Completed Standalone, Rated: R
Pairing: Max/Zack
Genre: Angst, General
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em; just playin' with 'em
Summary: It was always her; it always would be.
UNREQUITED
Sweat. Sticky, sour-smelling and wet. Besides the raging heat firing her blood and clouding her mind, it was all she could sense.
Well, that and the damnable need for a male to sate her seemingly unending, overpowering hunger.
Lust-hazed, heat-glazed eyes landed on a tall figure leaning against the wall outside the bar. She wasn't sure what drew her to him above the others; there were better looking men in and around the club. There was just something different about this one that she couldn't identify, nor could she ignore.
She bored holes into his back and he must have felt the penetrating stare burn through him because he turned slowly, deliberately, and caught her gaze. Fire ignited, sparking his stormy blue eyes like a tempest squall.
The next thing she knew they were ripping and shucking clothes every which way, groping, gripping and scratching, skin on skin, nails raking deep, leaving dark red trails in their wake.
She recalled, vaguely, being slammed into a wall – repeatedly – being thrust across the floor, gripping tightly to the iron bed frame, finding herself face down and suffocating in ecstasy on a thick mattress. They exchanged no word, just grunts, pants, moans and whimpers. And through it all, endless pleasure.
Morning dawned and with it the familiar sensations of guilt and self-disgust. She couldn't bear to make uncomfortable small talk with her bed-mate, nor did she wish to see the poor fool she'd all but raped the night before. Oh, he may have been willing, but she knew that in her right mind she wouldn't have been and that made her feel dirty. That Icky Thump guy was wrong; you could be a pimp and a prostitute, too.
DAMZDAMZDAMZDAMZDA
He never forgot her. The night they spent together was one etched in his mind and a memory he never wanted to erase.
The way her skin burned against his, the way her eyes shone when she peaked, the tangy taste of sweat-slicked flesh, the breathy, nonsensical whispers, the raging heat between her thighs; how could he ever forget or wish to forget the toe-curling elation of being one with perfection?
He knew he was a hypocrite; telling the others not to form attachments, to keep to themselves, solitary, hidden, safe. But he also knew that given the opportunity he would defy his own orders, break his own rules and grab that chance and never let go.
He wasn't sure who she was at first. The only thing he was certain of was that she was one of his kind. He had berated himself at first, reminding himself how stupid it was, how dangerous it was to have given in to his urges when she could have been the enemy. He had no way of knowing back then that she wasn't undercover, working for them, searching him out in hopes of bringing him back.
But when the expected never came, he slowly calmed and finally moved on, hoping against hope that she was who he thought and that he'd find her again one day.
And he had. Just over two years later, in another city in a different state, in a grimy, run-down, downtown establishment he found her. A bike messenger. One he'd ended up partnered with for a day.
And it was there, that same spirit, the same fiery passionate nature he'd only before seen in the dark of night, in the confines of his apartment, awoken and shared in the heat of the moment.
Oh, how he wanted her still! But cautious questioning and flirting got him nothing but harsh words. He realized, soon enough, that his presence sparked no recollection of the time they'd spent together. Further interaction and probing led to insulting discoveries; her interest lay with an Ordinary.
He'd tried to convince her to leave with him, leave the city, leave her friends, leave the other guy, and she'd reluctantly agreed. But he knew he wasn't the one she wanted and the things he had once promised himself he would give anything for if given the chance fled to the back of his mind. Instead, he told her they couldn't be together. She thought he was being overly paranoid. He wouldn't tell her that it wasn't that at all; that it was simply his way of protecting his heart.
When he had been strapped into that cold, metal chair, restrained by iron straps, pumped full of drugs and under direct line of fire from laser burning lies into his mind, he both blessed and cursed her. If he'd never loved her, he might never have been caught as he had. But then, if he hadn't loved her, he might never have had the chance at all.
And now, staring down at her lifeless body, he knew he would sacrifice yet again; sacrifice his very life for the only woman he had ever loved.
If only…
If not together, perhaps one day, on her own, she would find the happiness that had eluded him all his life.
"Fight them, Maxie."
Bang.