author's note: Hey there. Well, this was going to be the next chapter of Dark Blue, but it would have been pushing that K plus rating I think. I'm limiting Dark Blue to shorter, lighter pieces, like it was supposed to be originally. I have a tendency to get carried away, and in those situations, I'll just make such stories as separate one-shots like this.
So… ha ha ha ha ha… I'll just get this over with so I can bury myself in a grave of self-indulgence and shame. Without getting into the nitty gritty of things, basically in a certain webcomic, there's a type of romance founded on mutual hatred called black romance. A blackrom couple is generally at each others throats all the time, yet without the outright desire to kill each other, so in other words, INTENSE RIVALRIES RIFE WITH SEXUAL TENSION
ANYHOW people keep putting the idea of beast boy x raven blackrom into my head, and all I could think was "man, hatesmooches sound kinda sexy," so this ridiculousness came forth. I regret everything, please end me
This was just for funsies/experimenting. There's not really a point to it. Please don't take it seriously heeheehoo rolls away and dies under a pile of mortification
Needlessly long author's note. Sup.
Neither of them can really pinpoint a moment in their relationship where things started to change into the confusion that it is now; there was no particular pivotal event, no epiphany, no explosions and fireworks. What was once a fairly amiable, if not somewhat strained, companionship simply morphed into something malevolent and detrimental and irrevocably addictive. But when they stop to think about it, he is a beast, and she is a demon, and in retrospect, it seems only natural that such a combination would result in something… savage.
And it only takes three words.
He had liked her once, so it was no easy task pushing him to the opposite end of the spectrum, but she's nothing if not damnably patient. And as much as he clothes his demeanor in a light-hearted pelt, there's still a primal core within him that wraps itself around his innards with ghostly tendrils, begging day and night for release. Before, he dealt with it by channeling its urges towards fighting crime. He possessed enough self-control to siphon the enmity into more productive activities.
She, however, was the shove that sent him tumbling over the edge. Nothing's ever good enough for her, and that drives him up a wall; whoever said 'persistence pays off' must have never met her, because every valiant effort he makes on her behalf seems to end up shooting him in the foot, picking his pocket, and leaving him in the dirt. She deems the things that make him happy as idiotic, his earnest endeavors as a lost cause, and his gracious favors as foolish.
After so many years of that, his determination grew into stubbornness, stubbornness mutated into bitterness, and bitterness hardened into loathing. And, he's finding of late, loathing craves action more than determination ever did. Loathing craves some kind of physicality—some means of expression. He's beginning to grow tired of resisting it.
Three words, and everything is out on the table.
She's acutely attuned to everyone's emotions but her own, and that often makes it hard for her to discern one feeling from another. Usually, her emotions are such a suppressed slurry, it isn't that uncommon for her to miss the paper-thin line between love and hate. Even back when things between them were more innocuous, she found his overzealous banter to be simultaneously endearing and infuriating, and subsequently it was difficult to distinguish whether he was her best friend or the bane of her existence.
Depending on the time of day, he can feel like both. If that's possible.
The first signs of the cracks in their relationship manifested when the Beast took full reign over him. Though the Beast is an amalgamation of his rawest characteristics, there wasn't anything he said during the phase that didn't hold a seed of truth. He meant it when he confronted her in the hallway, teeth bared and fists clenched like loaded coils, and told her that he was through with her attitude. She matched his hostile gaze and battle-ready posture without any literal inner beasts to fuel her, and if Robin hadn't intercepted the conflict when he did…
"I hate you."
The words have barely left their mouths before both are in action. What had started as him visiting her room late one night to ask a simple question is rapidly spiraling into something else entirely. A sarcastic response here, a scathing retort there, and before they knew it, the cards had finally been played. No more hiding, no more pretending—a culmination of several months' worth of prevarication is at last manifesting into something palpable, and it seeks such tangibility through teeth and nails.
"I hate you," she hisses and he growls, their words overlapping and evaporating into the murky midnight darkness. After that, the only words are the noisy rustling of clothes as they spring to gain physical superiority.
Beast Boy is faster, if only by a little bit, but he only needs a half second advantage to have her on the floor and pinned beneath his weight. He hesitates, though, not entirely sure where to attack; they both innately understand that this fight isn't to the death, or even to severely injure one another. Only to make a point.
And Raven isn't going to hesitate to make that point. Immediately sensing the doubt crawling through his mind, she takes advantage of the moment and flips him onto the ground in one fluid motion. He's older and bigger than he once was, boasting an entire two inches over her own stature, but Raven's not a pushover by any means. In two heartbeats, their positions are switched, and she wastes no time in sinking her black nails into his neck with one hand and striking his cheekbone hard and square with the other.
