Your face contorts in agony, thoughts lost somewhere between your pain and your fear. You asked for this—you provoked this—and you know your capabilities and his, but you've spent sweeps holding back the aggression you once so recklessly engaged in. On some level you still think of him as a child, but it is undeniably an adult troll that has you struggling to stay upright, whose hands are burning your flesh and whose razor sharp teeth are visible within his twisted grin.
And you're suddenly so very certain that, had you not known him since the both of you were very young, you would not have been so careless in your pursuit of him. You fear him, that boy you once considered to be beneath your notice, and you loathe him all the more for it.
“You absolute piece’a fuckin’ shit, Sol,” you hear him say, and there is such malice in his voice that you are temporarily taken aback.
There is some part of you—some instinct you imagine was bred into you to promote your survival—that urges you to just let it happen. Everything about him is commanding and intimidating, from his stature and build to his frightening abilities. He is, by right of his blood, your natural superior, and for the first time you think you understand the way Equius felt.
You've killed adult trolls before, but you've never fought them—not like this. You've never been at the mercy of one. The rawness in your throat and the searing pain on your neck and the way the blood gushes from the lacerations on your face and the way he looks at you and speaks to you all feel so right and you hate yourself for not incapacitating him when you had the chance. You hate that you solicited him so playfully in the elevator instead of assaulting him right then and there.
Your mind goes blank when his knee connects with your stomach. The sound you make is somewhere between a choke and a gasp as you crumple beneath him, gagging as you taste blood in the back of your throat.
You thrash against him, gasping for air as his hands tear at your shirt, marking you with cuts and scrapes as they go. And then his teeth find your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, and you strangle every scream that threatens to come out, but you can't keep silent. You can't hide the way your eyes are shut tightly and your jaw is clamped shut so firmly that your gums bleed.
Sparks crackle all around you, your breathing growing ever heavier as pain overloads your senses.
“I won’t have to worry about puttin’ myself back together,” he whispers as he nips at your jaw. “Not if I don’t mess you up right an’ good first.”
You bite down hard on your lip, trying over and over to form a coherent thought, but all you can feel is blood running across your skin and his hands against you and his breath against your jaw. Your desire is undeniable at this point, but you struggle to remain in control. You won't allow your arousal to get the better of you—not while he has the upper hand.
You press your hands to his sides, digging your nails into his skin, and this time you don't focus on burning him. Sparks run down your arms and you channel the current into him. He goes rigid for a moment before his muscles begin to spasm, and you roll out from under him as he slumps forward.
You straddle him, burning through layers of his coat as you bury your fingers forcefully in the gills along his ribcage, once again channeling electricity into his body, this time with less intensity. Your left hand moves to the back of his neck, tracing a bloody line down the curvature of his spine as you burn a hole down the middle of his jacket.
You feel the ridges and muscles of his back and you smile to yourself, leaning in to run your tongue along the muscles of his shoulders as you scratch and burn his flesh. Your left hand reaches back around, nails running lightly across his throat, blue sparks illuminating the exposed skin.
As you notice gold blood dripping down over his back—more blood than should rightfully be outside your body—you rest more of your weight against him, uncomfortably aware of how little time you have before your injuries get the better of you. You don't have his physical stamina, you can't take the kinds of injuries that he can, but you do your best to keep your mind calm.
Your right hand radiates heat inside his gills at the same time as you use your psionics to apply force, and as he rolls over onto his back you position yourself on top of him once again, grin weak and crazed as you lean over him, staring into his violet eyes.
For a moment you can only watch the drops of blood that dot his skin. You press a finger to his lower lip, nail digging in until blood blooms beneath it, and your grin fades as you replace your finger with your tongue, licking at the fresh wound.
Both of your hands press against the sides of his neck, psionic sparks ever threatening as you slowly press your lips to his. His torn gills brush against the palms of your hands and his blood is bitter and and somehow delicious in your mouth and you can no longer deny the way he makes you feel. You no longer want to.
Your right hand tangles in his hair as you bite down against his lip, your blood mingling with his as it trails down the slope of his jaw. Your left hand rips the tattered remnants of his coat away from his shoulder, tracing the contours of his well-defined muscles, leaving small scratches and burns on them—something for him to remember you by.
You run your tongue along the tips of his teeth and as the blood starts flowing your press your tongue to his, making him taste you. When your left hand finally reaches the level of his hips, you move away from his arm, fingers tracing along the inside hem of his pants until you find the clasp.
You pull away for a moment, breathing slow and ragged as you smile, almost pleasantly, at him. This time you don't bother with threats or insults. There is only one thing you want to say. “I hate you,” you breathe against his lips.
And this time there is no other meaning, there is nothing even remotely platonic about it. It is a confession of the feelings you've been dancing around for sweeps now. Your smile widens as you shock the side of his neck, your other hand fumbling with his zipper as you nip at the tip of his nose.
“I really, really hate you...”
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