ARCHIVED THREAD WITH @fightfaiir / @shardedsouls / @matchboxsouls
she’s shaking. trembling. not from FEAR – oh, no. never from fear – not anymore. its unbridled rage. at the world. at the dead god damn aliens who killed off half their team. at g.l.e.e. at everything, even herself. she’s angry. to those who know of lieutenant taz, angry seems like a permeant fixture in her personality. only, there was her default setting – and then there was anger. blinding until she couldn’t breathe – until she was seething and seeing red. until tiny fists curled at her sides and her shoulders were shaking. until her lungs collapsed on themselves and her skin was a mixture of blood and painted bruises. blood of her own, blood of others. she yells ; a raw cry that burns her abused throat; shoving over a table in her quarters until the items tumble to the ground – watching some of them fall and shatter, but it wasn’t enough. it wasn’t enough to soothe the rage that bridled inside of her chest. making a home there like a disease, like a virus that spread through every nerve in her body ; hands raking through dark hair as she grits her jaw so hard that it aches all the way down her neck. taz was not heartless – she truly wasn’t. and to lose a life in such a worthless way. needless death was terrible. avoidable. and yet, still a part of their lives, and she hated it. so, instead of mourning, she just grew angry. back aching all the way down her spine from the way her muscles tensed around rage and abrasions ; blood still paintbrushed across her skin, against the fabric of her clothing, caked under her nails. her lungs were used and abused, aching with every intake of harsh breaths that fell from cracked lips. fractured ribs burned around every inhale – reminding her of the awful truth that she was still alive. the pain of it reassuring ; the twinge of a grazed bullet against her shoulder reassurance that her heart was still pulsing in her chest; still ringing in her ears. should i assist you to the medbay? megagirl had injured when they arrived back on the ship – worse for wear and carrying dead bodies of comrades. taz had not answered her, and megagirl did not press. for the best, as taz had slammed the door of her quarters shut, and closed out the rest of the world. all of the anger in the world would not remove the pain in her chest of allowing her rangers to die. it had been a suicide mission, and she had gone on it anyway – she had been told to. she was only being just the soldier that she knew how to be, and their command had gotten members of their team killed. kids. truly. eighteen. nineteen. children. god, so much fucking potential just wasted and thrown to the wind. taz was angry. her muscles tensed, and definitely not helping whatever injuries were unattended to and lingering under the harsh twinge of each muscle. a torn boot kicks at a broken piece of glass before she’s pressing her weight against the wall of her quarters, her body insisting that it was spent – but her mind pressing for more. punishing itself. muscles coiled impossibly into knots that made her entire lithe form tremble. and there was a touch against her spine – sucking in a breath so harsh it almost felt like nicotine. she knew who it was. only one ranger was allowed to enter her quarters without asking – only one ranger could even think about it without taz threatening their livelihood – especially when rage replaced her vision with colors of reds and crimsons. the touch had barely made contact with her before she was whirling around – hackles raised like she just might hit him. but. that is not what happened. the touch was harsh, yes. but it was not a fist. it was a FIRM HAND against his chest ; just as bloody as hers, and just as bruised. she was angry – fuming, as she pressed him hard against the wall, hard enough to try and probe at whatever bruising might lie under his shirt. she seethed through her teeth at him, a moment of silence washing over her as dark eyes did not betray her intentions. her hand was harsh and firm, warning him to not move. it was a calm before the storm – if you could consider anything about her stance to be calm. a wheeze of a breath the only hint that she might need medical care ; the care she was throwing to the wind in favor of exerting more energy on punishing herself for the FAILED MISSION. her nostrils flared, and the calm was gone. rough hands grasped at whatever they could – flashes across her memory of the battle they had just left. barely left; seeing up on his hands and knees in the back of her head. seeing trembles muscles from the commander as he faced down too many foreign aliens than he could handle. she lost the recruits, she could not lose him as well. the rough of one hand grabbed hard at his jaw, almost a bruising force, and she was kissing him. it was not sweet. it was not gentle, nor romantic. it was hard and crashing – teeth knocking together as her other hand moved from his chest to the silver hair to tug. one leg moving to his knee to pin him against the wall ; desperate. frenzied. and clouded.
