thecapitol | I lost my head a while ago, but you've seem to done no better

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I lost my head a while ago, but you've seem to done no better

Who| Initiate & Shepard [Closed.]

What| Awkward kind of apologies? How do you even apologize to a kismesis? Why is hate romance so hard?

Where| D5, the training center, wherever it is he will find her.

When| The last day before night, after everyone's gone.

Warnings/Notes| Swears and such. Romantic hate?

He's not vain. He's no motherfucking fishfuck. Whatever it seemed of his alternate, he is not vain. But neither is he going to meet his kismesis looking like he just had a goddamn arena run without shit to show for it. Fuck that noise in the chute.

And in any case, this is his face. His proper face as revealed from within to without. For that, he is careful to fix it, painting slow, not all to procrastinate. Maybe a little bit to procrastinate.

He unravels his braid and lets it all fall loose for the first time in ages. Just a shift of his hair, and between fixed paint, it covers it all. His swollen eye is hidden, the cuts on his lips don't look to be there. This is ridiculous, part of him thinks still. But again, he doesn't want to hear a comment from Jane and... well fuck it, his alter's dead now, maybe a little vanity would make all to pay tribute to that. Family in the carnival. Family sticks together. He laughs humourlessly.

What else sticks? Tacks. Knives in flesh. Jane in his nerves. The idea that he's got to say something to her, even if he's damned if he knows what. He grits his teeth, curses, and heads out to look.

And when he finds her, his first word is simply her name. "JANE."

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The passage between the training center sub-floor and the elevator banks was a wide, processional hallway. She had a feeling that it had originally been built that way for a more intimidating reason than that anyone could safely pilot a forklift loaded with various implements down its length while still leaving half the hallway free for foot-traffic. It was quite easily enough room for six armed soldiers to march abreast, devoid of cover, and with only one visible exit at either end. A neat and tidy little kill-chute if ever she saw one.

At this hour, it was empty. The training room itself had a few lonely souls puttering around, lost in their own sweating meditations or engrossing themselves with the paints and knots and how-tos. But the hallway itself was empty, a quiet blue-tinged coolness that was welcome after the subtle presence of others. The quiet clink of weights made for a grating sense of company, and Jane was too tired to fully reign in her temper.

It was probably a good thing, then, that she could lash out biotically. A corona would have been difficult to suppress when she was interrupted halfway through dragging the towel down her face, and heard him speak.

Jane.

Christ. It was infuriating. It made her want to turn around and deck him and against her better judgement, she stopped, tension knotting visibly in the bare and gleaming muscles that stood all but naked above the straps of her undershirt. She stopped walking, and listened.

After a moment, it became clear that he was expecting some response, and she half-turned, gaze clear red and cold in the pre-dawn silence. It made no sound, and it echoed terribly.

"Initiate Fraysong."

A line in the sand, pigment ground down from formality into ink, pitch black and ice cold. You are either on this side, or the other.

He's furious immediately. At the very motherfucking sight of her his ire is risen, never fucking mind how all she takes her sweet ass time to turn round. But then, his eyes have been red as hers all damn day, sclera instead of iris, but the same promise of hurt and threat of it not being quite fast enough that the guts ain't seen before the death claims. This arrogant, pompous motherfucker.

And now she uses his title as if it's lesser than his damn name. He wants both off her tongue.

She wanted to play darks, he bleeds it midnight. She wants cold, then he is right the motherfuck here. Fuck her formality, fuck her dumb ass motherfucking lines.

He speaks. "I motherfucking refuse. SAY UNTO HE AS ALL SHE DID TO TAKE A SELF ON WAYS GONE. You want to recruit a sister? FINE. You want the whole damn city? HAVE THEIR FUCKING NECK NAPES BARED IGNOBLE AND MAYBE THEY'LL KISS HER GLUTES AS WELL AS HER MOTHERFUCKING WALK PRONGS. But I will neither bow to you nor be like to go anywhere."

He sees the way her fists are readied. He hopes she swings first. He hopes they can match, eye for eye.

