Painfully yours

Feelings

Xavier's P.O.V.
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I faced the biggest loss of my life, a part of me gone from her doing, yet I long for her. The need for her is insatiable. What I bore, chipped off at my soul but with her, I somehow forget to dwell on the past. Like I'm not strong enough to let her go, like I can't be left alone to brood or I'll crumble. If she leaves, her face will haunt me, the emptiness would haunt me. Hell, it already does. Every moment, In deep sleep or wakefulness, I want her, need her. She has made me psychotic.

It was maddening, how she still had that power over me—how her eyes could dismantle the fury I clung to, the one I needed to survive. Arya, with all her betrayal, her lies, her cold detachment... the very reasons I wanted to break her, to destroy every piece of her, were the same reasons I couldn't. Her eyes—they were my undoing, every time.

Every time I looked at her, the memories would flood back, boiling up from the depths of my mind. I wanted to tear her apart, make her feel every ounce of the pain she had inflicted on me. But then I'd hold her face, gaze into those goddamned eyes, and all of it—every last drop of the rage, the hatred—would vanish. In its place was something I didn't want to admit: love. No, not love. Weakness.She calmed the storm in my head without even trying, and I hated her for it.

How dare she still have this control over me? After everything she had done, after the chaos and destruction she had brought into my life, how dare she still be the only one who could heal me? And yet, every time, I found myself softening, my mind trying to understand her, to think from her perspective. Maybe she had reasons. Maybe she was more broken than I ever could be. But my heart was at war with my mind, and I couldn't just let it go.

I couldn't let her go.

If I let her go, I'd be left alone with the memories—the constant, agonizing reminders of everything we once had. Those memories would chip away at what was left of me until there was nothing. Therapy was pointless. Arya is the only one I wanted to talk to. I couldn't untangle the mess in my head. But the one thing I knew for certain, the one truth that kept me going, was that Arya was mine. She would forever be mine, in some twisted, cruel way.

She had surrendered, yes, but it wasn't enough. She gave me her body, her submission, but there was still something I craved. I didn't know what. Was it her soul I wanted? To see her suffer as I had? Or was it the need to see her break completely, to watch as she was consumed by pain and pleasure until she became nothing but a shadow of who she once was?

I couldn't decide if I wanted to watch her live in constant agony or die in exquisite pleasure. All I knew was that I wasn't done with her yet. Not by a long shot.

I watched her sitting in my lap, defeated and vulnerable. Her hands touch my chest and she leans in, laying her head on my shoulder. It wrenches my heart, to see her so broken, she willingly looks for comfort in my arms. It's rare. I know she hates me and what I do to her and for her to hug me instead of running away or trying to stay strong through my torture really gets to me. It guts me but also satisfies me to my core. Like I'm the only one that makes her feel safe in my arms. Overtime I've seen her detach from everything and everyone but every night, no matter the amount of torture she endures through the day, she cuddles into me, hugs me like I'm her only anchor.

I pull her into me, squeezing her tight, tighter than I should. The warmth of her body against mine is too much, too perfect, like a drug. For a moment, I want to stay like this forever, feeling her softness press into me, her weight settled in my lap. But then the anger, the frustration, creeps in. My grip tightens, and she lets out a small, involuntary squeak. It cuts through the moment, sharp and fragile. I tilt her head back, my fingers digging into her hair as I feel her face against mine—soft, so damn soft. I hate how much I want her, how I can't let go, even though I should.