Adrenaline, sudden and searing and almost pleasurable, is finally coursing fast enough through his veins for him to react. Instinct kicks in, and he grabs for her neck as well. His gloved hands deal less external damage, but one hand's strength is enough to keep her at bay while he tugs a glove off with his teeth. Once both are off, he plunges his claws into her skin, calloused fingers as steady as knives. Red rivulets dribble down his arms, and the stinging sensation weakens Raven's grip around his neck just long enough for him to regain dominance.
Rising to his feet with the agility only Beast Boy could maintain while still keeping Raven in a chokehold, he lifts her up against a wall, and she just glares icily, almost comedically—given the contrast in situation—similar to the pointed looks she gives him when he's grating on her nerves during reading time. Her eyes begin to spark with that ominous black glow, but right as she's readied herself to chant those three baleful words, his lips are on hers. All at once, her mouth is full of tongue and fangs, and the only thing that halts her gag reflex is the taste of copper—whether it's her blood or his, she can't really tell. Of course, once he takes to tearing her lips, she knows at least some of the blood is hers, but the technicalities of it all are miles away from the forefront of her mind. His palms are still tight and intimate around her throat, and that seems a lot more important at the moment.
Displeased, however, with how vulnerable having her mouth captured leaves her, she bites down hard on his tongue enough for him to wince and release. His hostility is almost completely replaced with a reproachful expression, as if trying to make her feel guilty, and she detests that face more than anything. It reminds her that hatred really isn't all she feels towards him, that fondness and pity are somehow still intermingled with the darker emotions, and that makes their connection substantially more complicated. This would be a lot easier, she reminds herself with a grimace, if the only feeling at play right now was contempt.
Like a flickering candle, though, his accusatory expression quickly dissipates and contorts into renewed irritation. Two can play at that game, and given his set of impressive canines, he's confident that he can play it better.
Positioning his mouth strategically high up on her neck, right at the junction where jaw met jugular, he laps experimentally at the flesh before clamping down, firm and fast. His teeth sink in easily, and he prides himself on the thought that such a mark would be nearly impossible to hide under her usual uniform. She makes a muffled noise of discomfort but does a remarkably good job remaining quiet, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of any wanton verbalization.
Beast Boy's quick to catch on to this restraint, though, and sets his mind to doing what he fancies himself best at: driving her crazy. One more bite, two. A third that dips lower and necessitates his grip loosening in favor of rolling down her collar. Even still, she remains silent, so he clumsily reclaims her mouth—if anything just to keep her preoccupied while his arms snake around her back and tug conspiratorially at her zipper—but both recoil at the pungent revisitation of coppery flavors; his tongue and her lips are still bleeding. It will be a good fifteen minutes of hell-bent prodding, peeling, and nipping before he finally coaxes an agreeable sound from her, and he considers that a stunning victory. Five points for Team Beast Boy.
Of course, once she decides that his turn is over and the ball is in her court now, he forgets to keep score. Raven's always been succinct in her ways, and now is no exception. A tightened grip around the waist and a well-placed knee are all it takes for her to recoup leverage, and Beast Boy feels her maneuver his body with a mixture of awe and indignation. Heated ire seems to pulse off every inch of her person in waves, perhaps a product of her powers, but one thing is certain: this ordeal is getting him unbearably hot and bothered.
"Raven," he grinds out in a dark, raspy tone that she's never heard from him before, and the abnormality of it is enough to stop her dead in her actions. His hands are all over her arms now, clenching and releasing, leaving what would most likely be splatters of bruises the next day.
"What?" she intones, breath hovering dangerously over his collarbone.
"You kind of suck at this whole hatesmooching thing." And then he laughs, because everything is weird and surreal and they both seem completely okay with it. The girl takes his laughter as a slight and a challenge, so she claims his bottom lip between her teeth, just hard enough to make him wince.
Then she releases him and says, "In my defense, this isn't exactly something I have experience with." She smiles in her own reticent, subtle way because she knows just as well as he does that they're at a strange crossroad. As her fingers tangle—roughly at first, and then fondly—in his hair, she continues, "I don't even know what to call… this."
"What, this?" he questions in mock innocence, deliberately dragging his tongue across her neck in a slow and almost possessive manner that makes her shudder. "I'd call this… maybe, a black romance."
Raven lifts a brow, trying to appear unaffected. "Blowing up and then clawing at each other like animals fighting for territory is romantic?"
"In a sinister, kinky kinda way, maybe. I dunno." He shrugs and admits, "I like it, though. Never really took you for the candles and rose petals type, anyhow." He reaches up for a lock of her hair, and she stares down at his ungloved digits contemplatively. She thinks that this is perhaps the first time she's seen them bare.
They remain leaning against the wall together for a while, hands suddenly gentle and searching. The silence is an odd one, heavy with thoughts and unspoken questions, as the two consider what their next course of action should be.
After some time, they agree to part for the night, exchanging a few brief embraces that feel more awkward and contrived than the belligerent nipping did—a calm interlude far more disconcerting than the truculent, mindless aggression, and it leaves them muddled.
Both return to their respective beds, wondering where, exactly, this confrontation will leave their relationship.