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it hurts. it hurt before but then he’d had the thick callouses to contain his tender heart and the hardened nature to cover the pain. it hurt then. it’s agony now. to see the bodies of the young, teenagers who had no business in being there. children who he couldn’t save despite the way he tried. he blames himself. the old up might have been able to somehow save them. the old up might have been strong enough, or fast enough, or somehow able to bend time in all his invincibility because dead goddammit he was their commander. hanging heavy on his shoulders, on his conscience, is the weight of responsibility for their death.
death should have claimed him again. not the second time that he’s narrowly slipped through the fingers of the reaper that seems to constantly lurk in the shadows, just beyond his line of sight. but it’s the second time that it’s felt so completely and utterly wrong. like waking up to find his body replaced again. this body he lives in doesn’t fit quite right, never moves the way it used to, right side too heavy and stiff. the left half of his body is screaming in protest from the battle but the right is uncomfortably NUMB.
taz is the only one who might understand. maybe he always felt the guilt like this but he disguised it beneath a thick hide of anger and placations that claimed that it was simply the nature of war to be so confronted by death. but they’re no longer at war, so what excuse can he hide behind now when he feels so damn weak? entering her quarters, he can see the fire inside of her, and he wishes he could feel that rage. a sort of envy creeps in as he touches the base of her spine ever so gently. an unconscious manifestation of will to reach for her despite the fear of being struck clinging to the fringes of his thoughts.
maybe he should be struck, maybe it would be less painful than the hand pressed to his chest. there’s soreness, but it can’t compete with the discomfort of wondering if she feels what he does when she does that. the stark separation of flesh and silicone crafted so carefully to feel like true flesh that to him felt too firm to the touch. back collides with the wall, and he wonders if she sees in him the same things he sees in himself. a coward at best. the enemy at worst. half of what they fought so hard to destroy. half of what they’d been willing to give their lives to save humanity from. half a commander who should have died in the metal a gear and again on the mission they’ve only just returned from.
pinned to the wall, there’s a certain vulnerability in staying trapped in the moment. was he desperate, he might have been able to break the thrall but then she’s there. hand on his jaw, lips on his aggressive and unrelenting, tugging at his hair. it takes a moment to react. he lets her maintain the power, stays against the wall, but his left arm snakes around her waist, pulling her so close that there’s no space between them.
right hand splays against the wall, he won’t use that side of him. not when he’s so overwhelmed, every nerve of his human side on fire, sending the whole of his senses into a tailspin. he can’t guarantee he won’t hurt her— no he’s not afraid of hurting her. he’s afraid of breaking her. she’s so very strong, but all it would take to break a bone is gripping a bit too tight, misgauging the strength of a touch meant to be gentle. they lost so many today. too many. he won’t add to the injury.
he might not have died the way that he was meant to, he’s bleeding with the silicone of his false skin is carved open in places leaking the red of hydraulic fluid so very like blood, but he can survive here with her. relish in the way that this makes him feel so very alive again. at least the part of him that is alive.
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taz doesn’t know what’s come over her – this was not like her. but, yet, at the same time, it was. taz did not do relationships – did not do sentiment to the level that it developed into intimacy. and yet, here she was – but it was still so very taz. it was all bared teeth and rough, bruising touches. shoving and pressing for dominance as the hand on his chin moved away – satisfied, on some level, once he began to return it. she was not thinking logically – oh no, of course she wasn’t. she was reckless and threw all abandon to the wind. she needed something that she was in control of ; because she sure as hell hadn’t been in control of her team. their team. and, up was now pliant beneath her, and that surged her on. but, despite how gentle he seemed to be being, she did not let up. the hand that fell away from his jaw instead pushed into his right shoulder – subconsciously knowing she could not hurt him there; pressing harsh nails into skin past tattered and ruined cloth of clothing. teeth raking across his bottom lip and gasping into him like he was the air that was so desperately deprived from her wounded lungs. hand still tugging on his hair until the point she had to pull away to breathe. choking around the fresh air like it was poison. eyes screwed shut as her jaw once again tightened against itself. she remained in his space, the vice grip still remaining on his shoulder, her head ducked down as she shook. maybe it was a mistake, but she was not the one to take things back. she cared about up. she would not have let him in in such ways that he had been if she did not. she cared immensely for him in ways she did not begin to understand. flourishes inside of her soul that were too pure for who she was. she did not do gentle. or sweet. she did not know how to properly convey whatever was harbored inside of her like a bittersweet secret too horrible for the world to see. maybe it was a mistake – but she would not apologize. and she still did not withdraw. small, trembling form still close enough to her commander that he could likely feel every quiver in her body ; every harsh rabbit of her heart. and the smallest of winces that would resound in her around the pain in her muscles – the lingering injuries that were bone deep, using the pain as a punishment for her sins. albeit, the hand moved away from his hair to instead smack loudly against the wall beside him, sneering through her teeth as she spoke – words she knew fell upon ears that could not understand them properly. “ ¿quién nos dio el derecho? para llevar a los niños a sus muertes? ¿quién nos dio el maldito derecho de llevarlos primero a una misión suicida? ¿qué clase de gente han hecho de nosotros? “ the words, in translation, bared more of herself than she would ever do so in english – sharp and ringing against her ears, like static that deafened her. pulsing behind her temples and making her head swim.
