Work Text:
Sourness, and steel.
The points of her incisors, and the thin skin of your lower lip, as you run your tongue along it, days later; where she’d bitten too hard, entirely by accident, and tried to play it off as purposeful. Her hot breath in your face; the bony ridge of her chin pressed against yours; her laugh, too breathless and too surprised for the role she’s trying to play. The role she tries on and tries on, like a little girl in a costume dress, showing it to you again, still, like you are as you were and always have been and nothing has really changed–
Like–what? Should she treat you differently, standing on the other side of a decision that was never made? Should she know?
“I can be g8ntle,” Vriska breathes, a thin skin of bravado around a rattling sack of bones. Her smile is crooked and her teeth are uneven. She is too, too happy, happy to be wedged between you and the cold concrete with your knuckles making imprints against her collar; too happy, too obvious, too stupid.
You swear you can feel her blood beating against the walls of her chest. You think: I could have run you through.