It happens when the anger overflows, except this time it aches like never before.

It stings, the heat coming to life from the bottom of her stomach and spreading all over inside and pouring, pouring, endlessly. It's always something stupid. Always something meaningless.

But how could she stop? How could she stop now?

There's a bitterness between her teeth and down her chest. She heaves into the air, thick with September night, body filled with the moonlight stretched across her skin.

She's unbuttoning her shirt, pulling off her pants. Spreading herself open. Shaking, even the tips of her fingers, with disdain.

Fucking despicable. Fucking useless. Fucking pig.

She tears her underwear off her heat, hate built like stone in her throat, blood laced with sun. Boiling. Burning.

She circles her clit, hard and deep. Over and over. Twitches with the dream of his tongue over it. In her. Eating her whole.

His chest grazing against her back, breath hot by her neck, hands skimming past the sides of her breasts.

(That was real. Too real.)

She wants to throw up. Die.

She pinches her nipple, (hismouthslidinghotoverhers) rolls it 'til it stings. She rubs the length of her middle finger down her slit (suckinghertongueintohismouth) and moans, loud.

Hopes he hears it. Hopes it's ugly.

Fuck your sleep. Stay away from me.

She spreads her hand over herself and squeezes (herpussygrindingintohispalm). Slips a finger in. Breathes so hard, throws her head back, feels her chest jiggle.

Her belly is tangled and aflame and sinking lower, her heart following. She fucks herself the way she imagines he would, (deephardfast) groans and whines and curses and keens and cu—

Her name sounds gruff from behind the door, almost like a prayer.

"Casey."

Go to hell and drown there.

She spreads her legs even wider, fucks herself even slower. Dares him in the silence to come in. To see for himself.

How wrong he's been. How wrong he always is.

The knob rattles slightly. She goes faster. Smiles with each sigh.

She feels wicked, high and mighty, strung to the top. Where she belongs.

Open the door. Open the door and watch me finish.

At the sliver of darkness he opened to her, the ache breaks and sparks and explodes up her spine and down to her toes, becoming and becoming and becoming.

She laughs, sucks her saccharine into her mouth. Just for him. So he knows; this is victory. You'll never know the taste of it.

Behind her sweet, his name swells.

"Oh, Derek."

His footsteps are heavy as he walks away.

—-

This is how she tortures him, every night.

She says his name. Always soft, but enough for him to hear from behind her door. She knows he comes to listen. Knows he can't help himself.

In the day, he smirks and teases and comes too close but they both know.

Sometimes, he dares to touch her skin, squeeze her hips, smooth over her waist. He thinks it gives him the upperhand. That he can make her stumble, now.

When he starts to forget who's in charge, she cums at least twice.

—-

It starts because: "Stop going after my friends. You're average at best. Flat. And straight up unfuckable."

She's never been so mad that she can't even speak.

—

She stops for a few nights. Lets the tension build.

She can feel him waiting. Always after midnight. I'd sacrifice much more than sleep to make you suffer.

It must be his breath that sounds so heavy behind the wall. She falls asleep with a smile.

Dreams of his fingers sliding in and out of her.

—

She starts to wear tighter shirts, the ones that show a bit too much belly, a bit too much cleavage, a bit too much back over her low cut jeans. She wears that push-up bra that practically cuts her circulation off, but damn if her boobs don't look so good. Who's flat again?

In the kitchen, she flips her hair to the side and bites into her toast. She takes her time licking the jam off her bottom lip. When she's done, she makes a show of putting her pretty pink lip gloss back on.

His eyes are burning holes through her. She bends over when she puts her plate into the sink, shakes her ass just the slightest bit.

Everyone leaves, but he stays. Arms crossed and pissed. She spins and winks. Walks away.

But then his hand is splayed over her stomach, pulling her back. Then she's flush against his chest. Then his mouth is by her ear, hot.

"Who are you fooling?" he says low, and reaches under the shoulder of her shirt, snapping her bra strap. Hard. She hisses.

He doesn't let her leave. He holds her there. Seconds that drag on forever.

He pulls her top up, over her breasts. "Cover up." It sounds so bitter.

Once she's free, she faces him. Pulls it down even lower than before.

He looks dangerous. Like he'll hurt her.

Like he'll eat her.

He bumps his shoulder so hard against hers that she stumbles.

—-

She likes being poison — no, loves it. Biting into his bloodstream.

I'm on top. I always have been. Always will be.

—-

In school, he avoids her.

So, naturally, she goes out of her way to find him. She memorized his schedule at the beginning of the semester, anyway.

But he always turns the corner. Always hides.

For weeks, this goes.

Until she sees him in the hallway with his tongue down some girl's throat. In waves, her blood runs cold.

He slowly blinks his eyes open. Stares right at her.

Winks.

—-

That night, she's whining and whimpering his name. Panting like that porn star she watched for research.

Fucking despicable. Fucking useless. Fucking pig.

She'll kill him slowly. Twist the knife into every corner. Suffer. Suffer. Suffer.

Sex is power, isn't it? Isn't that what it's all about? She can win now. She can win.

When she cums, her whole body lifts off the bed.

"Deeeer-ek."

In that moment, a moan.

From the other side of the wall.