thomcrys: "I bit my lip. Will you kiss it better?"
After the fifth time, he had given up on closing his windows; she would always get herself into his kitchen, leave his floor bloodied and crash right beside him on his bed. Crystal had lost the count how many times Thomas had asked if she didn't have a house until the day she woke up to find a bag of frozen peas where he was, wetting the sheets. Her jaw thanked, even though, she didn't quite did the same.
It was their way; he would get completely furious -- she had to stop with this fuckery, right now; and she would laugh, wincing at his rough touch on her broken ribs, slipt lip, bruised kuckles. Stop destroying yourself. It was more than this, it was an indentity crisis, stocolm syndrome. She had to prove, over and over, she was not like her, she wasn't afraid of him; and his only reply to her silence was just another crushing silence under a killer gaze.
But the reckless behaviour was always hers to claim, always hers to brush on his face and use as an excuse to not be alone with her demons to bite on her flesh; and when he knocks at her door, she shivers slightly -- alcohol filling her nostrills and making her step back. Stop destroying yourself, she had whispered on his ear, carrying him to bed and taking his shoes off. "Uh, will you kiss it better?" Crystal laughs again, fuck off, she said and shook her head until she looked up at him, meeting his eyes.
It does tastes like blood, but she was not sure if it wad his orr hers anymore. They are more teeth than tongue together, ready to ruin each other, scrape themselves goddamn raw. It was a desperation out of the norms, out of control. His clothes were in shreds at the end of her bed, and she screamed his name until her voice was hoarse and her limbs shaken.
She never knew how much she wanted to be destroyed by him.
The next morning she left a cup of coffee where she was laying right beside him, kicked what was left of their clothes and used the window of her living room.