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there’s a vague sensation of pressure on his shoulder, but it’s lost in layers of code and the vibrance of true human contact. a pulsing and confusing amalgamation of feelings where the human and the robotic cross over. no one could have prepared him for the confusion when they met in moments of heightened emotion, like being torn in half. no one prepared him because no one knew— no one could account for the depth of emotion in a seemingly stoic commander who buried it all so deeply that it couldn’t be uprooted.
no one accounted for the fact that being half of something he hates would make the emotions of his humanity so much more intense in his attempts to cling to the part of himself still alive. he can’t always tell what’s real, what’s reconstructed, so he focuses soley on the sensations that he can place true faith in. the hand in his hair, the teeth on his lips, the rasp of his lungs as the air is forced through them in shallow breaths.
the sensation of her is something both alien and familiar. always strange when a feeling they’d missed in reprogramming the lost pieces of him is suddenly snapped back into place as his human brain fills the gaps. two years later and he’ll never be sure he’s filled every hole in his memory in his thoughts. he should convince her to go to medical, but he doesn’t. a selfish need to have her close keeps his jaw locked tight, blue eyes just a shade too soft to be the up she knew.
he’ll never tell her that he understands now. that in two years he’s learned more about her, about what she’s really thinking because he might not speak the language, but he understands now. understands the pain and suffering that she holds so close to her chest. he’s never met someone with a better poker face than hers. so sharp and sneering and cold— you’d never guess she was hurting. not unless you caught a glimpse beyond the mask and he wishes he could take it off of her, lay her arms down.
dying is what it took to realize what he’d done to her. he might have saved her life, but he had no right to turn her into this. to shape her into a soldier. tearing away her childhood to hand her a gun and a burden she was three years too young to carry. he knows she should have had those years. she should have had them with her family and she should have been a child and gotten the chance to be… to be whatever she had once wanted to be. he’d never thought to ask.
sharp pangs of nausea and guilt struck at the realization and he pulls her a little closer. he can hold her like this. rough and demanding and close because they aren’t tender. they aren’t gentle. so soft and relenting to her force, he still manages to find edges and hardness in him that he doesn’t realize exists when he’s with her because he knows what she needs. not a puppy, not a crying child, she needs her commander. the up she knew before the metal gear, so he tries to act the part. as if he hadn’t died so gruesomely that day in more ways than he cares to admit.
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taz was a far cry from the scared little girl that she used to be. over the years, she had filled in the caps between the soldier that she was now, and the little girl that up had found dangling and ready to be torn apart. she could still see it all when she closed her eyes, but sometimes it was almost like looking back on a holotape, instead of her own memories. flickering in and out of focus, she remembers hues of deep crimson. the warmth of sticky blood; some of it her own, some of it her parents’. her familia. mixed in were shades of sharp silvers, and bright glowing reds. light shades of the baby blue of her dress – mixed with the pinks and yellows of the decorations against the itchy silk and tool. all of it mixing and meshing in her mind into a sharp mixture of something nasty and sick that made her stomach turn each and every time that she thought about it. lifetimes ago she was that girl, until she took herself apart piece by painful piece and shed the skin of the scared little girl that up had saved; building herself into something better. stronger. something that up would be proud of. oh — how their lives had fallen apart. pieces ; millions of them. spread at that their feet. neither of them were who they used to be, and taz was not dense to this. she was not dense to the fact that both she and up had changed. and in very different ways. try as he might to hide the parts of himself that were damaged after metal gear – she could see them. see the broken pieces of himself, as if she was reflected in them like broken shards of mirror. her anger at his change in temperament was aimed in his direction for too many reasons – and yet, the biggest one of all was one that she didn’t accept. she felt guilty. GUILT was not a feeling that the young lieutenant was familiar with at all. it felt like a disease, swallowing her whole until she was grasping for shelter so she did not drown in the storm. it was a whiplash of emotions, horrors contained behind her eyes that some rangers could only begin to imagine in their wildest nightmares. seasoned rangers like themselves were not whole and put together. seasoned rangers like themselves were broken. they had left little pieces of themselves scattered throughout the galaxy. trying to discover at what point in their lives would they be completely hollow? be completely devoid? taz was not devoid. SHE FELT. and – oh, she felt so much that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend it; funneling into all into anger as she trembled, nostrils flaring as the hand on the wall clenched into a fist. their closeness was almost intimate. but not intimate at all ; not romantic or soft. it was their own battleground, swaying and tilting in hopes that it would crumble one way or the other. whether she wanted to admit it openly or not, taz was slightly off balance due to her injuries – stumbling only slightly as up’s arm tugged at her. and, this too, frustrated her. not being in control of her own body, her own muscles – nevermind that she was injured and hurting. that didn’t matter – she could do better. so, sharp and dark eyes were snapping up to find his once more. and they were once again empty of anything else but a firey rage ; that same hand from before coming off of the wall to twist tight fingers into silver hair and bring him down for another crashing kiss. ANYTHING to be able to stave off the raging fear fear fear fear she wanted to hide. fear that one day — one day, she would no longer be enough for who she was.
