I want the K
Pucker up, Buttercup;
15; The Biting Kiss:
He shows worry in the most annoying of ways. She’d only been gone for a day or two, she thinks, and now, they’re in yet another screaming match. It’s understandable, his worry, there’s hand shaped bruising lining her wrists and probably her throat, but she hasn’t exactly taken the time to look in the mirror to confirm that suspicion. As much as he yells, she can hear the concern in his voice, and really? She’s had a bad week, a bad month, and peace and quiet would be a godsend. He’s talking to her back, which probably isn’t helping his already failing resolve, and with every step closer, she’s backing away just a little more. This is stupid, his doubts; his belief she’s fucking with him, or he really needs to go out and kill someone for hurting her in the first place. She’s no child. She doesn’t need her big, scary robo-man to rip some poor bastard from limb to limb all over a few bruises. They heal. If he would just give her five minutes to clear her head. She doesn’t want to fight with him; she wants to know how badly her throat was crushed and fix it without scaring the shit out of him. She knows part of the anger is the exhaustion written all over his face. He hasn’t been sleeping, or he’s tried and she hasn’t been there to wrap around him; to give him a center through the dreams he doesn’t tell her about. She doesn’t ask. He’s almost as broken as she is, and it’s almost funny how they’ve managed to cut out this small niche for themselves. It hasn’t fallen apart yet, no matter how much the neighbors hear. It’s not until the panic in his voice rises that she turns on him, brown eyes burning. He wants to understand, and it kills her that he can’t. 'Just tell me how to help.' And there’s nothing more she wants than to let him in, but if she wants to keep him, these circumstances he can’t know. She’ll fabricate a lie later. Right now, she needs to shut him up before the neighbors call the cops, again and hopefully with any luck, get him to sleep, if even for a few hours.
Crossing the room, she stands up on her toes, grabbing both sides of his face to pull him down as she rolls back into a standing position. “As much as I enjoy knowing you care, it’s mostly superficial. They’re bruises, Buckwheat. They’ll heal.” Pressing her lips to his, she coaxes a response from him through small hearts drawn across his bottom lip till he opens up to her. She knows he doesn’t like knowing he can’t make it go away, can’t keep her safe from her world. Pulling back, she catches his lower lip between her teeth, worrying just enough to keep him from yelling again when she actually does pull free. ”I’m tired. Come to bed.” And, there isn’t anything left to say. She’s got his hand in hers, and she knows this will all blow over by the time they fade. She can deal with a few glares to her neck until then.
