Warning: Language, sex of dubious consent, violence
Summary: 'In the beginning, he had honestly expected to be killed. But something about the two of them... Perhaps it was their primal all-or-nothing bouts in the barren sands, the way they had torn at one another once they had disabled each other's blasters, used teeth and blunt nails on bare skin... Perhaps the heat of their hatred for one another had been what inevitably brought the Drac's mouth crashing down onto his, drawing more blood, and greedily sucking it in. Things had only gotten more dangerous from there.'
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story
A/N: My attempt at a flash fiction story, just cause I was in the mood. It's short and sweet. Hope you guys like it. Also, dumb title is dumb?
They collapsed together - panting, sweat-soaked, spent - into the desert sand which had not cooled much since the sun had set. The sky was streaked violet, and the harsh landscape in the distance jutted up into the pale lilac of the horizon. For miles around, the atmosphere was eerily still, yet the air around the two of them remained hot and sticky, traces of electricity still lingering from their frenzied encounter.
It always ended this way.
And come to think of it, it always started the same way: a chance run-in, shots fired, near misses. Loud take-downs to the dirt and sand, and frantic rolling fist-fights, as though the only outcome could be the death of one of the two.
And it was always him who ended up pinned, thrashing and screaming, like this hadn't happened so many times before. Like this time - this time - he was actually going to rip the soulless scum's throat out with his own bare hands, like a dedicated resistance member should have by now. He'd had so many chances, and yet he would always end up back in that same position: on his back while the enemy straddled him, his wrists closed in a gloved grip and pressed into the sand. He would always scream the same profanities, always spit up into that thin face that hung above, streaked with sweat and dirt and yet grinning his victory, ready to take his prize.
In the beginning, he had honestly expected to be killed. But something about the two of them... Perhaps it was their primal all-or-nothing bouts in the barren sands, the way they had torn at one another once they had disabled each other's blasters, used teeth and blunt nails on bare skin... Perhaps the heat of their hatred for one another had been what inevitably brought the Drac's mouth crashing down onto his, drawing more blood, and greedily sucking it in. Things had only gotten more dangerous from there.
It was a painful affair, usually. Ripped clothes and sharp bruises to have tended by Jet later that night, when he met up with the team that had been so worried about losing him. How could he tell them he had been a willing participant in the injuries? How could he tell them he had not repaid the one who had done it to him with a laser blast to the head? He couldn't, was the simple answer. He couldn't, and he didn't. He always felt guilty afterward, seeing the worried face of his normally stoic younger brother, creased in the firelight whenever he made his reappearance. He felt guilty whenever he would see the trashed campsite, knowing that the mess was a result of Ghoul's fury at the potential loss of their leader, and his lover.
But in the heat of the angry involvement with his enemy, he couldn't care less. Nothing else mattered when his face was being forced into the sand, and those nails were dragging down his shoulders, leaving welts that would not fade for days. When that bruising grip held his hips steady, and the tangles of matted black hair trailed along his back, all else was wiped from his mind. It was filthy, and degrading, and traitorous, and it was exhilarating. Each and every time. The rush of being violated at his deepest point, by someone he had hated with all his being... It was a thrill like he'd never experienced, in the heat of firefights with BLI or otherwise. Yes, it was hate, or at the very least... it had been. He had no fucking idea what it was now.
Their breathing had slowed, and any bleeding that had begun was then clotted and sticky. The two of them shifted in the sand, their skin peeling apart at the tingling points where their limbs were entangled.
"Didn't cry this time, P." goaded the black-haired Drac, and shot him one of those disarming grins. The Killjoy didn't take the bait, for once. He dragged his naked form from the other man to slouch against a jagged rock nearby. The aches from their rough clash began to set in quickly. It didn't bother him so much, but something else was bothering him. He had no idea why. Perhaps it had been the use of that mocking pet name, spoken one too many times.
The words rose from somewhere deep inside him, from the point that only this man seemed to be able to touch. When he spoke them, he sounded more sure of the words than he felt.
The other man's face fell slowly, as he processed what he had just been told. His dark eyes met Gerard's desert-colored ones. In that instant, Gerard saw the same perplexed emotions flitting behind the other man's eyes that he himself had felt for so long now. He had to admit he was surprised. They had encountered one another like this so many times, and yet Gerard was never completely sure that this time wouldn't be the one that ended with his brains splattered across the sand. The Drac always seemed so self-assured, and yet... In a second, Gerard knew that this man was in the same place he was. What that meant...? Like so many other questions this situation had presented, he just did not know.
Moments later, the connection was broken. The Drac had locked his insecurities away with a blink of his eyes. The grin was back.
"The fuck do I care?" he asked, and stood. Sand sifted off of the dirtied white pants he hadn't bothered to remove earlier, as he bent to pick up the clothes he had discarded. Gerard watched him, a placid expression on his face despite the other man's biting remark. It was almost enough to bring a grin to his own face. He was content to watch as the Drac replaced his clothes and picked his ray gun off of the desert floor.
Then there was a pause as both of their eyes fell on Gerard's raygun, right by the Drac's feet. Gerard's pulse quickened as the other man slowly bent to scoop it out of the sand and drew close to him once more. He crouched in front of the Killjoy and smiled at him. He then pressed the yellow barrel under his chin.
They looked at one another, and the tension between them was unusual. Seemed different. The Drac's glove squeaked as his finger tightened...
And all of a sudden, he was standing, and tossing the yellow gun down between Gerard's legs. Gerard watched him climb the sand dune till he was a tall shape against the color-spattered sky. Carelessly, he threw a hand up in the air in farewell.
"Fuck ya later," he called, "Gee." And he was gone.
Gerard sat where he was for a moment, still. Then he laughed. He guessed he'd have to wait till next time for a name to call. Other than 'motherfucker,' that was.