She would've expected a gentle lover. Lucid and lazy, the kind of troll who trails his fingers down your spine and kisses your neck - the kind of troll who tells you sweet nothings and empty compliments while he takes you nice and slow and easy.
He's not what she expected.
She supposes it is, in part, because of the lack of sopor. His mind is reshaping, reforming and shifting - he's unstable. She knows this. It didn't stop her from going flushed for him, and it hasn't stopped her from going to his bed tonight.
He watches her. She knows he does. She can feel the weight of his gaze on her skin, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. He knows how to move fast - flashstep - catch her off guard. One second she's standing at the foot of his bed, sniffing at the way he's sprawled so carelessly there - his shirt ridden up, his abdomen exposed, and he's scratched a line at his hip that's bleeding sharp and bright on the edge of her senses - and the next he's behind her, hands on her waist and tongue sliding slick along her neck.
She inhales - catches a whiff of him, all concrete tasting facepaint and blackberry blood - and then he turns her, claims her mouth with all the force that she should've expected from a Bard of Rage.
His teeth nip at her lips and she is caught with a rush of defiance.
She responds, growls at him as deep as she can and kisses him back fiercely. Her hands rake down his back almost absentmindedly, curling into claws and she can taste the tang of blood at the back of her throat but she's not sure if it's from his lips or the purple undoubtedly coating her hands.
He pulls away from her and she's left biting at the air for a brief second. He laughs. Laughs like a loon, like a maniac. She's comforted by that. She knows crazy. Knows it oh so well.
So she goads him, licks at his lips and smears his paint. Calls him a fool and a murderer, and that gets him laughing more. He pushes her back onto the bed, sends her onto her back with a hand to her chest - she lets him. He's not fighting her now, not looking for a battle. Sometimes it's hard to tell what quadrant they're in when they start this game, but it's always easy for her to take control - make him ease back into safe territory. He won't hurt her too bad like this and she will hurt him just bad enough.
When he takes her this time it's better. Easier. The press of his hand on her lower back is a comfort to her, and when she cards her hands through his hair he moans sweet and low. He tells her he loves her. She doesn't say it back, but she rolls her hips and kisses him and she hopes that's enough.