.
La Douleur Exquise
give in, give in
i want you back
one heart, one too
many to stomach
love bites so deep
and we got tiger teeth
— walk the moon —
Things break all the time.
The first incident had been the door-jamb, Natsu crossing the threshold of the apartment to embrace her, his hands grappling for skin and hair and mouth, effectively pinning Lucy where he wanted her. It caught her off guard, no doubt. Scared her, even, with the weight of bold touches, brave exploration, and Natsu, usually-gentle, lovable Natsu, shoving her against the door frame, the wood splintering under the pressure. Between the demanding kisses and the sensation of nails digging into her thighs, she'd been out of her element. Out of her element with Natsu, her best friend who, until kissing her, she'd believed exercised a mind denser than lead. But oh Mavis, the feeling of his teeth sinking into her lips, of his fingers tracing the column of her throat, of forcing her into submission—it had been terrifying just as much as it had been pleasurable.
She could have found an opening and escaped. It would have been so much easier had she simply bitten him (hard) in return before pushing him away. That saccharine smirk, though; if looks could kill, then Natsu's grin dissolved any hint of restraint on Lucy's end and, next thing she knew, she unconsciously devolved into the most enticing prey, opening her legs and beckoning the boy with her half-lidded eyes, tongue prodding his with the words don't stop and again over and over, moans a broken record.
It hadn't been fair of her to tease him, she realizes in retrospect. But then again, it hadn't been fair of him to initiate a touch so intimate as suckle marks, treating them as tender bruises marring otherwise flawless, perfect skin.
The second time had been a ceramic plate, Lucy bucking so elegantly, so beautifully against Natsu's hips, before collapsing against the table. Some things aren't meant to shatter (ceramic, for instance) but somehow, the heat of the moment—Lucy rolling into Natsu, wave crashing into shore—had been interrupted by the sound of the china hitting the floor, terracotta tile preferring broken goods as opposed to objects in one piece, so fragmented plate would have to settle, all one-million-and-one shards.
The third had been her bed. One minute, Natsu had palms cupping Lucy's face, fingerprints splayed over flustered cheeks, at the peak of her nose, along the arch of her cupid's bow. The next, and the rough calluses of said hands punctured the headboard, neither of them pausing to assess the damage done. Only kissing, only touching, only fire, the blanket draped over two bodies—one mewling, the other groaning—becoming unbearably warm, the temperature kept under wraps slowly rising to a fever pitch until "fuck, Luce" combined with moans incomprehensible to the ear, even to the dragon slayer.
The fourth time: Lucy's favorite bra. Followed quickly by the fifth, which had been Natsu's vest.
The sixth occasion took place on Valentine's Day; evidence of their love-making had been love bites so deep they could be mistaken as tattoos, flower petals scattered across the floorboards, and a ripped photograph stained crimson. Blood—Lucy's blood. And photograph and rose bouquet and teeth belonging to Natsu.
Natsu, who belonged to her: white-haired angel with baby blues who didn't suspect a thing. Despite the late night rendezvous. Despite the awkward fumbling of excuses at the door. Despite the overwhelming scent of sex and vanilla and strawberry even after showering. Despite Lucy's marks—the stake in her prey.
He had been hers only an hour ago. Before moonlight beams could filter in through the blinds, she had been drinking the forever's with ease, savoring the I adore you's without question.
She regurgitated I love you's in exchange for more body worship, for more of Natsu, believing that he had belonged to her and nobody else.
The problem that arises with swallowing someone whole, however, is the likeliness that they are bound to choke.
Thus, why, with a torn, blood-stained photograph of that girl in hand, Lucy's throat unexpectedly tightens, her airway blocked by something other than gurgled cries or wailing sobs. Locking white-knuckled grip around her neck, Lucy gasps for air, begging for relief only to receive more pressure, more constriction. Something is lodged in there, wedged between betrayal and her attachment to a boy who walked out on her.
Brokenness can be reconstructed into newness, Lucy acknowledges, but this—whatever this is—feels different. Something is building out of nothingness. Something is growing and sucking her reservoir of energy dry, the abnormal strain on her lungs taking too much, and she collapses under the weight of it all. It's sickening, this feeling in her chest. It's revolting. It's heavy.
She wants it out. She wants it out now.
Get it out.
Then there are blood-stained flower petals on the floor and Lucy is heaving and the room is spinning. And the petals, satin pink and wilting between thumb and forefinger: all that remains of the boy that Lucy loves. Resting her forehead against the hardwood, she taste-tests her fresh coat of lipstick—red and dripping—and is reminded oddly of metal, of rust.
This is new, though; she has never loved anyone to know what it means to be used, to be worn. To be rusty and abandoned for something better.
To crave something—Lucy eyes the flower petals randomly dispersed around her—and not have it.
To experience something so spectacular as the many complicated, messy, and unfair things in life, including a shattered heart.
To feel the heart-wrenching pain of wanting the affection of someone unattainable.
To hear the echo of his voice and witness it nurture flowers into existence—a garden that reminds her of the unrequited love planted solely by hers truly.
To regret pleading for more than kisses, more than just sex.
To not wanting more. To not loving. To plucking petals from the rose bouquet and thinking he loves me not.
To break things that don't matter—a door frame, a plate, a bed, or a strip of clothing, and not a heart. Not her heart.