There's plenty of space in that hall. Maybe they'd piss off peacekeepers, but frankly, that would only be a problem then if the finally decided to just shoot him.

That has her turning more fully, with the towel sliding off her neck, dangling from still-curled fingers like a forgotten teddy. A childhood she never had, shared with the rage in his eyes. She squints along the barrel of the hallway, it's not ten feet between them, and no one is watching, not even the secretive little gimlet eyes of the Capitol cameras. Not even the peacekeepers.

They are alone. He's looking for a fight— he's asking for forgiveness. And she'd have be a fool not to rub it in.

"Are you... Apologizing to me?"

"OH SHE WOULD MOTHERFUCKING LIKE ALL IF HE SAID SUCH, WOULDN'T SHE?" He snaps automatic, neither confirming nor denying. "All willing of wills. WANTING FOR THE WANT. I said what all I motherfucking said. HEARD AS UP AND HEARD." Take it or leave it. His lips are form in a snarl, cracking the scabs through the paint.

He really does not want to have to do this again. Fuck he hopes he doesn't have to do this again, the taste in his mouth is bad the fuck enough.

Of course, a bad reaction might at least give him a fight out of this. It'd be the very damn least.

"So I say it the fuck again, I refuse to leave. YOU'RE JUST GOING AT TO HAVE TO GODDAMN DEAL WITH HIM."

He waits for her reaction, glaring and silent. He doesn't hold his breath.

There's a right answer in this somewhere. She remembers, with sudden clarity, Wrex's approving rumble; he is well hated. If it were mere affection, she'd know what to do. You kiss the guy, as if you mean it. Or you offer to take the girl out— or a drink, for a friend. This is somehow more complex. How to reconcile without reconciling. How to befriend without...

Maybe if she were Krogan, this would be simpler. Then again, maybe it really is as simple as that. Two sides to a coin, neither more valid than the other. Hell, she wanted to hit him already, didn't she?

Shepard stepped up to Kurloz, and it was lucky he was prone to hunching when he was angry, the damn long-legged bastard, because without his carrion-bird posture, what she did next would have been just plain embarrassing. Jane reared back her head, and gave Kurloz a firm, vicious example, of the classic Krogan headbutt.

"Apology accepted."

And also, ow.

She's right about his hunch-- maybe it's an Alternian thing, his alter didn't have it but his descendant certainly did, as does he. An opportunity to leer down. To emphasise a snarl.

For all he's wanting a fight, he doesn't exactly expect that. A thrill goes right through him along his spine to his feet, starting from the sudden spark of blinding white pain in his forehead. Are a highblood's bones stronger than a lowblood's or a human's? He wasn't sure, but it sure as shit didn't negate no pain.

It takes him a second to regain his footing, another to spot the smear of paint not transferred over to her, and for that is another small little thrill. He blinks in the second to last moment.

Then he leaps at her, fist ready in an cut at her or to otherwise bring her down.

She's still blinking away the sparks when he moves. That was a stupid move, Shepard, and she ducks more by instinct than intention. He just keeps coming, and it's a grey fight, with hardly a breath between strikes. She needs room, needs that air, and is wiser than to expect him to just give it to her. Neither of them would want it that way— and anyways, she doesn't want no goddamn sorry, anymore.

She wants to see a little blood. And she's reaching out to take it.

Swing after swing, duck after dodge. His breath comes quick and he is alive with it. She wants blood, but that only makes two of them. He spills what all he must, and the sting shall be sweet. For it he takes exchange and he shoves her back against the wall and pins her there. He growls in her face, low and guttural, close enough for another headbutt but not caring.

At some point she got him in the mouth and she can feel the sting as the plaster grits into the cut, damn his ugly overbite. At some point he got her back, and when she snarls back she can feel the tug and sting on her bottom lip, split and bleeding.

And for all that, it would be pitifully easy to break free.

Knee him in the groin, twist a hand free and pull him off by the horns, lean forward and bite off his nose, pick her legs up on the strength of his own damn grip and cave in his fucking ribs and as satisfying as the impulse is, she doesn't want it. The idea that he could hold her against her will is ludicrous, which is what makes it a thrill. There is oil paint on her face, and if that was asking forgiveness, then this hesitation is asking permission.

