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Summary
“I don’t like you,” Lumine says, bitter but uncertain. The memory of last night still tingles on her skin — red claws and bite marks kissing every curve, every line of her body that is sore but terrifyingly sated. Blood on pale white.
Scaramouche spares her only a fleeting glance before he goes back to slipping his pants on. A buckle of his belt, his zipper sliding back up, and then —
“Yeah, you tell yourself that,” he scoffs, the tiniest of a mocking laugh in his voice. “It’s okay, you can kick me out — you can pretend this will never happen again and vehemently avoid me the next time we see each other.” She feels rather than sees his eyes on her, feels rather than taste the poison spewing out of his lips. “And then same time next week, you’ll linger outside my apartment door and I’ll fuck the attitude out of you all over again.”
Alternatively: when you are so unloved that you cling to anything that touches.
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Bookmark Notes:
so goood… I need them both lowkey