Contradictions

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Another oldie… but retooled, because sometimes the oldies are the goodies. :) Apologies if you’ve seen it before, but I will have something new tonight, again. :D

Title: Contradictions
Author: biggerstaffbunch
Rating: mildly adult
Summary: Opposites in every single way but the way that matters.
A/N: Set in S6, with all teh violent sex…one of my favorite things about Buffy and Spike was the way they so obviously NEEDED and WANTED one another. Not fluffy, kids. Hope you all enjoy!

* * *

It starts with a word. A seething, dripping-with-disgust word that ignites a flame, a spark. Sometimes it’s as careless as a passing glance, misconstrued on purpose. They both wait for it, a predatory stalk, and as the slow burn inside grows, they circle the fire and growl.

“What are you waiting for?”

Rough. Blows against his 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 safe and so 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 abdominals. 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.”

Her lips against his ears. Her fingers gripping his cock. Power. Lost. Helplessness. Rage.

“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 muscles and bones, her compact frame against his lithe, sharp structure. They are a puzzle, a jumble, an oddity. They are a contradiction, an impossibility, one extreme against another. Even in their passion, they clash in a way that no one can tell where one ends and the other begins. Tooth and nail.

Fuck. Pl- yes. More.

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. Nails. Her long, polished nails skimming his scalp, tugging strands of his hair, 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. Gentleness even as vicious red marks weep down his smoothly lined back. Red against white, sharp versus soft, taking and giving and giving and taking.

“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, arching up and up and up as her knees wrap around his hips. His every body part surrounds her, like a pale ivory flower around its bud. But there is nothing gentle anymore 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. Mouth sinking against the rounded plane of her shoulder, echoing the wanton expression on her face as the bloodlust rushes through him. It hurts, oh fuck does it hurt, but not because of a chip. Because of the woman he is marking, because of the woman who owns him so wholly. She asks him, and he complies, his eyes oddly beautiful in their yellow-green cast, glowing with both desperate love for her and the metallic tang of blood. It is the purest ecstasy for both; the thick taste of her staining his tongue, the beat of her heart hot against his bare chest. And for her, the pain of the initial breach, 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 clothing slip over telltale bite marks and bruises. There aren’t any words to be spoken, and no explanations to be made past his last plea. What they are, individually, is worse than what they’ve become. Together they are something almost right and neither can stand this, so they make it as wrong as they are able to. And that is what they live with.

She goes home.

He sleeps.

The world keeps on turning.

 

Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/5216.html

biggrstaffbunch

biggrstaffbunch