Work Text:
He doesn’t notice until you’re already upon him.
You sink your claws into the back of his shirt, snarling and spitting. The tips of your claws just barely tickle the skin under his shirt; a quiet threat.
“Kitty bitch,” he says, “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” He turns his head and stares at your blank white eyes through his clear (the clearest you’ve ever seen them, sopor-addled as he had been before) purple eyes. The scars you gave him (he gave himself) are still there.
You don’t deign to answer him and sink your teeth into his shoulder, relishing the sweet indigo blood that washes into your mouth.
“SHIT SISTER!” he yelps, whacking your head away forcefully. You fall to the floor, letting your claws run scratches over his back as you fall. “What the FUCK WAS THAT FOR?”
“How could you kill him?” you choke out past the wall of rage in your throat, green tears clouding your vision. You wipe them away angrily.
“I sent both of you to a place far from the troubles of the meteor,” he smiles, “SO THE TWO OF YOU BLASPHEMERS COULD BURN TOGETHER. You were useless, chicka. AND SO WAS THE BLUEBLOODED FREAK.”
Burn together, he says. You haven’t found his bubble yet. You have had no one to calm you; to stop your rage from mounting dangerously; you’ve had no solace from the desolate and lonely bubbles.
You are angry. You want to hurt him more, make him scream (your name) in agony (in hate). So you launch yourself at him again. He catches you by the wrist (you are terrified, for a moment, that he will kill you again somehow and you will have to watch Equius die again) and yanks you towards him, trapping your back against his chest with one arm as his other grabs your hair and pulls it back roughly, exposing your neck. “Nuh-uh, kitty bitch. IT’S MY TURN.”
As you flail in his grasp, shrieking incoherently, he drags his tongue over your neck (you shiver) until he’s down by your collarbone—and then he bites.
The little fucker bites you and you bleed. You managed to get an arm free and scratch at his arm, and he bleeds.
Your olive green blood mingles with the indigo (and it’s beautiful, in a revolting kind of way).
He turns you around and stares you down, eyes half-lidded and glinting, smirk on his face, makeup smeared. “Well, well, well, kitty bitch. LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE GOTTEN FIESTIER WHILE YOU WERE DEAD.”
“Shut up,” you hiss, “and fucking kiss me, you insufferable murdering clown. I hate you.”
“I hate you too, chicka.”
He kisses you and it’s beautiful (in a revolting kind of way).