Sometimes it feels like she's ripping him to shreds. Her mouth, tongue, hands, teeth, cunt, personality; tearing away at him until he's bleeding underneath her, shredded to pieces by the very things that made him love her.
He wants to make her hurt, bleed, die just a little beneath him. Wants her to know the pain he lives in every day because of the touch of her hands on his skin, the feel of her lips wrapped around his cock, denial staining her lips.
She whispers to him in the dark, telling him she needs him, wants him, can't live without him. He knows she lies with every word that passes her slack lips. There's no way she can love him, not the way she's supposed to, the way he wants her to. She's not the girl she used to be, full of pretty pink satin and girlish dreams. She's not a girl at all anymore as she comes apart in his arms.
There are times when he almost ends this, ends the pain they cause each other. He wants to walk out the door, a solution to all their problems if he just leaves; walks away without a backwards glance. It's at times like these when he looks at her and he knows he can't leave, can't walk away. He needs her to feel it, feel the agony he lives with, wants her punished and he knows, knows in a way that makes the hurt take on a bittersweet edge, that he's the only thing that can cause her that much pain.
Bruises stain her pale skin, marks that pave the way of his betrayal, the evidence of their sin branded into her flesh. He's fascinated by them, traces the edges of them until she's panting and moving beneath his fingers, intent on finding release, pleasure in his hands. He's so focused, concentrating on tracing the shapes, making new ones, painting their story, tattooing it on her until its sunk deep enough to stay.
He watches them fade, turning pale yellow and he's swept away by the urge to take her, mark her, make her cry with happiness, joy, pain, anything but this aching numbness he sees in her eyes. Fingers digging in, around, crushing her too him as he assaults her mouth, tongue, teeth, lips dragging her down until she's with him. No longer numb, alive in his arms.
It's moments like these when he wants her to feel it most of all. When she's aching and weak in his hands, cheeks flushed pink, tongue coming out to slick dry lips. Her eyes fluttering closed as he watches her face, watches her mouth fall open as he plays her like an instrument, making her sing, cry out, pant, moan in pleasure.
Things are never going to be normal for them. They can't be; this is their life now. This torturous dance they weave as they play at being what's expected, they play at being the best couple, devoted to each other. Shy glances and covert touches as they meet and pass at school, he knows she won't admit she enjoys it; at least a little. She likes the pain she inflicts on him, loves the pain she endures even more.
2.
She never accuses him of evildoing anymore; he finds he misses it. Longs for the attention she used to lavish on him when she was so sure that whatever had gone wrong must be his fault. They cuddle under blankets, hold hands in public, share passionate kisses when no one is watching; but he misses the anger the most.
It's always there, bubbling under the surface. She gets a certain look in her eye and he can't help but hold his breath in anticipation of the fight to come. He's dragged down with disappointment when the look slowly fades, replaced with pretty blankness that seems to float so close to the surface every time he's near her.
He hears stories of her fire, her passion, the way she defends the lower class students. She's taken on his friends, the 09'ers, and won hands down every time. They avoid her now, except when she's with him. She's making their world a better place, one pointless act at a time; he just wants her fire. He wants her ire pointed at him again, wants her to yell, scream, threaten him, anything to show she sees him now.
They both avoid the topic, he knows this. He's not sure how to tell her he wanted her more when she was a world class bitch, when she gave as good as she got, when she didn't let him win. This isn't the woman he fell in love with, this is Duncan's girlfriend, trading kisses with him in dark secluded corners. He hates her a little, loves her even more, but she's not his.
He pokes at her subtly, needles her when she's complacently relaxed in his arms. Double sided comments that she used to jump all over. He just wants his girlfriend back, not the imposter that resides in his arms. He pushes her, trying to topple her over the edge; sometimes it seems to be working and he can see her, his girl, flashing fire in her eyes. The fire fades and she's gone again, which makes him work harder; be harder, colder, less the man she wants him to be.
