It was never just rivalry.
From the moment he set eyes upon her, he disliked her. Her cool demeanor, her collected stance, her narrowed eyes.
Then, as she knocked him on his ass more times then he could count, always calm and cool as he flew into a frenzied rage, that dislike grew into hatred. He could tell from her eyes she hated him too. The way they slitted when he threw insults her way, the way they smoothed, though still narrowed in a taunting way, when she replied with a biting remark of her own.
Though it wasn't simply rivalry, the rivalry was there. Leaders of opposing gangs, leaders of opposing forces. They were the opposition of one another.
If Slick had learned anything from an inner-city school's science program, it was that opposites attract. That's why magnets were a thing.
And why the hate between him and Snowman was a thing.
The hate between them did nothing to push him away; instead, she shadowed every other thought he had. He felt a bit of obsession with her, and glanced around every smoky bar he went into, looking for narrowed, icy eyes, if only to growl internally about what a huge bitch she was.
He did, too, when his eyes met white, narrowed ones thorough smoke and darkness and space one summer night in a bar. He stalked up to her, the mere sight of her making his teeth clench and his chest tighten with anger, and he sat at the stool next to her at the bar. He threw out an insult, off-hand and brilliantly subtle, and it seemed to take a moment for even her, Ms. Know-it-All, to get it. He was proud of it; he had been polishing and saving it for weeks now. She rolled with the hit, not letting it derail her collected nature, and replied with something just as biting and building off his; obviously on-the-spot. He seethed, and she gave him a look that wasn't quite a smirk; more like condescending and taunting.
From there, they traded backhanded compliments and outright insults, and his hot rage grew as she kept her cool fury, and he hated her and she was stuck in his mind and he couldn't think of anything else besides her and whoa where did this bed come from but hey he was fine with it.
It wasn't tender. Clawing and biting rather than gentle touches, snarls and curses through heady, breathless moans. Eyes glaring into each other rather than gazing.
It was a hate hook-up in a back room of a shitty club; it hardly fit the definition of "magical". But yet, there was a sense of unique beauty to it. That they could hate each other so hotly without it burning the red (or rather, black) string of fate bridging their fingers. That those iced eyes he was so repulsed by could draw him in like they did. That two people who hated one another so could hold each other so close; share breathes and curses and warmth in the darkness and smoke.
He shared warmth with her now; skin touching as scratches and bites stung, breathing against her midnight skin and feeling hot breath against his own.
"Damn, do I ever HATE you," he said, arms tightening around her as his fingers dug into her back. She gave a dark, quiet chuckle, her arms constricting painfully tight around him in response.
"Hate you too, Slick," she murmured smoothly, and his breath caught in his chest angrily, his head burning with fire at her voice, the voice he hated.
It only made him press closer to her.
Her eyes might have been cold and sharp, but her skin was hot and soft.
Catz: I'm really proud of this one. Especially the explanation of the beauty of Kismesissitude.
Fun Fact: I wrote this in school and revised and changed it up at home. But parts are directly copied from a piece of loose-leaf notebook paper.
Review~