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envy coils tightly in his chest around his still beating heart as she rages. lashes out so violently, so full of anger, let’s it release itself so unrelenting and human. it might bring pain, or agony, but perhaps not death. no one had ever told him that humanity was found in the lack of restraint. in unrelenting feeling that demands itself be felt. this is no longer a choice that he’s allowed to make because of that chance that he destroy when he’s only trying to reach out to touch.
he looks at her and he can still feel it all pounding and throbbing in his chest. she feeds the fire in his chest makes it so hard to control. maybe the reduction to gentility and softness isn’t wholly caused by the injury but by fear. fear of his own strengths and weaknesses. the strength to crush with a touch and yet the weakness to allow others to be killed in his stead.
in lieu of words his jaw remains tight, lips parted but teeth closed as breath comes out in soft pants from the earlier kiss. he’s not a young man anymore, not so strong in these matters. not so energetic in these times following missions but her hands are twisting tight in his hair and he cannot resist.
fire burns inside, rips through his chest when their lips crash together again hard and unrelenting. burning hotter and hotter. so violently it feels as if it might swallow him. his human keeps her pulled close, but the robotic can no longer stay stalwart for he is only a man. a weakened man who needs and wants and is so desperate for this because she makes him feel wholly alive again. it threads in its silicone glory amongst the dark of her messy locks and holds her close and firm in the depths of the suffocating kiss.
breathing is overrated. life is meaningless and short and unending when there’s little left to live for. nevermind the stench of blood doesn’t solely belong to them, and the faint odor of burnt oil that lingers amongst them, let them get lost in this. it’s losing control and trying to remind himself the importance of why he’s here in this claustrophobic ship. why she has him pinned to a wall, and why he’s letting himself go so desperate and hungry with hands on her back in her hair and devouring her as surely as she’s devouring him. because he’s desperate to feel this spark of life burning in the height of the aggression, suddenly reminded of the smallest echoes of who he used to be.
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after her parents’ death, after her world fell apart and taz was forced to pick everything up and start over from the beginning, the female relearned how to feel. anything deemed weak or unnecessary was unlearned. and thus, as a result, she did not know how to feel them. how to react to the burning stimuli of sadness and hurt that burned in her chest ; that demanded to be felt in some way or another. it pushed and pulled at her until her lungs were raw and she had to filter it into one of the categories that she did know how to feel. and, typically, that meant lashing out. lashing out with bared teeth like fangs and dull nails like claws. trying to empty herself so she did not feel, but she could not nullify the human emotions that made her tick. she knows up has changed. is not ignorant to the fact his life – the one she knew of, and the one he had before meeting her – had taken its toll on him and his mentality. she had watched him fall apart and piece himself back together in an attempt to become a menagerie of who he once was too many times – and she knew that pieces always slipped and got lost each and every time that he tried. and that too made her angry. it made her angry how many times the universe had tried to drop them down and break them. this – this gave her a feeling that was something other than the rage that burned inside of her very life force. that gave her fuel and gasoline so that she could run herself until she hit empty – and pushed herself past it. until there was nothing left inside but a shell of charred ribs and lungs. she feels a burn – a surge – of something when his other hand twists into her hair. as if she had been pushing for him to put the whole of himself into it – not just his human, but the parts of himself that were pieced back together to become him. she wants to feel all of him – she understands on some level that he could hurt her without meaning to, but she would sooner feel pain than the hurt in her chest. her lungs are burning – begging to be sated with oxygen – but she does not give in to fill them completely ; parting lips barely between harsh and heavy kisses to merely suck in shaky gasps of air before going back in. her small fingers tighten their grip, her free hand falling to his stomach – twisting around to his waist and digging dull fingers she always bared like claws into his hip. maybe this was selfish – maybe she shouldn’t be doing this. but, taz does not apologize for anything. especially not something that finally made her feel more alive than the pain did.
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chasing life. it’s what he’s doing here and now as he burns down the wick of what’s left inside of him. he’d gladly burn it all for this moment. it ignites the burning in his chest he’s long since forgotten. let himself give into the slow awakening of something primal he has long since buried in the graveyard of his bones. be he man or machine? he is neither. a soldier. an animal in human skin and silicone, barely caged within. he chases her lips even in their breaths. as long as his lungs shudder, ache, and protest at their treatment he is alive.
this isn’t glorious. it isn’t beautiful or sensual or the type of moment that’s found in terrible romances that play out on holo tapes. the sort that leave a bitter taste in his mouth because he’s never known anything to end in a way that couldn’t be considered a tragedy. even now, the inevitable messy end is coming, always coming. this is sweat and aching muscles from the strain of the constant stretch. it’s blood and oil and smoke and everything that denotes a fucking tragedy so who’s to say that this is theirs? to be alive and shattered, slotting the broken pieces of themselves together to create this picture. forever incomplete.