He knows she's thinking of calling it quits, walking away from whatever they have going. She wants normal, to be normal again. She wants to stop fighting for everything she has; he just wants her to fight for what they have. He sees her close to the edge, tottering, almost ready to fall; his heart skips a beat in anticipation and she's there. His girl, fire flashing in her eyes as she finally falls over. He wants her so much right now he can't breathe as she accuses him of sabotaging their relationship, accuses him of being an ass. His Veronica is back and he's so painfully happy he can't see straight.
3.
They fight, screaming at each other, fire breathing from their mouths as they tear, rip, shred the other into pieces. He can see the tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over, trailing down her flushed cheeks. She's fire and passion again. She's his.
He wants to take her, slam her against a wall, bruise her; mark her as his. His impulse control has never been good, and she's there, against the wall before he's finished the thought. Their mouths locked as he pushes at her, fingers bruising her pale skin. They battle, her hands trying to push him away to continue the fight. He feels the moment she capitulates, feels her sinking deeper into the kiss, the fire still riding her, radiating against his hands. She's flushed and hot, hands clutching at his clothing, tearing the buttons from his shirt, the sounds of their labored breathing barely hiding the sharp noise of the small discs hitting the floor.
They're tearing each other apart, one piece of clothing at a time; can't get close enough, hard enough, near enough to the other as they press flesh to skin. His hands are rough on her bare ass as he lifts her, holding her against the wall with the length of his body, and she's shoving down, impaling herself on his cock before he has time to stop her.
They both still at the sensation. Frozen in fear, anticipation, love, hate, everything they've been too afraid to say. His breath hitches in his throat, she's finally here in his arms, pinned against the wall, fresh bruises staining her skin an inky blue.
He can't break eye contact, can't look away from her fierce eyes staring into his. Fingers trailing up her side, sliding around her throat, gripping slightly, thumb pushing at her chin until her head is pressed against the wall, the smooth curve of her throat vibrating under his hand. Her lips part, gasp, as her eyes slide closed breaking the contact and he's finally safe to move, to punish to rip her to shreds.
Her hands are clutching at him, trying to stay up right as he slams into her - brutal, harsh, fierce. Her breath is coming in quick pants, eyes still tightly closed, but she's moaning now, hips thrashing against the wall as she urges him on, wants it, wants to be punished, wants the pain of him tearing her apart.
His body stops of its own accord, fingers tightening, thumb tilting her head further back as he presses their lips together. It's a startling contrast; mouth to body, lips soft and gentle as he brings her back from the edge of the pain. He wants her here with him, eyes open, staring at him when he sends her over; wants her to know where she is.
He moves again, harshly, swallowing her cry of pain as her back is scraped raw by the wall behind her. Leaning back he stares in her eyes, watches her there, the fire, the passion as she grips the back of his head, pulling his hair, pulling their mouths back together, fighting now for more of him.
He knows she's here now; she's his girl, his woman. Duncan's Veronica was gone at the first barrage of insults. He wants the violence, the accusations, love biting at his lips. He wants her the way she is now, fierce and passionate; his.
4.
Sometimes it feels like she's ripping him to shreds. Her mouth, tongue, hands, teeth, cunt, personality; tearing away at him until he's bleeding for her, shredded to pieces by the very things that made him love her.
It's times like these when he knows they'll never be happy. They'll never have a fairy tale romance; stolen kisses, aching touches, the loss that's come between them time and again. They won't ever be normal. He knows he should walk away, call it quits; rid himself of her and the pain she causes.
Then he sees the bruises, the treasure map of the places he's painted on her skin; knows he'll never be free, doesn't really want to be. He wants to stay here forever, buried in her heated flesh, where everything makes sense, and makes no sense at all.
He catches her tracing them, poking at the fading edges of a week old bruise, a small smirk curving the corner of her lips. She presses into them as he watches, digging, spreading, making them darker, harsher, bringing the blood to the surface. He knows she can feel him staring when she looks up and meets his eyes, fingers still pressing into the discolored skin. Her lips part and her eyes burn fierce for a moment before she blows him a kiss.
They tear each other down, rebuild, repeating the process until they're both a patchwork of shared memories, hurt, and anger. Together they'll rip this town to shreds and take joy in it.
He knows they'll never be happy. They can't with all the shared history. But its moments like these when he knows they're as close as they'll ever come.