The annoying thing about having a bipolar freakjob as a matesprit is that half the time he acts like he thinks he's your kismesis. You're pretty sure you're not ever going to get an official kismesis, because you'd end up feeling like you were constantly cheating on them.
"C'mon, kk, ith that really the betht you can do? I've theen wrigglerth hopping around randomly on the keyboard who wrote better programth than that!"
You grind your teeth and do your best to ignore his taunting, concentrating on the screen of your own husktop. He's been in a manic phase the entire time you've been here, growing progressively more obnoxious, and you're starting to regret that you agreed to come over tonight. You know he actually needs you the most when he's like this, when he forgets about things like sleep and hygiene and food, but it's really hard to pity him when he's being the universe's most annoying grubfucker ever.
"How many timeth have you blown up your own computer thith week? Why don't you jutht give up and admit you're hopeleth. You shouldn't even be allowed near a computer."
It doesn't help that you'd come over in the hopes of getting some pity for yourself, after an incredibly rough night. You had two close calls, one of which ended about a hair's breadth from getting you culled - literally, because there had been an Imperial Drone passing by not two lawn rings away and if the idiot who'd thrown his malfunctioning thermal hub out the window had aimed about one inch to the left, it would have hit you and your blood would have been everywhere.
He'd been sympathetic enough over Trollian when he'd coaxed you into leaving your hive again to come over, promising to make the trip worth your while. But something must have set him off while you were on your way, because he greeted you with an insult and he's been going strong ever since.
You're not sure he's even with it enough to remember why you'd come over, but he certainly isn't showing any sign of taking pity on you any time soon. Quite the opposite.
"If you practithed for a million thweepth and then jumped back in time to thith moment, you couldn't even come clothe to rivalling me, kk."
"I am not your fucking rival, Captor, I'm your gog-damned matesprit," you growl, finally giving it all up for a bad cause and slamming your husktop shut. "Fuck it, why the hell did I even come over here, this is not what I needed tonight. Fuck you and your shitty programs too, you're not half as good as you think you are."
Let him starve and sleep-deprive himself into a slobbering mess. This time you're not going to stick around to hold his hand and nag him into taking care of himself. If he can't bother to be a decent matesprit to you, you don't see why you should put yourself out for him.
Three steps from the door, gravity reverses itself and suddenly you're hanging in the air, flailing. "Who thaid you could go, kk?" Sollux asks, voice deceptively soft. When you crane your neck around you see him smirking at you, glasses off and red and blue energy crackling around him as he holds you up. "I'm not done with you."
"Fuck you, Captor, put me down," you snarl, thrashing to no avail. The manic look in his eyes is the same as it always is when he's in this mood, but it's a little more unnerving when he's got you powerless like this. He's never gone this far before; pushed you around a little when he's really off the edge, but not actually done anything that could potentially be interpreted as an attack.
Not that this is an attack, or at least you don't think it is. He's not hurting you in any way, and not really threatening you either. The potential for it is there, though, hovering unspoken between you. He could hurt you badly, and there's not a damn thing you could do about it - and right now he's not acting like he pities you much, which makes it hard to be feel this vulnerable around him.
"Not yet, kk," he says, smirking, and turns you upside down. You squawk and flail, but nothing you do has any effect on the way you're hanging there. You can't get down and you can't turn right-side-up again, and the blood rushing to your head is already making you dizzy.
Then he leans in and kisses you, all teeth and tongue and insistent passion, refusing to even let you breathe. All you can do is kiss back, snapping your teeth to try to catch his lips against the sharp edges, but he's too fast for you. He pulls back only enough to let him yank your shirt down over your head, but at least that lets you catch a couple of quick breaths before he's back again, mouth ravaging yours in the best and worst possible way.
"I hate you so much," you snarl when he pulls away again. "Fuck you, you are such an asshole, why do I even keep coming back to you?"
"Becauthe you're a glutton for punishment?" he suggests, smirking at you. Moments like this make you sometimes wonder if you've got it wrong, if maybe he's actually your kismesis who occasionally acts like a matesprit.
"Admit it, kk," he practically purrs, reaching up and sliding his hands slowly beneath the waist of your pants, claws scratching against the smooth skin stretched taut over your pelvic bone. "You like being hurt, you like it when I point out what a failure you are, how much better I am than you. You're fucking pathetic, jutht begging for me to show you ekthactly how low you really are. 'Oh, I nearly got culled again tonight, my life ith tho hard, pity me, pity me, pity me.' "
So he does remember why you came over. That makes it all the worse, that he's treating you like this even when he knows you needed him to act like the fucking matesprit he's supposed to be. "Look who's talking, nookwhiff," you taunt him back. "So fucking pathetic you can't even be relied on to take care of yourself without a matesprit or moirail who'll stuff food down your protein chute when you're manic and keep you from cutting your wrists when you're depressed. You're not..."
Just as you're getting warmed up, your rant is cut off by him throwing you against the wall, hard enough to knock the wind out of you. Acid lines of pain burn into your lower abdomen, and through your wheezing you look up to see that he didn't bother to pull his claws back before he tossed you away, digging deep furrows into your skin as a result. Your disgusting candy-red blood drips down over your skin, leaving trails of darker red behind.
"Shut up, kk, I'm the one talking right now," he says, advancing on you again. He's ditched the glasses entirely somewhere, and the crackle of energy around him is so strong the red and blue are starting to bleed together into purple. You've only seen him use his powers this much maybe once or twice before, and frankly it's a lot scarier than you ever thought such a twink could be.
