I Like It Rough

AN: Third piece inspired by "I Like It Rough" by Lady GaGa.

Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!

Rating: M

He never says it, but I know what he's saying. I know he cares, but I'm not weak. I can't take this delicacy. I'm not made of glass, and his handling me so makes me frustrated, and I shake inside and out. It dims me, wears me out and it's going to drive me out of my mind.

So I lock him out tonight.

I know he can hear me in his mind, on the fragile, glimmering strand that connected us by accident; weak and breakable, just as he views me.

I'm in the bedroom with tissues and when I know he's outside then I won't let him in. I can only think about my hands on my skin, pretending they're his. I drag my fingernails along my stomach, up my chest, wishing they were his perfect nails scratching me up. My other hand gripped my erection fiercely, and I wished it was his superheated skin against me, pulling hard, wrapped around me just hard enough to pull every thought out of my head.

I could feel him, pressed against the edge of my mind, tentative, so barely there. I growled as my back arched, still so frustrated with him. I wasn't mentally strong enough to block him out, and I didn't want to. I wanted him to feel what I wanted, what I needed. I can't be held carefully. I need to be broken in, claimed. I need marks, scratches, bruises. I need to know that someone needs me enough to mark me up, show everyone that I'm theirs. If he isn't that person, his love isn't anything I can't fight.

He's got me wondering why I like it rough.

He can't give it to me. He can't lose control that way. He can't be passionate with me. But I can't go without the pain, without the roughness. It levels everything, brings me to life, proves to me what love is. I need passion, fire, burning, everything he just won't give to me.

But I want him to.

I'm in the bedroom with tissues and when I release, I can hear him at the edge of my consciousness, but I won't let him in.

Every day that passes, I could die. It's a hard life in the world and I need to know that I have something to come back to when I survive. Someone who can make my back arch until the muscles nearly snap, someone who would carve their name in my skin with their hands, someone who can make me theirs.

He's got me wondering why I like it rough.

The need is too much, too strong. I'm afraid that no one will be able to give it to me.

Something claws at the outside of my brain, strong and animalistic, in the faintest of ways, a clever predator and I can't help but give in. It almost hurts and my body trembles under the invisible touch.

The presence vanishes as the door slides open and my vision is still spotted from my fix. I feel hands on my skin, a tongue at the scratch marks, tracing them with fire. I can't help but arch into the touch and I smile when those hands shove me down forcefully.

I run my fingers through his hair, the black silk stands soft against the calluses on my hands. Those perfect teeth sink into my skin, not hard enough to break skin, but so perfectly and it hurt in all the right ways. I couldn't move and I struggled against the hands holding me down, although I knew I was nowhere near strong enough to break their grasp.

His teeth clamp down on my collarbone and I groan in appreciation, though he pauses, unsure what to do with the sound and the trace amounts of blood I can feel slowly oozing from the fresh wound.

"I like it rough."

AN: First person! Again! I'm shocked. Those muses. Anyways, I spent so long trying to end this. I like the one line of dialogue, I really do. I can't seem to write anything after it! Let me know what you think!