They fight very rarely. Really, if Margot is honest, it’s way less than she’d imagined they would - it’s not like she has a lot of experience with romantic relationship, and with that, she means she has none - given her own temper and both her and Alana’s stubbornness, but of course they still do argue, from time to time.
Today is one of those days. They’re well adjusted into their new life by now - Morgan recently celebrated his second birthday and Alana is just freshly pregnant with their second child. Of course nothing is perfect, especially given Margot’s past, but she’s happy. They’re happy. That’s what Margot tries to tell herself when she watches Alana pace through the room, when she taps her own fingers against the wood of her desk. Fighting sometimes is normal, healthy even. It’s okay.
“Would you please say something?” Alana snaps, and something inside Margot hardens. Her gaze wanders over to the window, and she grips the edge of the table.
“Alana, you should calm down.”
Alana scoffs, walks closer, furrows her brows, and she’s being irritating (hormones, maybe), but she’s still beautiful, even like this. Something scalding runs down Margot’s spine.
“Calm down?” Alana is now standing right in front of her, and there’s an edge in her light blue eyes that make them look more like steel than like the sky. Margot wets her lips with her tongue, but her wife is faster. “You’re - Why are you always like this?”
By now, Margot is getting annoyed. She doesn’t like being annoyed, especially not when Alana is involved - it makes her think things she’d never want to think about the other woman. Her jaw hardens.
“What do you mean?”
Alana starts pacing again. She’s agitated, and Margot watches her with a flutter of her lashes. She grips the table harder, doesn’t really notice the way her knuckles turn white. Then, the other woman stops again, glaring at her, and really, that would be gorgeous if Margot wasn’t so…
Well, she doesn’t actually know what she’s feeling at the moment.
“You’re always so… so cold. When we fight.” Margot furrows her brows, but Alana isn’t done. “Distant. Like you slip out of the situation. I -” Margot watches the way the other woman’s larynx bobs, watches the way her jaw tenses, the way she shifts from one foot to the other and back. Alana is trying to be calm. “I understand. But - it makes me feel like you don’t care. Sometimes.”
Margot sucks in a breath. What is she supposed to say to that? How would she ever be able to… not do that? It’s not like Alana doesn’t know that she very much does care, right?
“I don’t know,” Margot says, very slowly, her eyes flitting from the floor to Alana’s face and back, “what you want me to do about that.”
Alana lets out a strangled noise, then she’s pacing again. “God,” she hisses, and Margot doesn’t flinch, she’s way past that. She crosses her arms, however. “You need everything spelled out for you, don’t you?”
That lights something inside Margot like lighter fluid, fast and scalding and within seconds, she’s burning, her head spinning. Why can’t you do anything on your own?
(It’s not what Alana said, but it’s what sticks in Margot’s chest, like a dart right in the bullseye.)
She pushes herself off the table, and Alana stops pacing at the sudden movement, looks at her with wide eyes and blood red lips. Margot feels the way her whole body tenses as she swallows, as she glares.
“That’s not fair,” she says back, quietly, but in no way timid. She’s quiet so she doesn’t yell. She would like to yell, she thinks. Would like to throw something across the room. “I am doing my best.”
Alana pushes out a sigh - she caught her mistake, probably, but she’s putting on the psychiatrist face now, which really only pisses Margot off more. If there’s anything she hates, it’s being patronized.
“No,” she cuts in, takes a step forward, and Alana sighs again, zapping through Margot’s body like a lightning bolt. “Don’t start with this shit now. I’m so fucking tired of being treated like this… this charity project, or -”
Margot swallows, turns, shifts, digs her fingers into her arm, through the thin jacket she’s wearing. From the corner of her eye she can see how Alana softens, relaxes, something tender crossing her features, and that only adds to the fire burning in her stomach, burning everything down in its wake.
“That’s not -”
It’s not what she wants. She can’t stand it - the constant back-pedaling, the way Alana constantly puts her own feelings last, takes everything back the moment she notices she’s hurt her, no matter how justified her feelings are.
