Re: Livingroom: Marta / Seven
Her anger didn’t mean fucking shit to him, okay? There was, ftr, no okay. He wasn’t tempered down into something easy but regrettable. He was fire, lit up in the night like gasoline dumped on a bonfire, that subsonic whoosh that licked up the sides of bone and sun-darkened flesh. It tempered Seven’s anger to the point where he was already braced to sneer in the face of her denial that he knew wasn’t fucking true. “Don’t,” he started, abruptly, looking away from the shake of her head and the silky, ribboned way that her dark hair fell against her shoulder. “Please, Marta, don’t.”
Because they both knew the reality, as far as Seven was concerned. They were operating from a handicap, yeah? One of Marta thinking that somehow she was doing Seven and Sawyer a favour by running away. And that was a supremely fucking twisted area of contention, given the circumstances. “Oh my god,” he hissed, his face twisting, ugly, as he reared on her and jammed the hard angles of his hands against his hips, bowing down and into her personal space even with as much as he didn’t want to do it.
“You seriously think I was talking about being a fucking parent?” The incredulous spread of his sardonic smile insatiable, a smile that hurt. It was that almost violence. Seven leaned in and his blue eyes spread wide. “You don’t know where we stand because you’re fucked. You make a choice to fuck me up. That’s what has changed.”
And, really, that was it. Seven was leaving. "I'm fucking leaving, baby," he swore, lips digging into the meat of his mouth.