there should be insistence that she see medical. that they speak. that they wait until the haze of failure and bloodshed clears, but no protests come. no commands. he yields beneath her touch, to this aggression that allows him to mirror something like he used to be. almost human.
synthetic fingers unlace from her hair, but the hand doesn’t leave her. it falls down her back, joins it’s twin at the small of her back, and something akin to a growl builds in his throat, wells in his mouth and spills out against hers like the blood they’ve passed between them. hands fall, grasp her thighs and hoist her higher. he isn’t taking control, not really. merely relieving them both of strain as he lifts her off the floor, brings her to the level of eye contact, and then a few inches higher. enough to give her the advantage as he leans his head forward to capture her mouth with his own between the desperate burning lungfuls of air that never seem to be enough.
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the lieutenant ran off of something less reliable than gasoline ; she ran off of lingering feelings of bitterness and rage. guilt ; guilt was the lighter color among the spectrum of memories that splayed themselves across her mind’s eye. the color was easier to ignore most days, until her subconscious forced it forward – like wrenching a dislocated joint back into place, it always hurt. seeing patterns of reds and tasting the phantom, metallic copper against her tongue. wails in her ears of her family. and the worst – when her memory would get stuck on repeat until up’s pained cries found themselves worming into her head – and there was that guilt. angry and sickly against her gut until she wanted to rip her heart out with her own fingers. until she could drain herself of it until she couldn’t feel it anymore. they never trained you for things like this. for years, her and up had danced around one another in their own form of waltz. or maybe it was merely a choreographed fight. taking swings when the other wasn’t looking – swiping for a defense that wasn’t truly there. maybe it shouldn’t be a shock that they had fallen together like this so painfully. so violently. with every inch of fire and rage that was within taz’s being. he reeks of sweat, of blood – it tinges in her nose and travels down her throat until she can almost taste it. albeit, she was sure she did as well. the sickly musk of post battle, meshed with the sands of the planet they had been on, mixed into her hair, clothing, and flesh. wheezes pounding at her lungs until it became merely part of the cadence of the moment. her nostrils flare almost on their own accord when she hears the almost primal growl that is brought forth from him ; pleased that she is seeing bits and pieces of who she used to know being pulled forth in such a way. prideful that it was SHE who could do so. that she held the power like this. as he’s shifting her, moving her, she understands on some level that it was not an attempt at stealing control from her. and – somehow – that makes her angry. she wishes he would – that he would fight her for it. if it had been BEFORE – he would’ve. and the part that made her angrier was, if she was logical, she couldn’t blame him for it. there was no one truly to blame, unless she pointed the finger at herself. but, of course, she would never do so. so she let said anger direct itself at him. instead of lashing with a fist or a kick, she continued their weapon of choice for the situation. she did allow herself to be hoisted up, and used the new angle to part her lips away from up’s as she sucked in a greedy breath of air – one that burned all the way down. and, in retaliation of the aforementioned anger, she is nipping – harder than one might like – at the underside of his stubbled jaw until she can taste the salty bitter sweat against his flesh. pads of her fingers pressing themselves into his biceps.
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the grit of sand beneath his fingertips, the taste of salt, and the heavy breathing reawaken a memory he doesn’t know he still has. 17 years old, the girl is blonde, and tall. all curves and forever tasting of the salt of the bay mingled with moonshine. they are not soft then, but they believe themselves to be diamonds. pressed so thoroughly by circumstance that nothing can affect them. they fight, they fuck, they destroy themselves day by day as they watch the world around them go to shit piece by piece. teenagers who think themselves the wildest and wisest of their kind. they didn’t need words then either. all they needed was teeth and skin and lips— the burn of moonshine carving down their throats before they memorized each other’s bodies. the details have blurred with time. what remains crystalline is the violent implosion. screaming so loudly that it could be heard through most of the academy, a civilian girl with hair a mess, shoes in her bag, and dress rumpled, storms off the grounds. he doesn’t chase her. he never sees her again. he has few regrets.
reality snaps back, and things are different now. he knows better. he knows that he is no more diamond than the universe is a velvet cushion meant to caress and hold. how precious little he knew as a boy, now the aged dregs of a man stitched and welded together into something meant to resemble existence. so many times he’s heard others lament their loss of youth, but he refuses to capitulate to the foolishness of the thought. he would rather live as hollow than ignorant. rowan’s laugh rolls through as he can feel taz’ teeth at his jaw, and the dissonance is striking. duality strikes again.
fuck duality.
the submission, the complacency, the senses he’s been stripped of are there just beneath the surface and he can feel them there, waiting. contentedness fails and ebbs away, no if she wants control she’ll have to fight him for it. the raging beast within has finally awakened from hibernation, called home by the smell and scent of battle. with a single movement he’s spinning them both, pressing the lieutenant to the wall, pinning her with his chest against hers and gripping her thighs a little tighter. he looks down at her, bores his eyes into hers with intensity that seemingly had long since died in him. fight me.