Fights are normal. And really, Margot feels like the biggest reason they’re not having more of them is because Alana keeps holding back, keeps trying to treat her with the utmost care and tenderness. Margot can’t stand this tenderness, not like this, not in moments like these when they should be both boiling with irritation, if not fury, moments like these that are normal, that she should be able to stand without crumbling.
It’s not really planned when she slams Alana into the wall and presses her lips over hers. It’s the need to break this softness, the need to create something warmer, hotter, scalding, something that burns, something that can burn, something that is fine if it hurts just a little. Something that is okay. Normal, even.
Alana gasps in surprise as her head knocks into the wall, as their teeth clatter together, but that’s not enough to make Margot stop. Of course she would, if Alana really didn’t want to, but the moment that thought crosses her mind, the other woman wraps her arms around Margot’s neck and pulls her in closer, lets out a noise that sounds close to a moan when Margot bites down on her bottom lip.
Margot grasps at the other woman’s waist, groping, wandering, digging deep, deep, deeper, and Alana moans again, pushes her tongue against Margot’s, letting them press together for a few, heated seconds. The life that is rushing through Margot’s veins now is the most thrilling thing in the universe.
“What was that for?” Alana gasps, but Margot just glares at her, reaches around the waterfall of the other woman’s dark curls to grab her by the neck, tugging her back over to the desk - and Alana follows, her breath hitching, her cheeks rosying.
(Even despite the irritation still rushing through Margot, being looked at like that has always made her feel good - has always made her feel powerful, in control. She likes having people at her mercy, she thinks.)
Alana lets her push her into the table face first, braces herself at the edge with her hands, turns her head just enough to look at her, and by now, the steel in her eyes has melted into a puddle. Alana, Alana, Alana. She’s gorgeous like this, need in her eyes, gasping when Margot’s fingertips dig back into her hips, over the suit pants she’s wearing.
Carefully, Margot kicks Alana’s feet further apart so her weight rests on her chest instead of her feet, which she has learned is better for her hips. Then, she drags her hand up the back of Alana’s blouse, right where her spine rests underneath the fabric and watches how the other woman shivers as her hand closes around the back of her neck once more. Another gasp spills out between blood red lips, and the lipstick is enough for Margot’s mind, enough that she doesn’t feel the need to bite down until real blood spills out.
“I was just thinking,” she says, slowly, her face probably still blank. Alana has told her once that she likes it when she’s all smug - all smirks and teasing, but she likes the coldness even more, perhaps. A cold cruelty in place of her family’s usual scalding one. Margot almost smiles at that thought as she continues, “that we could work out our… emotions some other way. What do you think?”
I want to be cruel to you, is what she’s saying. I want to be cruel and brutal and I want you to like it, and Alana looks back at her over her shoulder, her lips parting, gasping, panting, her eyes shimmering and sparkling. Back to the sky. Back to feeling lightheaded. Margot watches how Alana swallows, tries to arrange her thoughts, to form words, but the look in her eyes speaks for itself: yes, yes, yes. Always yes.
Still, she bites down on her bottom lip, and Margot continues to drag her knuckles up and down her spine. It’s the circumstances that make Alana hesitate - the constant wondering if it’s healthy what she’s doing, what they’re doing, this urge she’s developed as a psychiatrist and probably even before that’s difficult to let go of, Margot knows that all too well.
Margot tilts her head, her eyes cold. She’s always been good at helping Alana to let go, to lean back, to breathe and let things be done to her that she wants to happen.
Finally, Alana presses her eyes shut and nods. For a moment, the raging forest fire in Margot’s chest turns into something more tender as she lifts her hand to drag her knuckles over Alana’s cheekbone instead, then she leans in to press her lips to the other woman’s cheek while dragging her hands down her sides, coming to rest at her hips, her thumbs digging into her ass.
Alana gasps again, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t push her hips into Margot’s grasp. She knows the rules, after all. Not that she’s ever been particularly good at following them, but Margot is nothing if not eager to discipline.
(Today, she’s being a good girl, though, apparently.)