Well, well, a gentleman, under all that hair and horn and teeth? What a prince.

"Do it."

If there is one simple truth to be held in this world, it is that adrenaline makes fools of us all, and Shepard's impulse control was... Not always the best.

He pushes forward. His hand goes to the side of her face and neck, her hair too short to tangle in, too short to pull even if the urge is there. He kisses with teeth, it ain't all because he can't help it. He tastes her blood, bitter and metallic as blood always is, but the furthest thing from gill in his teeth. This is a burn on his lips with its warmth and its color.

He kisses hard with rage pent-up and hate locked down. He kisses her hard and barely breathes as he does. He drowns them both with purpose and intent. He wants them both to die of it. He hopes they do. He hopes Messiahs strike them down. He hopes the peacekeepers miss their chance just before their mutual end with one last fuck you.

And when he finally does stop, he rests his forehead against hers, where they're both now bruised, he keeps hold of her and he speaks what fury couldn't be said in the space between their eyes.

And with that done, he hisses what he can say, "You are not like all to be in charge of this motherfucker."

It wasn't the tender, sweet kiss that Thane always started out with. No, this was the kiss of a man starved, his tongue forcing her lips apart, his knee between her thighs, his hand around her neck, angling her face to his. She met his fervor with her own, a year of nettling poured into a single kiss, burning on her tongue. He tasted like blood, and he smelled sweet and sticky, like a soda-spill, and she is only now aware of how sharp his claws, how strong his hands.

Breathing is good. She likes air. Thoughtless and panting, her tongue darts out, probing the cut on her lip, gathering up the smear of red there. Fuck.

What the hell was that Shepard?!

"Get off. Of me," is what she says, and it's an order as much as it's a threat. In a moment they'll be discovered, and one is enough. She's not eager to be anybody's unintentional masturbation imagery, "Now."

She's got his paint smeared all on her face, half off him, half on her. It don't even feel like heresy. It don't even feel like a violation. It feels right. It looks beautiful, the paint torn through by her internal light, like maybe any second his own skin will crack open with that same light and shine through just the same. Take him apart that way, a supernova up within. He wants to motherfucking sing.

And she wants to slit his throat to silencing. He glares, and hangs on for too damn long. Then lets go, lightly nicking flesh with a claw as he does.

He licks red and indigo lips, and up underneath the smeared away grey and white, the natural black of them finally shows through. There's blood in his teeth too. Between the peacekeepers earlier and this, he's lucky he ain't lost a fang. But there was still time to spit blood in a sink later and feel one all loose.

"GONNA MOTHERFUCKING FLEE NOW?"

She kissed back. He knows it wasn't that damn bad.

He thinks, look at the both of them. A pair land-trash born cullbait fuckers, teasing and leaving, digging in without tearing the nug right the fuck off, taking snaps at the higher goddamn ground like its something fucking owned. He wants to hurt her for it and he wants to hurt. Even if he's let go, he can't all completely speak of giving a damn what anybody thought of this.

It draws a chuckle out of her, dry and sharp-edged, subtly laced with hysteria. She hasn't the mental fortitude to navigate the labyrinth of new-relationship pitfalls right now. Better not to try, and cut the gorgon's knot as she always does.

"This isn't the time or place to make ourselves a target," Nothing in the Capitol is, but she's smiling all the same, ugly with blood on her teeth, not all of it red, "If I'm running, it's not from you."

Well if that ain't a motherfucking mood kill, to think of capitol using this against them. She's right and that's terrible. But half of him still want to point out the very important fact of fuck them.

But he sees that color and he feels victorious regardless.

He motherfucking kissed Jane Shepard.

Mother.

Fuckin.

Miracles.

"Ain't no real place to run to, Jane" He points out. "BUT FINE ON THAT WORD. At up in the district it be likely he shall motherfucking see her short."

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I lost my head a while ago, but you've seem to done no better

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