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taz was not one for intimate touches – the romantic allure of casual glances, touches did not appeal to her. the ideal of watching someone grow old with a fondness. the fabled butterflies in your stomach she had heard so much about. she had seen it, time and time again. rangers falling into one another, before life – war, battle – tore them apart. she thought herself too strong for such. she preferred the cold of her blaster, the texture of her knife, to the warm fragility of flesh beneath her fingers and in her grasp. she was stronger than that. she was better than that. it was her damn pride all over again. she can feel it. the approach of the switch. the flip that was somehow flipped inside of her commander. the spark that lit a flame that was long ago turned to nothing but smoldering ashes. and, even still, the shift was sudden. at least sudden enough to temporarily falter her intake of air ; or maybe it was just a disturbance of her injuries. an irritation of fractured ribs, or the bruise forming on her lower back. it didn’t matter, because the sudden shift in up’s demeanor fueled her predatory rage – and she laughed ( as breathless as it was ) as his startling gaze met hers. it was a sick kind of glee that, if up was anyone else, they might’ve thought her deranged. maybe she was. she read the tone in his gaze easily – of course she did, she learned her own from him. “ ahi esta. me he perdido eso, “ she breaths, voice rough – maybe from the circumstances, maybe from how her lungs felt pinched ; the pain shifting itself through every nerve in her body and adding gasoline to the fire of FEELING SO TRULY ALIVE. she could feel her heart rabbiting, her finger tips shaking – and she was living. she was small – and he was stronger than she was. but she was cunning, and unrelenting. the grip on her thighs might be close to bruising, but it was better than feeling hollow. she grips tightly at his shoulders, using her full weight to push him back just enough so that she could press back in – teeth fighting for its dominance as she kissed him again, the action fleeting before she is biting at his lower lip; fingers digging into the flesh they found underneath the tattered edges of the collar of his shirt. and one hand moves, gripping to the front of the material so that she could tug him into her. crashing their bodies more so together until there was scarcely breathing room between them. she was up against the wall, but she was determined to show him that she was still in control.
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no more losing himself in thought. he won’t allow it. all that must exist is in this moment, in his grip, in this room. he forces himself to be outside of it all, to lock away the concern, the worries. here is where he must be. watching her laugh, it’s hard not to laugh back. it feels familiar and alien in the same moment, circling each other in the ring with bare feet and wrapped knuckles waiting for the next attack. he stops holding it back, he laughs, something deep and soft made huskier by the lack of breath.
❛ oh darling——- we haven’t even gotten started. ❜ calling her darling, it’s risky. but isn’t that the point of all of it? to tease out the anger and aggression from each other, to push it all to the surface and allow it to come out their foaming mouths. they’re rabid. savage. taking pieces of each other in their quest to take control. the familiar push and pull of what they’d always been before the world shattered them.
he lets her push, if only slightly. if he truly wanted he could pin her almost effortlessly. the cybernetics would see to that, but there’s no fun to be had in that. the fun is in the challenge. asserting themselves to be the dominating force. hiking her legs up to his waist, if she wants to stay up she’ll have to support herself as his grip moves, the right to her waist, the left to her hair. so conscientious even in this moment, human fist twines in her dark locks, tugs. not hard enough to cause true pain, but enough to pull her head away from his and expose her neck. his teeth find their way to graze the flesh for a moment, something of a warning before he begins to nip hard enough to make it known, though not to break the skin.
