WRONG
Author: donnatellaMarks
Characters: Guess.
Spoilers: Not many. Um, just kind of mentions of season three from like Holiday to RARHS.
Timeline: Um, future. Season 4/5, if you will. Both characters are 16.
Rating: Umm, I wouldn't really say anything higher than PG-13ish, it's not too graphic. Maybe a little unsettling.
Feedback: yes, of course. Tell me how awesome this was. Tell me how much you want to kill it and make it die. All feedback is cherished and appreciated.
Distribution: , anywhere that wants may take.
Summary: "She'll kiss your cheek and you'll both feel used and you'll both like it."
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm not even Canadian. Although, I kind of wish I was, because well, look who's in America.
A/N- Neither character's name is directly mentioned, but you should be able to figure it out. It's pretty clear. Also, it's written in second person because I needed a challenge.
And so it begins.
…
Your tongues are touching, her lips are smacking up against your teeth and you can't help but bite down hard where you know a bruise will form.
Your fingers find their own way down a body you know so well it might as well be your own. You can make her squirm underneath you and hold her down until she screams; you can feel her heartbeat in her chest and it's pounding faster.
She's at your neck, biting, bruising, pressing her hands into your hair and pulling when she feels you at her breast.
It's midsummer, and your hair is frizzling out in the humidity, making you look wild, crazed. And you will be, if you're not inside her in the next few minutes.
Your clothes are piled on the ottoman, tossed every which way. You both take the floor, because the old couch is leather and it sticks to your skin when you sweat. The floor is the coolest spot in the room. The floor is cold and hard and unforgiving. You don't mind. This is so wrong you don't deserve the thought of forgiveness.
Her hands linger on your back, gripping the flesh hard and you like it that way. You like it when she bites you; she scratches you and makes you bleed. It makes her so much hotter; she can hurt you and cause you sweet, sweet, pain.
You wonder if your father did this to your mother, if he held her down, made her cry out in pain or pleasure or maybe she wasn't sure which. You push the thoughts out of your mind, because it's weird and disturbing. Then again, so are you. You're weird and disturbing and you doubt that normalcy will ever see your face again.
She's sweating; you're both sweating, beads of perspiration drip off you and mingle with each other. Slick skin and swift tongues move to taste the salt of your exertion. The temperature rises as you grind against her, testing her and she moans or maybe it was you but it doesn't matter. She's rubbing herself against you; it's blinding you and she's the only thing you see. Her long fingernails that she keeps perfectly manicured, her smooth thighs wrapped halfway around yours, her lips on your chest as she flips you around and gains control.
You like her this way, on your waist, your bodies at the point of almost connection and now she's the one who's pushing you down, keeping you down as you fight against her because you know she likes the resistance. You come from different worlds but you still manage to bond in the strangest of ways- you both enjoy the pain. She's crushing your ribs and you like it because it's making it hard to breathe. She knows you like it and she likes it too because she's the one whose in control for once. If there is one thing she ever wanted in her life, it was control. She wants it; she craves it; she'll go crazy without control. She went without it once, and she'll never go back.
That's why she comes to you, you know it; she knows it too. You oblige her willingly because no one else is willing to hurt you the way she does, no one else is willing to straddle you and give you new and better memories of what pain feels like.
You think there is music playing in the background, but you can't tell or don't care enough to find out. She above you and suddenly you're inside her and you think you might temporarily loose consciousness.
"Oh, oh, God," she moans quietly, and you laugh, telling her you really hope that God's not in the room. She smacks your chest a little too hard to be in jest.
Her blonde hair is tangled and out of place; you think you can see little traces of dark roots that have yet to be fixed or covered up until she can con her parents out of the money for a 95$ dye-job at the top salon. You think Emma's mom would probably give her a deal if she asked, but you won't share. It doesn't matter when she's moving like that, up and down; nothing else matters.
You grip her and add to the finger-marked bruises on her hips, black and blue and beautiful and a testament to, for all her shows of strength and sadism, how she likes it just as much as you do. How intense she feels it when you're biting her lip and she knows you want to make it bleed.
You wonder how she hides it; if her mother ever notices her bruised and damaged lips; whether her brother knows that she can't wear a bikini because of the bite marks on her inner thighs.
She's moving faster now, and neither of you will last long. This is fantastic on eight different levels, and she never depends on you to make anything happen for her. Sure, you will and sometimes do take charge, but mostly it's her, moving the way she likes it, brushing, rubbing herself against you the way she knows will cause her to shudder and gasp. You can't help but join in.
You're both sixteen and it feels so wrong and right all at once. Ash is back in your good graces— you're dating again, but still you come to someone else because Ash never could make you moan the way she can. You care about her, not like Ash or Manny, but in the way that's not bullshit or contrived on 8th grade fairytale dates. You care about her because she's the only one who will knock your head against the ground and not say sorry. You care about her because you know this is the only release you both ever really get.
She's making a racket, screaming and you can help but cover your mouth with hers to block out the sound as you join her. You locked the door; you always lock the door, but Joey has a key and if he hears someone screaming he might check to see what the hell is going on.
She's sweating rivers and her skin is glowing and you automatically think she's beautiful, because she is and you wouldn't have her any other way. She belongs on the garage floor next to you; you belong on the garage floor together, where it can be tough and quick and you can fill the enormous void that somehow only she can take care of.
She rolls off of you, her breathing slowed and she is silent for a minute as she finds her bearings. You think you like these moments; she's quiet and you're both quiet and it doesn't matter if you're touching or not. You're both just… satisfied, if only for the moment, and that may the best feeling of them all.
You'll get dressed in silence, but it's not awkward because you've seen each other naked far too many times for modesty.
She'll kiss your cheek and you'll both feel used and you'll both like it.
"See you tomorrow, hon," she says, and she'll be back just like she promises.
…
..
.
A/N- In case it wasn't clear, the two people were everyone's favorite stud and a girl whose name rhymes with Faige Bikelmuck. :p Reviewing is good for the soul. It's awesome for your karma, really!