she watches him take tadokoro's hand in his; watches the way his thumb brushes against the back of hers and the goddamned smile that smoothes across his face when her lips meet his. it hurts and erina seizes at the realization –
he would never be that gentle with her.
( glimpses of hands on thighs, of fingers pulling at hair and teeth at skin – and all she's seeing is red, red, red. pain is somehow thrown in the midst of pleasure; pushing insignificant thoughts like the door knob digging into her back in favor of relishing upon hard, heavy, rough hands against skin that's far too soft for ravished breaths and dirty words.
in the morning, she still sees red; of tendrils that are left in his wake, ripped from roots now laying deserted on white sheets along a space that's far too big for just one person – the only person left when the recognizable croaks of a rooster awake the day (because he never really stays the night, not anymore). of red marks that span the graceful curve of her neck and tell-tale imprints made along the dip between her waist and hip. the nails that draw blistering crescents against the round of her – )
she feels her heart hiccup in the worst of ways, where she wishes she could mistake it for heart burn as it constricts, and she feels heavier than the weight of the world and its gravitational pull altogether.
he would never be really be hers, not completely.