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he speaks, and she sneers. and its almost like an animal baring its fangs, ready for a fight. something in her blood tensing and her nerves coiling as dull nails dig their way into tender flesh – twisting to the point that she can feel half moons under them against the skin in its angry wake. “i ain’t no one’s darling,” she breathed, something teetering in her voice that almost sounded like a bemused challenge – huffing a harsh breath through her nose as dark eyes narrowed. it was like a heavy crash on waves; pushing at pulling as the harsh tide washed away and corroded pieces of themselves until they both longed to be hollow shells. this was their end goal, right? to rip the feeling out of their beating chest and forcefully through their ribcages so that they could once more put themselves above everyone else. to no longer be dragged down into the depths of the blackness of the dead godforsaken universe they lived in. the universe was not kind ; if it were, taz would’ve died a long time ago. the soldier feels her weight shift, and – for a fleeting moment – she does tighten the muscles against her calves and thighs to keep herself upright. and her lashes flutter when he tugs at hair, when he nips at skin. sensations swarm themselves through her small frame – all of it unknown to her. she had never bared flesh to a person. never let someone this close ; albeit, even still, she refused to allow such to be a vulnerability. so she chokes down whatever the sensations might be causing her to feel – the confusion of it, the newness of it all, once more processing as anger instead. especially as the nerves of her flesh dance under the pressure of his teeth. her body felt like reacting in a way that was other than anger, and she couldn’t have that. she couldn’t have the feeling that was trying to twist and worm its way into her stomach. so, she’s pushing back again – it’s her turn. one hand places itself on the center point between his collarbones; where its tender. her other on his human shoulder – and she shoves back. at the same time, she shifts her legs to have her weight heavily against his right side; choke holding her thigh muscles as she shove outwards. once he was far enough away from her that her center of gravity began to droop downwards – barely supported against her back on the wall – she kicks, right leg still snaked around him long enough to hold her balance as the heel of her foot digs into the left side and shove back; until the entirety of her weight was against her hands and foot – now shoving herself from the wall until they both clamor to the floor of her quarters; hands finding purchase against his shoulders and knees against his hips in an attempt to keep him down. a mixture of what they were – with bloodied and bruised knuckles in training – and a line they were crossing as she pressed back in, all teeth and vigor, to kiss him once more.
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for a moment he can feel the unconscious capitulation of her muscles as her muscles tense around him. smug victory slips into the edges of his mind. he knows better, that the victories with her are fleeting and merely prologues to the next attack, but even so his guard slips. unconscious. he’s rusty. it’s been too long since he’s been this. a wolf that’s been trained into complacency rediscovering the feral nature buried deep inside. this is not the attempts of a predator to tear its prey to shreds (if that were the case her bones would crack beneath him and her blood coat his teeth) but the dominance emerging. the will to be the stronger.
his balance shifts as he’s pushed away, teeth surrendering the flesh willingly and without bloodshed. the bruises would arise later, but that would only serve as a marking of what he’s done. silently, the wolf inside him will take pride. a well placed kick to his stomach and he’s forced to the ground. the force of collision ricochets through his spine and he almost can’t tell which sensations are real and which are synthesized. it makes him feel alive. no. more than that. it makes him feel human.
mouth contorts, shifts into a manic sort of smile as her knees dig into his hips and hands are on his shoulders. the world spins out of focus, and then back in. a spiraling sensation that fills him with something he thought died in the metal gear. true and present humanity. existence that could not be simulated with a thousand machines or any number of electric pulses. some say that he was resurrected by doctor space claw, but all he did was animate a corpse. her lips meet his and he matches her intensity, the contact a conduit for all the rage and depth of emotion that’s been absent from him for so very long. but he can’t submit for long. hand splays on the floor beside them, the other hand on her hip. he pushes off the ground hard to flip them to press her to the floor as he chuckles against her lips, another deep husky thing. ❛ you sure about that, darling? ❜
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the rage, the fire, in her bones – she relished in it. because it made her feel alive. much like being on the battlefield did, but in a very different way. in a way that surged her onwards ; in a way that made her feel she was truly living – instead of seeing young lives ripped away from them in manners that were inhumane. manners that they didn’t deserve. she could feel it ; hot in her veins like a spark catching a dead bush. surging through her until it threatened to consume her very being. the anger was never enough, and it demanded an outlet. a way to feel, and be felt. to be seen, and to be acknowledged that taz was angry at the universe for what it had done to them all.
for what it had done to her. for what it had done to up.
this, somehow, was no different than sparring. trading punches, trading the upper hand, with the hopes that one of them would give. most rangers sparring took twenty to thirty minutes. her and up could take hours with their stubborn and hard headed wills that refused to give until their bodies were exhausted and shaking. this was no different. fighting and clawing for dominance until one of them would crumble.
she takes short pride in her work thus far, harsh and heavy with her kissing until she is nipping harshly at his bottom lip ; enough to feel it swell slightly between her teeth, but not quite enough to taste the metallic of blood. because, like with everything, taz was harsh and uncompromising.
it doesn’t last long, before up is shifting them both once more – and there’s a pulsing in her back, a sharp pain in her ribs that threatens to leave her breathless. reminders of the battle that was still merely hours ago, and untreated wounds festering under her skin. patterns of crimson against her clothing, and bruises against flesh. her ribs cried out at her in dismay, and she ignored them with a hollow breath.
instead, she snarls – shows her teeth to intimate, much like a wolf would against a worthy adversary. “ quite certain, querido, “ she bit back at him, nipping against hard at his lip before she was canting her head to the side; enough to bite his ear hard enough to form a bruise in retaliation.
