You draw yourself out of his arms, afterwards, pull yourself free. He doesn't have the strength to hold you back, of course.
His eyes almost manage it, beast-bright, unnatural, harpooning you in the chest where it churns and clenches and burns.
Your thighs are splattered in the same too-bright shade, that disturbing color that somehow feels lower than any rust's, higher than the Empress herself, that fools the eye so disturbingly. You take a tottering step back and another trail of beast blood draws itself on the inside of your thigh, around your calf.
You are soiled, marked, dirty. You could kill him for it, only then you would never behold this shade again, this terrible thing, this person who shouldn't even be, and who dares to take your world and flip it into an incomprehensible, unknowable mess.
"Go wash," he orders you -- orders you -- with his voice shivering with offense and banked wrath. He knows that is what you planned on doing, straight away, no stops.
He knows the only chance you have at not being seen is to use the pilots' public shower rooms, empty at this hour -- unless someone decides to change their routine. It's that or walking back with your clothes slowly being soaked from the inside, leaving tracks--
He ordered you. You cannot obey. "Do not presume to take that tone with me," you say, your voice shivering with -- with other things. How dare he do this to you.
"I'll presume everything I want. Go wash out your fucking nook. There are even public apparatuses for it," he adds with vicious sharpness, and you flinch, draw your shoulders back. "Or did you want a souvenir?"
"A souvenir of what, exactly?" you say as you gather your clothes, wipe yourself roughly with your underwear. (You will have to throw it away into the nearest incinerator.) "Nothing worth remembering has happened."
You think, when you walk out, that this was too sharp, cut too deep; but so did his reminder.
You can not empty yourself of him into a pail, you will never have this, it is forbidden. His shade and yours will never be gifted to the Imperial Drones. What happened, that clear fury, that passion -- your universe being shaken down to its foundations...
It was nothing, it amounted to nothing, it didn't count. No future to it; not a present anymore, nothing you will ever be able to admit was once in your past.
You shouldn't have. Never mind that he was talking depraved, no strings attached hatefucks of convenience, scratching an itch, that he was idly considering giving away his first time in hate to some random nobody who didn't know the first thing about how abhorrent he is, he was doing it to shock you; you should never have let yourself be provoked so far.
You shouldn't have, you shouldn't have.
You'll miss his scars so much, when they fade.