this ain't a love story (i swear):
eragon/arya

summary: it's not nice and it's not pretty but it's them and it works; in the end that's all that matters. Sequel to it's not a love song and save the last dance for me, though it's not necessary to have read them.

r/light nc-17. disturbing like fuck-all.

disclaimer: not mine. CP's. Deal.

feedback: loved. can i have some please?


He crashes their mouths together, sparks flying and stars exploding behind her eyes. His hands planted on either side of her head are like a barrier, unconscious bondage that he would balk at if he realized what he was doing but they reassure her all the same. She twists her head away and takes a breath.

His eyes rake down her slender form, pressed up against the wall. She squirms a little, uncomfortable with this kind of scrutiny, and kisses him, hand slipping down. He moans her name, Arya-- and she grins, a little, half-vengeful. "Fuck me," she says, quietly, into his lips, and she can see his brain breaking.

His eyes go dark, feral, and oh, new gear, new game—he's nibbling at her neck, warm fire trailing from his lips to her sex, and she throws her head back, hits the wall, sees stars. He doesn't apologize and this, more than anything else, is what makes her breathe out, empty her lungs, what makes her legs weak.

She can't help remembering his brother (so pretty, little broken toy, come, let me fix you); they kiss the same, probably fuck the same, all single-minded intensity and it feels so good.

She reaches a hand to the back of her head, traces two fingers and feels wetness. Pulls the fingers away and into her mouth, and copper explodes on her tastebuds. Yes, oh yes.She throws away the last vestiges of dignity, tosses away the ice-queen like the charade she is, and tips his chin up and bites his neck hard. Blood under his skin, warm against her mouth; life pulsing and her hands come up to his shoulders, grip hard.

He says, half-startled, "Fuck--" and hey, he can form words? She's doing her job wrong—but he leans his head back, exposing the long line of his throat; hello there aesthetics, nice to meet you and growls, deep and low.

She pulls her mouth away, careful not to leave a mark, and licks her lips, digging her nails deep into his shoulder.

He blinks again, half-dazed and kisses her again, all strength and darkness and this is what she needs, her back against the wall and her heart pounding like she's alive; she'd never have dreamed that he'd have what she needs, but thank the non-existant gods that he does.

He pulls back, shadow in his eyes and his voice, low and dark, "I'm going to make you fall like a house of cards."

She grins, sharp and animal—something her forebears haven't been for so fucking long—and she says, "Boy, I've seen things you couldn't imagine."

He smiles, promise in his eyes and the sure gentle/rough touch of his hands. "Baby," he says, arrogant and proud, "This isn't something you see."

She gasps into his hands and the feelings and she breathes out, once. "You think just because you can make me scream you can make me love you?"

He says, slowly and surely, "Yes."

She closes her eyes and kisses him, and lets herself break.