notes: set during Priority Mission: Sanctuary. Angst, gore, nsfw.
It would have been battle, if anything, it truly was. There was skin, noise, and blood – but with all battles, there is a victor and none yet to be held in this instance or this day. It was cacophony of guilt, racketeering off metal walls and sturdy consciences, a buildup of unadulterated rage and lost secrets, sewn together with the barest of strings and broken bones.
A hand at her face, clawing and scraping as her back pressed against the cool plated surface of a table. This was retribution, this was an answer, this was everything not spoken in the past year that ached and shrieked to pour out of their souls. If they had souls anymore.
She couldn't help the hard swallow lodging in her throat as hips flushed against her own- violent and needy, her hands threaded and yanking in ebony locks as soft as silk, thumbs gouging into cheekbones where a visor was once donned – only lithe scars remained, scraps and scratches from brutal demand upon a porcelain face, carved out of malicious stone and intent. Miranda couldn't help the demand set upon her person, the way her legs curved and wrapped around his hips, how she hugged him closer – the loose idle threat for control lurking like shadows in the back of her mind.
But he would probably kill her.
Even after all of this, after the display of flesh, blood, and silence torn bare – death was inmate upon her person. He demanded answers in his own way, taking from her body what her mouth refused to leak – her skin, her muscle, her bones all projecting a simplistic idea of betrayal unwarranted. He would hear no apologies from her, only from her tears, from her hips, and her last moans. The other hand wrapped tightly about her neck as her lungs sang bleated gasps to him, hips begging and starving up to meet his.
A soft warm feeling trickled down her face; he drew first blood as she knew crimson lined her cheekbones – still clad in the barest of garb, a finale of fury and anguish. Her lips bled from the chomping of teeth, his cheeks bruised from the graze of knuckles but beneath their barest assessments of each other laid broken people, starving and screaming. There wasn't anything left between but flesh and ire – an inferno. But what was once hot must run cold, as cold as the hue in both their eyes that spoken more barren than the arctic tundra of the lands they had trekked together, a more calculated intent than the most malicious plans they crafted.
She wanted to say sorry, but he wouldn't have any of it. Clashing their mouths together, proving a point of dominance never spoken, a plea if anything, a way of expressing loss and hurt that was so buried deep beneath the confines of emotional tyranny – that's how he kept her quiet and consoled her, sealing what would be words with violence.
She would rip out a chunk of his hair and he would bruise her hips, demanding sick pleasure taken from flesh made perfect. He would make her imperfect, give her cause to crave and mark the mistakes she made upon lily white flesh. She would make him whole, calling out the more primal mistakes and urgencies, a humanist quality found in those left to the wayside of society.
But with the hitches of breath and the parting of lips set wide, eyes bored into each other, and hips met for one last time, liquid ecstasy entwined with agony melded. A marriage of hatred, pure and unbridled as memories raced past their eyes. It was the stutter of his hips that gave him away, the fire in her belly that left her wanting and pleading – he would leave her so, unsatisfied but satiated. Unsatisfied with how she left everything, how she left him, the only recompense was the tremble in her legs and the shatter of her heart.
The only resounding sound left was the hollow notion of a pistol and the grating hum of a blade.
It was always a battle.