With a small hum, Margot slips her hands down the curve of Alana’s hips to tug at the button, popping it open as she watches the tremble of Alana’s shoulder blades through the thin, red fabric of her blouse. Once she’s tugged the button open, she leans back again, reaches up to brush the stray locks of hair out of Alana’s face, away from where they’re sticking to her lipstick.
She knows they’re both waiting. Knows Alana is trembling in need, but she also knows that anticipation is the best part, and also the easiest way to make the other woman behave.
It’s not like she has to wait long. To Margot’s pleasure, Alana turns her face, shifts on her feet, bites down on her bottom lip, whispering out a small, “Please.”
Margot has never been very patient. Still, she pretends like she’s in no hurry when she rubs her hands down Alana’s sides, grabbing the other woman’s hips again, pressing her pelvis to her ass. Pretends like she’s not a forest fire, like she’s not raging to devour the trembling creature in front of her. Pretends like she’s not a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Please what?” she asks, her voice calm, a stark contrast to the way Alana whimpers underneath her.
“Please shatter me,” Alana whispers, and Margot has to swallow hard at those words, digs her fingers into Alana’s hips deeper, tugging a groan of both pain and pleasure out of the other woman. “Please destroy me. Burn me down. Please, please, please -”
And Margot has always been good at that. With a satisfied hum, she tugs at the waistband of Alana’s pants, tugging them down and over her ass, down the fullness of her thighs, until they fall and pool at her ankles. Alana doesn’t move, doesn’t kick them off, just stays there, still except for the tremble in her bones.
Margot lets out a pleased exhale, rubs her hands over her wife’s ass, now only covered by lacy panties (she was the one who bought them, Margot thinks with satisfaction), digging her fingers inside the flesh only to watch the way Alana gasps, the way she presses her eyes shut.
“Please,” the other woman repeats, and usually, Margot would dig exactly what she wanted out of her, make her say it with her gasping, bubbling breath, but there’s an urgency itching in her fingers, burning right under her skin, an urgency that makes it difficult to hold back.
Shatter me, shatter me, shatter me.
Margot swallows, taps the curve of Alana’s cheekbone to get her attention, then nods sharply. The breath Alana lets out is one of pure relief, a feeling that floods Margot, too, pools in her belly as she watches the way the other woman kicks off her pants, tugs down her own panties, until they too fall down and get kicked off.
Now, Alana is only in her blouse and her heels, and Margot smiles at the picture in front of her - Alana’s face and torso, all professionalism, if disheveled, and then her hips and legs, all bare and under her mercy. She grabs the other woman’s neck, gives it a small squeeze right at the base of her skull, before taking a step back.
“Take the rest off. Leave the heels on.”
Alana complies immediately, her shining eyes flicking to Margot ever so often, who just stands there with her arms crossed, her own heel tapping the floor in an irregular rhythm, just to relieve some of the need coursing through her veins like boiling blood.
There’s nothing bashful about Alana’s gaze or demeanor; nothing ashamed. They’re long since past that, have been even before Alana even stepped into her life, her own experiences having hardened her to the point of no recognition, to the point where they’re both revolving around each other, around and around and around. No, the look in Alana’s eyes is full of desperate need, but with not even a hint of shame, something that makes Margot’s chest swell.
Nothing about her wife is weak. Steel had been the right word, and will always be - she’s perhaps the strongest woman Margot has ever met. Nothing about her submissiveness makes her weak, and the way she wears what she wants just like this, just between the two of them, is something that just makes the itching in Margot’s fingers all the worse.
She’s not mad, not anymore, but she still plays her part anyway, just because she knows that’s what they both need at the moment. Margot watches how Alana unbuttons her blouse, throws it aside, watches how she slips off her bra and lets it fall to the pile of clothing, as well. There’s scars on the other woman’s hips. She’s the most beautiful woman Margot has ever seen.
“Back on the desk,” she orders, sharp and quick, tapping her arm with her index finger to keep herself from reaching out to Alana, from touching her, from ruining the game they’ve set up. Patience. Patience.
