He squeezed the thin soft skin of her belly softly together, roaming around her bellybutton. She felt it as if he was admiring her skin, it was a metaphor for the way he saw her, he could cringe the skin all he wanted, but he'd never break through, it was tougher than expected.

He was fantasizing about grabbing a big chunk of her flesh at once, pushing it back against her bones to squeeze the life out of her ribcage, hearing her draw her last breath. But there he lay behind her, his left arm loose around her middle and now tickling her side. The wish to crush her under his weight was let out by his soft voice in words like 'babe' and her soft giggles. They bounced off him like tiny little balls of annoyance and ignorance.

She meant nothing and looked pathetic, curled up in his chest. He stroked her hair and shushed her down.

Her eyes looked up into his absent gaze and smiled at him. She was a storm, coming at him unexpected, he was a volcano and even more irrational than her. But she couldn't believe, how much he wanted to hurt her from the inside out.

She was his prize, she was his pain, she was his. So he couldn't. Hurt her, that is, if he could he'd have done it ages ago. He could have done it when she still felt fresh and full of life and tasted like fruit that was just ripe.

Now she had grown on him and made him weak. Made him see this weird human side he knew he had, because he could look inside himself.

But the point is that it was buried deep beneath it all, layers of inconsistency and chaos. Layers of doubting everything but himself. And then again himself alone.

They were layers built up over the years. She found an emergency entrance in a very convenient way. At least, at first it was convenient. Now it was just childish and distracting.

He played her like a toy. He made all the moves, and like a master performer, put her in the spotlight right next to him. To her, he was everything. To him, she was embarrassing. Admitting she was still there was like admitting life had consistency after all.

Maybe he could convince himself it was all a matter of games, a challenge to aim for the best way and get all the sighs and the moans right in the most simple way possible. And she sighed and moaned and giggled a lot. He had won the game. So why hadn't the back of his mind decided that the game was over?

Because in reality, she wasn't the game. She wasn't even a player. She was his prize, his trophy.

Face paint greased over their lips and cheeks in white and red, hazing together, creating a masterpiece of pink blends on their faces.

She'd never whisper 'I love you' or 'I want you', but he knew it anyway.

He wanted to cut these words out of her mind and jam them right into their throat while his tongue licked her teeth. When he playfully gnawed with his own teeth against the bottom of her mouth, he wanted to rip her bottom lip right off from where he was licking right now. He wanted to drown her in her giggles and kill her cold blooded by crushing her head with the hands he was softly stroking over her cheeks.

He needed her to feel pain to be okay again. He needed to get away from the regularity she was becoming.

He hated her with every fiber of his being.

She purred softly in pleasure, and he scowled, but as it was muffled on her lips, she mistook it for a lustful growl.

And, you know... maybe it was.