These Relations
He lets out a deep breath, drawing his fist back to punch again, to hurt again, to feel the pain of the man beneath him, his knuckles bruised. It collides with an already purple cheekbone, and the feeling is wonderful.
Shatter.
The one below him grins brokenly, a tooth chipped, his nose still trickling blood, the place where his watch cut him swelling an angry red. And he has the audacity to chuckle deeply, before thrusting up, throwing him off, and climbing on top as he's left confused from the blow.
Hate hate hate.
"So how about it, L'Angleterre?" He asks, straddling his hips. Thin fingers play in his hair, moving behind his ear, down his neck. He shivers, scowls. And the chipped tooth smirk is infuriating.
"Shut the fuck up, fucking frog." He gets ready, making another fist and slugs the other again. He misses but gets a punch in return. With enraged yells they start fighting all over again, the reprieve only for the sake of more anger. More hate.
They wrestle with each other, bodies pressed together, grunting and sweating, touching and gasping and hurting. Pulling and grinding, clawing and scratching and laughing as the enemy groans in pain. Their voices and eyes steeped in insanity. This is their relationship. Hate hate hate....
And suddenly they're kissing, because just hurting isn't enough. Suddenly they're groping blindly at each other because somehow it hurts more, more than the pain ever could. It aches numbly. Small hisses of pleasure escape them.
"I fucking hate you." He mumbles against warm smooth lips, his own chapped and dry. But he tilts his head up for another kiss, because the wrongness of it intoxicates him. Intoxicates them both.
He's given a smirk. He hates it. "Shut up, L'angleterre. You're ruining the moment." What moment? He wonders. What is this? Love? Anger? Abuse? What is it that they're doing to each other right now?
And then they're kissing again, fighting against buttons and latches, and all thoughts fly from his mind. He bites his tongue against the flood of emotions. He wants, is wanting. Wanting flesh, wanting to taste and feel and memorize and
hate hate hate.
He hates him because he's too perfect, too beautiful, too charming. Impossibly blue eyes glitter, tease, invert and then polish. Perfection in just touches and glances. The one on top has had a long time to perfect perfection. In some part of him, he feels inferior.
The feeling makes him......
He's just sick to his stomach.
Just wants to take and break and kiss until the other is red and purple, colored all over with a disgusting rainbow. He wants to break and mar and own that perfection, claim it as his.
He manages another punch, grins as the one on top reels back, drinks in the sound of pain because it strikes something inside of him, it feels good. He glares though when he gets a second charming smile, even though there's blood leaking from a split lip, dripping down his chin. Those eyes.....
Hate hate hate!
He growls when lips press against his, tasting blood. He licks at the cut, slides his tongue over it, ignores how good it tastes, because it's him. He reaches up, his fingers grip gold ringlets, tangling them. Smooth, soft, shining.
Too beautiful.
So beautiful that he has to curse, hurt, destroy. It's all he's ever learnt. And with the man on top of him, the feeling intensifies until it burns and he aches with desire and hatred and jealousy. It leaves a sweet taste in his mouth, dry and hot. He savours it. Destroy.
Hate hate hate.
So he pushes. The other gives him a smirk, does nothing to stop him. They fall back in a tangle of limbs. And he bites, hard, licking around the circle of indents his teeth make. He gets a barely concealed moan and smirks smugly, victory rushing through his veins. More. He needs more.
Their lips collide violently, all teeth and tongue and hate and passion. They know no greater sin. They're mortal enemies, since the day they laid eyes on each other. This shouldn't taste so good. This shouldn't be so addicting.
Hate hate hate!
"Is this wrong?" He mumbles against a racing pulse as talented fingers make him shiver and nearly shake his will power to nothing. What disturbs him most is that he wouldn't mind crashing into oblivion, with this feeling. With this man.
"Who cares?" Is his only answer. He wraps his arms around his neck, hips grinding down, taking friction until it burns dully and they both crave more. Attacking each other for more, eyes glinting with hidden laughter, lust driving them mad.
"God, I hate you so much."
Hate hate hate.
And it doesn't matter that he doesn't hate him. Not really. He just has to say it. That's how these relations, their relations, are.
Owari.