A/N: This is actually more of a ship manifesto loosely cloaked in a tiny drabble, but pretend you didn't hear that. Just a snippet of T-rating justification for an early Wednesday morning (irony unintentional).
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It's not BDSM; not exactly.
Lucas frequently muses on this in idle moments. Mostly early in the morning, when sunlight beyond the drawn curtains changes the bedroom from dark to dim and the black-haired ball of tangled sheets next to him snuggles closer in her sleep.
It's not BDSM so much as fire feeding fire. She's the one who holds the knife, who traces it tantalizingly across his bare chest before applying just enough pressure to break the skin. She's the one, usually, who yanks his head down or up to meet her lips. She's the one who brings him to the edge of death and asks, breathlessly, "Are you afraid?"
But when they kiss, both come away with bloody lips. When they tango, he dips her unexpectedly, stopping just before her head hits the floor. When they fence, he uses every trick she's taught him just to see her backed into a corner, flustered and indignant. And in those moments on the edge, he loves to look up into her slightly crazed eyes and tenderly whisper, "No," to strike her off-balance.
It's not about the pain. It's about pushing, each one teasing the other as far out of their comfort zone as possible just to see how they'll react.
And in those mornings, when the surging adrenaline and lust of the previous night has dissipated, Lucas Beineke pulls his sleeping wife closer and hopes they never manage to burn out.