not okay {ziam}

fifteen

{fifteen}

pills

-

zayn is standing over the sink, his hair an unruly mess of curls atop his forehead. he is hunched over as the tap runs quietly, brushing his teeth and running his fingers across his scalp. his body looks as though i own it, with my fingerprints singed into his hips and my mouth shaped bruises scattering down his legs in purple crescents. but i knew that was merely naive of me — even if i can't forget the way his brown eyes stared at me with such credence.

earlier, when his entire body convulsed with the most sincere orgasm i had ever seen him give — i could tell immediately after, he withdrew from me like smoke to ash. within seconds apart of him shivering under my mouth and his spine curling euphorically like a slick cat, he broke away from me so fast it gave me whiplash. no longer between his legs and his hands tugging on my hair, he stood beside my bed with nothingness swimming in his eyes.

'want to fuck me?' he asked without any flame, as if it were only a boring routine. the ice in his expression forced me to shake my head, no. he didn't question why, even if i was still hard between my thighs. i knew, deep down, he resented me for my short moment of control.

so, as he is pulling on his clothes and preparing his silent departure out into the darkness of the night, i wait nervously. my legs dangling over the bed and trying to calm the incessant patter of my heart pouring down the nape of my neck without any relent. it's like i'm finally having a chance to breathe and feel — to see it all for how it is. the hollowness of zayn's eyes, when he flickers them at me with cunning composure. the high that bubbles in the pit of my stomach, from just being in the presence of his promiscuous beauty and how peculiar it is to have his attention. even if he is constantly switching from one character to another, a vacant entity or an artificial erotica.

"be good," he is letting his teeth drag across my mouth in farewell, the slight collision of his tongue against mine only furthering my addiction to him. his touch scorches across my skin perfectly, withering away the goosebumps that settle across my arms.

"where are you going, zayn?" i'm leaning into the ghost of him, as he grins with swollen lips at my desperation. i ask again, lost yet superbly found all at once, "where do you always go?"

he is already by the door, his strings no longer attached, "why don't you try and figure it out for yourself, stalker-boy?" he challenges and i remain speechless, his fingers curling around the knob of the door. his cheekbones cutting with a devilish smirk, a cruel playfulness resting on the tip of his tongue, "bet you can't find me, babe."

but i had, countless times. i found him doing things i wish i had never seen, things i can't seem to ever forget. he was constantly there, fucking purposely, distracting me with all of his peculiar antics. but, now that i want him, he slips from my fingers like soap.

the door shuts abruptly and i'm sitting on my bed, trying to fight off the impulse to follow him out into the early morning. but, suddenly, within seconds apart of his bitter negligence, i begin to notice his forgotten bag lying across the floor like a lump of remains. the black coals of his indifference blazing high, as it keeps his fire warm and powerful.

i ignite at the sight of it, as if his beating heart was ripped from his chest and left to bleed across the ground. bleed with secrets and lies and pieces of him left in the shadows of his habitual night crawls. my fingers jitter with desire, could i? that sick part of my mind seized me like a powerful itch that i couldn't quite reach, somewhere at the back of my throat where only a certain sticky cough can seize. my thoughts run loops inside of my skull like a lost tire, disappearing into the dark crevices of my mind. what was he hiding?