Contradictions by biggerstaffbunch
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own BtVS or the characters.
* *It starts with a word. An angry word that ignites a passion, a spark. Sometimes it's as careless as a passing glance misconstrued on purpose. They both live for it, need it, and as the flame inside grows, they circle the fire and growl.
"What are you waiting for?"
Violence. Blows against her face, her stomach. Neck thrust violently back. Heart beating hard. The thrill of anger. Of caring. And then they lock eyes and he's sorry and she does the one thing she knows that will make him even angrier. Lips against his, tongue touching tongue, body pressed against body and objects are being smashed, destroyed under their weight.
"I don't want you."
Clothes are ripped off. Leather against bare skin, cotton t-shirt sliding up muscular, chiseled abs. Belt whipping her thigh as pants fall to the floor. Skirt tugged to her knees, panties hooked over thumbs. Shirt torn off in animal lust, a feral growl humming through the cotton of her bra.
"I want this."
His lips against her ears.
"Touch me."
Icy, cold hands against hot, sweaty skin...his pale fingers kneading her flesh, tangling in her hair. Knuckles split and red and fists trembling.
"You disgust me."
Harsh whispers, drawn out syllables punctuated by grunts and gasps.
"More. Ungh. More."
The desperate way they fit together- not easily as it should've been, but a mad tangle of limbs and muscle and her compact frame against his lithe, bony structure. They were a puzzle, a jumble, an oddity. They were a contradiction, an impossibility, one extreme against another. Even in their passion they fight each other tooth and nail.
Nails. Her long, polished nails tangled in his hair, clutching each strand, digging resolutely into his neck. Scraping up and down his back as pleasure shudders through her. His short, bitten, blackened nails hidden underneath her hair, fingers cradling her head, tracing the hollow of her throat.
Teeth. Lips and tongues and teeth clanging together noisily, his breath cold and scentless, a vapor of nothingness. Her mouth a hot stamp of ownership, of fierce claim.
"You are mine. You love me."
And so he does, even as he writhes underneath the firm grip of her white-knuckled fingers, even as he snarls into her mouth, kicking his legs and hooking his ankles around her feet. Even in his struggle, he loves her. His whimpers and his groans melt into her throat, his hips arching up and up and up as her legs wrap around his waist. His every body part surrounds her, like a pale ivory flower around its bud. But there is nothing gentle about his love, about their passion. Their lust.
"Make me bleed."
Lips curled into a snarl, teeth sharpening and grazing taut, bronze skin. Lips parted as blood runs in rivulets past them, as teeth break the skin.
He bites her. Never the neck, never the wrist. Never where blood flows freely enough to kill her. But she asks him, and he complies, his eyes oddly beautiful in their yellow-green cast, glowing with both love and blood-lust. It is the purest ecstasy for both; the thick tang of blood staining his tongue, the beat of her heart hot against his bare chest. And for her, the pain of the initial puncture, the pleasure that reverberates through her stomach and down to her toes as he simultaneously thrusts...it's exquisite.
They are not beautiful, perhaps, but they are something.
"Stay. Please?"
And when it is over, they both dress silently, letting the cloth slip over telltale bite marks and bruises. There aren't any words to be spoken, and no explanations to be made. What they are, individually, is worse than what they've become. And that is what they live with.
She goes home.
He sleeps.
The world keeps on turning.