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human blue eye is bloodshot, the other clear and unmarred as he looks down at her. a strange juxtaposition, one of the many pieces they could never properly replicate. there were ways that it could be simulated but the program hardly worked as smoothly as planned. he watches her, the snarl on her lips, the baring of teeth. for a moment he can almost convince himself that this is another year. one before he’d become the thing that he is, but he doubts that she ever can forget when it stares her in the face.
teeth clamp onto his ear and he’s willing it to bruise, the skin to break and tear. it’s the marks that remind him that he’s alive despite his fragility. the marks from this day, from the battle, they will far outlast anyone else. the bodily decay is merely slowed by the additions of robotics. a dead man walking has been resurrected in this room a miracle that will go unacknowledged for he will surely die again when this is over. he always does just a little bit more than before.
❛ taz. ❜ he says her name without meaning to. it’s a growl, but it’s not meant to be her name. it’s disguising a plea buried deep beneath it. want me. make me alive. don’t let me be this thing forever. kill me. kill the parts of me never meant to be there. i was never meant to live like this. kill me. kill me. kill me. idle thoughts of death haven’t ceased to occur since qu’onos. not a man, not a machine, she brings out his humanity but that doesn’t mean it belongs to him anymore. all rights to it had been released when the halves of his mangled body had been left in the metal gear, a part of him left to rot alongside his soul.
instinct demands that he kiss her. cut off the train of thought, force it away with another all consuming wave of passion— but he doesn’t. he can’t. he just heaves his breaths as he stares down at her pinned form beneath him. so full of life. true flesh and blood and a heart that pumps without aid of machines housed in her chest. not fragile, but strong. carved from something stronger than diamonds. he wants to say her name. say anything at all, but the words won’t come.
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she had known the commander BEFORE his fall from grace, and she had known him after. one of the few that had watched the changes of the man she used to know so well mar themselves and demonize themselves into something different and startling from what they once were. a shadow of the leader that he once was – and, taz had been helpless to stop his downfall. for the first time since she was a child, she stood useless in the aftermath and debris of it all as she watched her friend crumble down into nothingness. into shattered pieces and debris that yearned and ached for who he once was.
taz wasn’t naive enough to think that up could ever be who he was before – the warrior had not been naive in any sense for a very long time. albeit, that did not soften or sate the rage that harbored in her chest; the need to rip and tug out every piece of up until she could see it arranged on her floor in bright, shimmering crimson. to use her bare hands to shove those pieces back together in a menagerie that resembled the man she used to know. she wanted to plunge hands in place of claws into his chest and rip out whatever human was left of it to shove into his face and distill salt upon said wounds until he burned with nothing but human pain ; if only to prove that that was indeed what he still was.
perhaps the ANGER was a byproduct of a guilt she had buried so far south that it merely harbored itself as an illness that wrapped around her bones and tattooed and splintered itself there.
“up-” she spits back – despite the growl of her name from his lips being unintentional, perhaps, hers was not. dripping and seething with venom and poison from every ounce of toxicity that her body could manage. as if her mere atoms were made of something less than human, something more dangerous and toxic than arsenic. her body a WAR MACHINE, her blood poisoning the water supplies and her lungs full of noxious gas. she felt, some days, she could merely breathe and planets would crumble – albeit, it had never been quite as STRONG as when up had been WHOLE and stood at her side as more of an equal than a commanding officer.
she felt a fire of it now ; when him hovering over her like a predator who did not truly realize he was the prey. but just a spark of a fire that could not flare to full fruition. and this too angered her. “YOU AREN’T TRYING HARD ENOUGH,” it was an accusation and a demand all in one. a challenge.
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when his lieutenant says his name, it doesn’t feel like a comfort but a poison. something swilling and rotting him from the inside out. he WAS up. the same way he WAS isaac. they’re dead now, have been for a long time. neither received funerals because he held their corpses inside of him. the closest companions that he has. he can feel them both speaking now, isaac little more than a faint echo, they know so little of his past it’s hard to reconstruct— up a stronger voice. opposing views, two sides of the same man who is now left torn in the middle. one demanding that he give her everything for she deserves no less, the other saying to release her for that is what she deserves. it’s hard to know which is which.
the challenge hangs in the air between them making it thick and heavy, harder to breathe now. i know. i know i know. I CAN’T. there’s a thundering in his heart, a pulsing in his head. he wants to try but he doesn’t know if he can. there’s always a lurking question of how much is programmed. if all robots are given an inhibitor chip does that mean he can never be the man he once was? that if he tries he’ll be stopped short and utterly helpless to the code that thrums through the mass of electrical currents housed within? he can’t bring himself to test the limits.
finally, he rocks back, resting on his knees as he looks down at her and something in his face shifts. he looks at her in an almost somber way. it would seem that the soft up is back, shaking his head. ❛ I CAN’T. ❜ he utters the words aloud, lets them hang there with the challenge before he cuts them down viciously with his next words. ❛ show me how. ❜
