It's all a matter of soul and fire
Infatuation or true desire
The thrill of discovery, divine intervention
Cruel, cruel change, pain of rejection
Sebadoh- Soul And Fire
"I know you're there." She calls it so obviously, because he always is.
She's puffing away on a stolen cigarette when he steps out of the shadows like some kind of 80's horror movie menace. He always was dramatic.
"If you're looking for someone to suck your dick, you came to the wrong place."
"Violet." He enunciates her name with clenched teeth, she notices the hard set of his jaw when she looks at him through the mirror of the vanity she's been brushing her hair at.
She watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat and she can't decide if she wants to lick it or run a knife across it.
He opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it with a 'go away' and a flick of her cigarette butt.
She's in the bathtub burning holes in her porcelain skin with the lit end of her cigarette the next time she sees him.
He says nothing at first, just watches her singe an ugly hole into her thigh, and she guesses he grew a backbone overnight, because he's not keeping up with his normal routine of lurking in dark corners, watching her undress.
"Why are you doing that?" He looks peeved, and she rolls her eyes because he has no right to be.
"Bored."
He purses his lips, eyes scanning over every wound she's created, and she hopes he'll say something about the promise she made to him not to hurt herself anymore, just so she can spit in his face at his hypocrisy.
He kneels down beside the tub, looking her in the eyes, and she'd be lying to herself if she said it didn't still make her dead heart skip a beat.
It's been so long since he's touched her that she doesn't know how to respond when he cups her bony cheek, running a calloused thumb over the bone. The 'go away' that's trying to form on her lips won't come out and she's internally floundering when he's running his nose along her neck, breathing her in, his own shaky breaths hot on her collar bone.
Her body betrays her disgustingly, she hates herself for the way her eyelids flutter as his lips meet her skin, and she almost succumbs when his tongue comes in contact with the deceiving pulse in her neck. But instead she remembers the cigarette between her fingers that's quickly dying out.
She looks at Tate out of the corner of her eye, this monster that makes her knees go weak and her stomach lurch at the same time, and brings her cigarette up to the side of his face, pressing it in as hard as possible.
The smell of burning flesh only vaguely registers, all she sees is Tate yelling in pain, his eyes black and his lips curled.
Everything moves in slow motion for her as she touches her thin fingers to his wound, letting his blood fall onto them.
And she likes the feeling, she must admit, of the red liquid trailing down her fingers.
But not as much as she likes to see him bleed, and she thinks maybe they're really not different after all, she and him.
Those black eyes of his are on fire, she can practically feel the heat on her skin, wondering if maybe they'll get too hot and set Tate's entire body ablaze. She thinks she'd probably sit and watch, maybe use the flames to light up a cig.
Deciding it's not important though, she takes her blood covered finger and puts it in her mouth, tasting it as if it's brownie mix scraped from the bottom of the bowl.
It tastes deadly, just like him, and they watch each other intently, Violet making the first move to brush her gore covered lips across his. She relishes in the taste of his blood and saliva as he presses harder, ever the martyr.
He doesn't care anymore if she just branded a bloody hole in his face, or if her lips taste like a handful of loose change, he wants so much more, and just as he wraps his arms around her waist, his eyes pop open because all that's in the space she should be in is air, and she's gone, the lingering scent of cheap smoke and burning flesh all that's left.