands began to perspire. And while his face neared mine, his cool breath mixing with mine, my lips began to throb painfully, desperately awaiting the arrival of his lips to finally touch mine. It wouldn't be our first kiss, for there had been plenty of innocent stolen kisses when we were younger, when we didn't know better. But here he was, his nose rubbing tenderly against mine as his tongue entered my mouth, as his lips engulfed mine. It was a fiery kiss, filled with disturbed lust and fierce passion. It made my body shake angrily as his burning lips moved swiftly across mine, as if he were running across a flat plain he was too surely familiar with. One kiss led to another, and I didn't stop him. I had waited many moments for this particular one, to have his strong body leaning on top of mine, to have his warm and soothing hands crawling across my bare stomach. I had wasted too many rainy days on the rooftops to disrupt the way his fingers tugged at my shorts, or the way he bit on my bra strap to allow my breasts to spill from the cups. The room in itself was crowded with the intimate scene, our sweating bodies rolling to the floor delicately and we began our course on the carpeted floor. My body felt hot, sticky, my mind corrupted but it was worth the penetration, it was worth the absentminded pain. It was worth it because his eyes never left mine, because his lips never failed to magnetically match mine, because he continued to whisper that I was beautiful, that I was physically his. I was greedy to think it was over too soon, for when his seed implanted into my body he rolled off my body and exhaled a deep breath and put his arm over his face. First I felt numb, but the sudden soreness and sudden pinching at my groin was unbearable. I stared down at my nude body, noticing the scratch marks and the developing bruises. I cut in another breath, looking at Jack lazily for he had been staring at me for several moments now. I didn't know if I should have commented on his skill, or if I should have rolled into his arms and told him the three words I had desperately wanted to say, but I rose to my feet and went to the bathroom to wash the grime I felt creeping in my skin. He joined me in the shower, but he didn't speak. The silence, like it always had, had said it all: He wanted that, he wanted me, but it was a bit too late for his revelation. Tomorrow, he'd be in London, forgetting of our intimate moment. But I couldn't forget that Sunday afternoon, or the way he called me beautiful in a raspy voice I didn't know he could muster. I couldn't forget, because with every day I was reminded of our short-lived lovemaking afternoon with the faded blood stain on the carpet. I was, in fact, fortunate that my parents had never asked me how it had gotten there.