Pin me to the wall with your eyes and make me your moth, your gradeschool project. I watch you stare, watch you lick your lips, watch you eye me, and know that you're doomed, doomed because my interests are heady and fingers strong. I know we're going to wind up in our power roles again and again, twisting and fighting for the top, claws out, fingers spread, dipping hard, down into supple flesh that sprouts the sanctity of red, red, blood. I backhand you, enjoying the feel of your lips splitting against the impact of your teeth, the blood dribbling down the round slope of your chin. You glare at me over the red hand imprint, your eyes narrowed, sparking, and I crush my lips to yours in defiance, in that final moment of victory. Your hands are hard that fight to shove me off, nails sharp down my body, splitting flesh in momentary wounds, but even they start to comply, start to roam, start to know their place.

The untamable had become a pet with the correct amount of conditioning. Days and nights of this, and you were mine, mine as you tilted your head back so I could bite at the pale skin, mine as your spread your thighs when my knee nudged at them. No one knew what happened in here, no one had a clue; you would come out bruised and bloody, smiling, and my hand would be regenerating, a smirk under my dark glasses. And when we stared at one another outside this room, outside this fucking haven, we would hiss and snarl and growl.

You arch to the lips at your chest, back off the floor because we were too restless to stumble the extra ten paces to the bed; I want you now, now, and what I want, I get. My hand wraps 'round your hair, twists it, rolls the long tail in it, and I jerk your head to the side, sharply, as I lick at the dip of your navel, tasting salty, anxious sweat.

"Ffffuck you," you hiss through teeth, but I smile.

"That exactly what I intend to do, pet."

You're a luscious piece of meat when you try to bite at my mouth, to stop my words and my laugh, but my fingers curl around your throat instead, squeezing tightly. It's the same routine, your struggle, your attempt to grab my arm, to blow me right the fuck up, but I catch your wrists with my left forearm, and pin them back. You hiss while you still have breath, even while your lips turn a pretty shade of blue. I love the way your eyes gloss over, so shiny, so flat, before they unknowingly start to roll back.

I loosen my grip, and you draw in a trembling breath in aching lungs before you can fall completely unconscious. Groggy, your writhing, your fight is lessened enough for me to start tearing at the button of your pants, throwing it open.

" you fucking d-do that?" you growl.

The clothing is tugged away, and I breathe in your scent as I pull you out, so strong, so damn musky. "I wanna see every face you have to offer me. Even the one where you're dying."

I can hear your growl, your threat, but I ignore it as I curl long fingers around you, sliding it over heated flesh. Does the air feel chilled? Are you shivering from the breeze by our open window, or from the need I fill you with? Does it even matter anymore?

Your hands curl into fists, even as your head tips back, dark tail slipping over the pillow. Leaning forward, I capture the band in my teeth and bite through it, spitting it off to the side as my hand continues to torment you, to draw over you. Your chest is heaving, rising and falling, and I taste your desperation as it turns to frustration, then to lust, a sweet dessert. Your head thrashes back and forth, and your hair spreads out, dark strands flying while you hiss curses at me; they're music to my ears.

Your eyes beg for things your lips would never promise me. Take me. Fuck me. Goddammit, fill me or I'll fucking kill you! It was this moment that I lived for, this time when your eyes would spark up, when your teeth would be bared, where I knew you would tear out my throat if given half the chance.

One day, I'd fuck you with my shield on. One day I would drive into you with a metal you would never overcome just so I could watch you lose every inch of composure you had. One day, I would watch you impaled on something that makes steel feel soft. But for now, though, I'll take you as I am, in the flesh and bone, tooth and nail.

Your growls as I thrust into you are electric, a thunderstorm in the room and against my ear. You never scream, you never cry out; it's all guttural sounds with you, hisses and mutters and growls. Anything else is beneath you, even as I press and roll my hips into you, even as I release the sweetness of your potentional.

God, I love how you fucking feel around me, tight and solid, a body that won't whine even if I hit you. A body that will only laugh at me no matter how often I bite your shoulders, your chest. Maybe that's the reward for insanity, that psuedo-indestructible nature, that belief of being almighty. If only I could make you like me, remake you like me, and then we could do this all day, every day, for the rest of time. Wouldn't that be fun?

Your breath is faster, The Quickening, and I smirk as I work inside you, hips rocking. Your muscles are tense, the air thick, and I know how close you are, know how it feels to be that way; I'm close, too, but you probably already know that from the way I'm baring my teeth.

I cover your mouth with mine as I come, not for anything intimate, but to taste and devour your final defeat. I win again.

And we put ourselves together, fix scowls on our faces, and storm out of the room. When the crew looks at us, I smirk, you glare, a fight that never happened thick in the aura around us. And it's fine; they accept it because they want to, and with my glasses fixed back up on my nose, I go out for something to eat.

I fucking love down time.