Suppose this is more of a drabble than a oneshot, but the first line came to me and wouldn't leave me alone.

Enjoy!

Fire and Ice

It wasn't right; it never was, because she was fire, and he was ice.

Every glance was a mistake, a forbidden lure into the excruciating unknown. She didn't remember when it started and he frequently caught himself wondering the same thing; wondering when exactly she caught his attention. He knew the side of her that rarely emerged – he saw it when her eyes met his under a cascade of eyelashes and felt it when her lips pressed heated kisses against his exposed neck. He heard it with every gasp that escaped her when he finally laid claim to her as his own, and every time since the first. There was fire in the way she moaned his name and the way her eyes blazed when he was pressed flush against her.

There was temptation in their every dynamic; electricity in the hollow space between them. They could both feel it as if it were there in solid form and that was why it was dangerous; it was so easy to blame everything around them when they collided, screaming towards each other at one hundred miles an hour. Their relationship alternated between periods of extreme passion and extreme calm; fire and ice. It was calm only when they were separated and the passion flared whenever their eyes locked.

Every single time they connected, her breath hitched and threatened to choke her from the inside out; it was wrong and it was cruel. He was no good for her, and she told him so. She told him every time his silver eyes glinted with desire that what they were doing was not right, that it couldn't continue. And every time, her words faltered when she was pressed against a cold stone wall and she felt his fingers flex against her thigh. When he told her to shut up, she obeyed without hesitation, because as much as she argued with herself, she craved his touch on her flushed skin more than anything.

And she hated him for it.

She hated the way his fingers made a trail from her collarbone to the hem of her skirt. She hated that the only emotion his hard eyes would betray was pure unslaked lust and nothing more. She hated that the obsidian mark on his arm rendered their every moment together inept – thoroughly inappropriate considering everything. And mostly, she hated that she was drawn to the coldness in him; that her masochistic side craved the sting of his icy touch.

They were polar opposites, fire and ice, which made it so wrong. But they were two sides of the same coin, which made the forbidden fruit taste so sweet.

Where there is fire, ice will surely follow.

I hope you liked it!

WD,
xo.