Hatred

As a writer trying desperately to improve her writing style, any comments from seasoned authors on how to improve would be very, very helpful, and much appreciated. Also, just tell me what you thought! I don't care if I get flamed, I really don't. So fire away.

This is a Slade/Arella romance, a bit misty an abstract in form. I like this pair, mainly because no weird adult/teenager thing goes on. They're right for each other, at least in my mind. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans.

Demon witch.

Heartless Criminal.

The 'terms of endearment' floated silkily across the gap between the couple, a gap that was rapidly narrowing as he forcefully pulled her closer...closer, and closer still.

Each cut the other. Like a razor sharp knife, a nick here, a slash there.

Theirs is an odd relationship.


If one could even call it that.

Honestly?

Does she love him?

Does he love her?

It depends.


It depends on what you think love is.

She hates him.

She knows that.

She hates him, even as she pulls his mouth to hers, even as she laces her hands through his spiky white hair so he can't get away, even as he smoothes her tears away with a hand that is suddenly gentle.

He hates her, too.

Oddly, that is the first thing they find.

The first thing they have in common.

But not the last.

He knows what happened to her.

He knows what she is.

Somehow he's repulsed by the thought of her.

Somehow he never wants to let her go.

He may be the messenger.

But she's a messenger angel.

What do they have?

She has no home.

He has no life.

Literally.

But they have each other.

It's something, isn't it?

Some small corner of their minds knows it isn't right.

What they're doing to each other.

Each has been force-fed hate.


More and more.

And now, they're choking on it.

Choking on it, and coming up for air.

Opposites attract.

Or so it's said.

But hate attracts hate.

Malice breeds malice.

Using more force than necessary, he shoves her below him as the soft bed sinks a bit with their combined weight.

He stares down into her fever-bright, expressive violet eyes.

Looking straight up, her gaze wanders over his tousled hair, his dark blue stare, his sweat drenched, perfectly sculpted form.

He wants to hurt her.

She silently pleads with him, gasping at his lips against her throat, arching her back,

And melting against him,

She begs him--

To hurt her.

So it's true.

Misery loves company.