femmehelena:

dave thinks he rather doesn’t deserve her.

he sees her wipe her mouth with her hoodie sleeve (his hoodie, actually), sitting on a playground swing. he has black lipstick smeared around his neck, his collarbones, and a buzzing in his veins that won’t go away. the chains creak as she rocks herself back and forward gently with her toes, dragging little patterns in the sand and fuck. fuck, he’s so fucked, and she’s smiling coy because they both know it.

it’s later, now. she has fingers linked with his and thighs in his lap and her hands are always cold. he painted their nails two days ago and she’s already bitten hers enough they’d chipped to hell and back. when the light hits her hair it almost glows, it’s so blonde, she’s so fucking pretty he is caught in awe. (he reminds himself later, she is vicious, she is tired and ancient and dormant. more than the smudge of her lashes against her cheek, the tilt of her head, more than the press of her lips to his hands, more, more, more)

rose lalonde is a hurricane, she is a tsunami, she throws punches and takes no shit and has messy eyeliner and split ends and a halo of sunlight. dave thinks it is his fate, his choice to be swept away in it all. the quiet elegance earned through blood and sweat and the playful stance of a fighter, the gentle humming and the laughter like a little bell and her callouses and her winking.

she grins and rankles and simpers and plays him like a piano.

dave and rose fall together like the day and the night until he can’t tell which is which, he presses palms to her jawline and hips and curve of her spine and memorizes the feel of her. he tugs and she pulls and they die and die and die and die in each other’s arms and share slurpees and cry and come apart and stitch each other back together.

“you know, dave,” she looks at him through her bangs, half her face thrown into shitty anime shadow from the denny’s parking lot lighting, “i don’t deserve you.”