Once again, Alana complies. She’s a little wobbly in her steps, probably because of her need and because of the slightly cool air now on her naked skin, because of her once fractured hip, but none of that matters when she sinks down, presses her chest into the wood, and Margot can admire the way her breasts push into it, curving up at her ribs from the press on the fat of them.
(Something to cut into. Something to dig inside of. Margot swallows.)
She takes a step closer, the click of her shoes echoing in the silence of the room, and once again kicks Alana’s feet further apart to relieve some of the pressure on her hips, her hand coming to a rest at her wife’s lower back. A small hum slips out of her at the flush of Alana’s skin, at the blush that’s spreading on her shoulders and (speaking from experience; not that she can currently see it) on her chest. Rosy skin, tinted red by the blood pumping underneath.
Margot grips the other woman’s hips again, her bare skin now warm against the ice of her own hands, feels the full-body shudder that rushes through Alana at that. She slips her hand down, down, down, until she can feel the soaked curls of her pubic hair against her fingertips, and she smiles again.
“Hm,” she hums, deep in her throat, and Alana swallows heavily. “Since when?”
Alana gasps again, rolls her head to press her mouth to the desk in the way she does to calm herself. Her hips are trembling, and the shiver that rushes through Margot makes her want to dig her nails into the other woman’s ivory skin until she bleeds. She doesn’t.
“Not for long,” Alana whispers, moaning as Margot’s fingertips dig into her probably already aching hips. It’s not like she complains about it, however. “It happens fast, with you… with you -”
Like this. Cold. Brutal. Ruthless. Alana doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to. Margot swallows heavily before dipping her hand down deeper, brushing the fingertips of her index and middle finger up Alana’s cunt lips. The other woman lets out a choked moan, something vulnerable, something broken, something that could only ever exist between the two of them.
That’s when things finally get rolling. Margot pushes up, up, up, rubbing her fingers over slick folds and equally slick curls of hair, until she’s dipping inside, teasing Alana’s hole a little before rubbing her clit, flicking it with a finger in a way that causes her wife to jerk on the table, breathing out in that distinctly strangled way.
Margot hums. “Are you going to ask for it?”
They both know the rules, always have. Alana blinks, presses her eyes shut, nods, wets her lips with her tongue. The blood lipstick is now just the tiniest bit smudged, something that sparks around in Margot’s rib cage in a way that almost makes her dizzy. Red. Red, red, red.
“Please,” she asks, silently, but her voice is steady. What a good girl. “Please make me come, Margot.”
And really, who can say no when being asked so prettily? Margot sighs in contentment, her shoulders sagging, and the final bit of tension she didn’t realize was still in her, still coursing through her veins, finally leaves her body. She flats her fingers against Alana’s cunt, rubs once, twice, before pushing two fingers inside of her, moving her thumb to flick at her clit, slowly building her up in the way she has perfected, until Alana shatters underneath her, writhing, gasping, moaning quietly, trembling. Controlled. Pretty. Broken, perhaps, but those have always been the things most beautiful to Margot.
(She thinks about broken porcelain vases and broken wine glasses. She thinks about sitting on her knees until they’re bruised, picking up the shards, hoping she would cut herself, keeping them in a drawer in her desk. The pile of them is still there, she thinks, but she hasn’t checked in a long time.)
Margot breathes, leans back, gives Alana enough space to breathe, to stand up and turn around, leaning against the table for balance. For a moment more, she regards the other woman, lets her gaze dip down her heaving shoulders, blushed all the way to her chest, to her breasts with the pretty nipples, down to the curve of her waist and her stomach, ever so slightly bulging with new life.
With a smile, Margot steps closer to her wife, holding out her hand for Alana to clean, and the other woman gets the hint quickly, wrapping red lips around pale skin, her hot tongue rubbing over Margot’s fingers in a way that makes her shiver. She’s on fire, but now for a very different reason. Now, it’s simmering and almost sweet, almost soft, almost normal, as close to that as the two of them are ever going to get.
Alana smiles back at her, even giggles airily when Margot leans in to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
“You’re lovely,” Margot whispers, and Alana hums, closes her fingers around her wrist, warm to the touch. Warm, warm, warm, always warm and steady.