They fight. They have always fought. Loud and angry, over things that don’t matter and those that do. Things get thrown and threats get made. He calls her an intolerable wretch and makes suggestions about her parentage and her brother’s affections for certain farm animals. She spews venom at him, suggesting that he is poorly endowed and other insults to his personage and personality.
All their fights end the same way. Most of them anyways. He asks what she wants or she wonders aloud by she bothers and before any more thoughts can be had his mouth is on hers, hands are everywhere. Tugging, pulling, tearing at clothes and hair in a way that is not gentle, not poetic or kind, but is its own sort of loving.
The quiet comes afterwards. He holds her, presses her against his bare chest and she can hear his heartbeat. It’s the sort of domesticity that only exists with their eyes closed (secretly he opens and observes the fall of her hair, the curve of her body and freckles that no one else can see; she watches his face for signs of the person he could be).
One leaves first. Rolls away and slides clothes back on before fleeing the scene.
They don’t talk about it. Their words are used as weapons, insults thrown instead of cries of love and affection. It’s easier to put up those barriers and tear them down instead of giving into the fact that maybe they never really existed at all.
If asked he says nothing of her. Dismisses her with a shrug of his shoulders and a change of subject. Talk of another girl, one who may or may not exist but will be his. A brief look betrays what he himself is denying.
She speaks little of him except to suggest that moments in his company are agony. The few who do not understand her intentions take them for truth and share their own dislike only to be met with cold glances and even colder shoulders.
It’s not love. It never will be. It’s a battlefield that neither will ever surrender, no ground will ever be won or loss.
Their own Hundred Years War with a casualty of two and songs that will never be sung. That is how things should be.
chinks in fine armor. across the universe/a midsummer night's dream. lucy carrigan/demetrius. pg.
She is not the good girl she used to be.
They fight. They have always fought. Loud and angry, over things that don’t matter and those that do. Things get thrown and threats get made. He calls her an intolerable wretch and makes suggestions about her parentage and her brother’s affections for certain farm animals. She spews venom at him, suggesting that he is poorly endowed and other insults to his personage and personality.
All their fights end the same way. Most of them anyways. He asks what she wants or she wonders aloud by she bothers and before any more thoughts can be had his mouth is on hers, hands are everywhere. Tugging, pulling, tearing at clothes and hair in a way that is not gentle, not poetic or kind, but is its own sort of loving.
The quiet comes afterwards. He holds her, presses her against his bare chest and she can hear his heartbeat. It’s the sort of domesticity that only exists with their eyes closed (secretly he opens and observes the fall of her hair, the curve of her body and freckles that no one else can see; she watches his face for signs of the person he could be).
One leaves first. Rolls away and slides clothes back on before fleeing the scene.
They don’t talk about it. Their words are used as weapons, insults thrown instead of cries of love and affection. It’s easier to put up those barriers and tear them down instead of giving into the fact that maybe they never really existed at all.
If asked he says nothing of her. Dismisses her with a shrug of his shoulders and a change of subject. Talk of another girl, one who may or may not exist but will be his. A brief look betrays what he himself is denying.
She speaks little of him except to suggest that moments in his company are agony. The few who do not understand her intentions take them for truth and share their own dislike only to be met with cold glances and even colder shoulders.
It’s not love. It never will be. It’s a battlefield that neither will ever surrender, no ground will ever be won or loss.
Their own Hundred Years War with a casualty of two and songs that will never be sung. That is how things should be.