A.N. Hey. Hi. Hello. I love Marshall and Waverly. I want more of them. All the time. Forever. Also, though this isn't my favorite Brenna Yavonoff (Paper Valentine) book, I do love Ollie the most out of anything ever. I just love Ollie, okay? I love him so much.
Please enjoy.
Disclaimer: Wow, look at that. I don't own Places No One Knows
Waverly, I love you
Marshall liked to take her places.
To the mall.
To the movies.
To the grocery store.
To a dark corner in the park where the grass was soft and the shade was cool and he could place his body on top of hers and run his fingers up her bare stomach, her shirt bunched to her breasts, her chest pulsing with something like love.
Marshall liked to watch her do things.
Watch her while she did her homework.
Watch her while she ran.
Watch her while she ate.
Watch her while she moved on top of him, rocking her hips, her hands on his chest, her nails in his flesh, her eyes closed because she couldn't take his gaze after awhile, couldn't stand how much his eyes saw of her, how much he wanted to see her—
—he'd gasp when she was about to finish, run a hand up her torso to cup her left breast, feel her heart in his hand, watch her as she falls.
Marshall liked to touch her.
To play with her hair while she lie next to him in bed, pinching strands of hair between his fingers.
To rub her feet when she collapsed on his bed with a groan after a long run.
To hug her from behind while they were at school and she was alone and looking lost and he thought he could be the thing she was looking for.
To cup her cheek in his trembling hand when he awoke in the middle of the night and thought she'd be gone, that everything wouldn't be real again, that her imprint in his bed, in his heart, would be hollow and cold again, and she would open her eyes and grumble at him because Marshall, I'm sleeping, what, and he'd just close his eyes and move the pad of his thumb to her mouth and fall asleep to the feel of her lips.
Marshall liked to tell her things.
Tell her when he was frustrated with her.
Tell her about Ollie.
Tell her what he did at home that night.
Tell her how much he loved her, tell her how beautiful she was, how he sometimes couldn't breathe when he looked at her, that he sometimes forgot he was alive when she was in his room, on his bed, smiling up at him, kissing him, he just couldn't function, just couldn't understand how a girl like her could be with someone like him, and Waverly would tell him she loved him and he would die all over again.
Waverly liked to think about how much she loved Marshall.
She couldn't tell him easily.
Sometimes she hurt him.
Most times she hoped he would just understand.
And the times when he didn't, she'd come to his house late at night and crawl into the space in his bed he always left for her, even when he was mad, and she'd drag kisses across his collarbones and draw words on his stomach—I love you, I love you—over and over, until he sighed in her hair, until he arms wrapped around her, until his lips fused to her skin and they'd both feel it, they'd both know.