"Look at you, you're thuch a freak," he taunts, leaning in again and dragging his claws through the blood trails, painting random designs on your body and creating new welts with each pass. "Even more fucked up than I am, and that'th thaying a lot. Lower than the lowetht blood, with your thtubby little hornth that couldn't even threaten a wriggler, let alone a real troll."
You can't get the air to say anything, so you hiss as best you can and squirm against his psychic hold, trying any way you can to get at him, to hurt him the way he's hurting you. You can feel your foul blood boiling in your veins, temperature skyrocketing along with your temper.
He pins your hands with a thought, leaving you with no way to try to attack him but snapping at him with your teeth. He stays just out of your reach, laughing at you. "C'mon, ith that the betht you can do?" he mocks, echoing his earlier words about your programming. "What did I thay, you're a million thweepth too early to take me, kk."
The words dig in under your skin, humiliation laced with rage fizzing in your brain and turning your every thought into a simple loop of make him pay, make him pay. You've never been so mad at him, you're not sure you've ever been this angry in your life, and considering you spend pretty much your every waking moment enraged at something or other, that's a little scary.
"Utheleth, whiny, pathetic ekthcuthe for a troll, that'th what you are. A reject. Can't even man up and take me down a notch, can you? Fuck, why do I even bother with you? You're not worth my time."
You've got enough breath back to scream at him now, or maybe you just don't care if you're still lacking air, because screaming is more important. Rage leaves you incoherent, but you can get the gist across just fine without needing a single word. The world tilts again and the next thing you know you're on the ground, sitting on his chest with your hands wrapped around his throat, and he's still laughing at you, wheezing despite the way you're restricting his air.
"What, you finally gonna prove me wrong?" he says, the words a little breathy but still perfectly understandable. "Go for it then, reject, give it your betht shot, show me what you're worth tho I can tell you all the wayth it thtill doethn't meathure up."
"I'll show you what I'm worth," you snarl at him, dropping one hand to tear at his shirt instead, clawing it right off him and taking no care for the gouges left behind in his flesh. Your horns might not be the scariest weapons ever, but there's not a damned thing wrong with your claws. "I'll show you exactly what I'm worth, and I'll leave you crawling on the ground begging for more, begging for mercy. Mercy that you're never gonna see, because I hate you so much I don't even remember what the word pity means, you little grubfucker."
He makes a sound that could be a laugh or a sob, and shudders beneath you. "Kk," he says, moans, arching up into your touch.
"Now who's the filthy little whore, huh?" you say, dropping both hands to his waist and ripping at his pants until you can get your hand around his twin bulges. He whines, a breathy, needy sound, his bulges writhing against your hand, already fully out of their bony sheaths. "Now who's getting off on being a loser? I'm going to grind you into the dust, I'm going to fuck you until you scream because you can't take any more, going to make you come all over the fucking floor because you're not even worth dirtying a bucket for, and then I'll force you to lick it all up, how's that sound?"
"Yeth," he gasps, writhing beneath you in a way that has nothing to do with struggling. "Pleathe. Kk..."
Then his hands are on your bulge, too, and you're both cursing and struggling to get out of your pants, desperate for more. It takes only seconds but that's ages too long, made worse by the way both of you are grinding up against each other's hands. Despite how furious you are you're careful as you handle him, because matesprit or kismesis it doesn't matter - losing him would kill you, you're pretty sure. He's just as careful with yours, and it's all you can do to keep from coming all over him.
"Yeah, that's it," you say, tugging gently and running your fingers along the length of the sensitive organs, mindful of your claws. "C'mon, Thollukth, show me just what a needy little wriggler you are, fuck."
"Pleathe," he says again, tipping his head back until you can barely see his mismatched eyes. "Pleathe, you're not... not really gonna make me come without a pail, are you? Oh gog, pleathe kk!"
"I should," you tell him, vicious and tender at the same time. "I should, you deserve it, shit. Where...?"
He stretches out his free hand and the red and blue energy crackles around both of your for a moment, and a bucket comes flying into his grasp from somewhere. Grabbing him by the shoulders, you haul the two of you upright and somehow manage to get the bucket between you. He gives a high, shuddering whine and comes, genetic material splashing into the pail, scant seconds ahead of yours.
It feels so good to let go, your blood pusher pounding in your chest in time with the throbbing in your bulge, everything going a little fuzzy at the edges as the release triggers your body to flood your think pan with pleasure-inducing chemicals. He clings to you, breathing hard enough you'd almost call it sobbing, face buried in your shoulder and claws digging into your back.
Slowly you ease yourself back until you're in no danger of knocking over the pail, leaning against the wall and letting him slump against you. Now that your head is clearing the worst of the anger is fading, but you're not entirely certain if what's left behind is hate or hurt.
"I don't know why you put up with me," he murmurs against your chest, and you snarl.
"Fuck, I don't know why either, you're... wait, what?" you cut yourself off, confused, as you register what he actually said instead of what you expected him to say. That wasn't an insult, or at least not one directed at you. It's the exact opposite of what he said before.
He's huddling in on himself now, like he's trying to hide from you but at the same time can't bring himself to let go of you. "I'm thorry," he says miserably. There's no sign of his mania now - he's gone all the way to the other side of the scale, one of those lightning-fast mood flips that you can never predict and never seem to react to fast enough to avoid hurting him. "I went too far, you... fuck, you really hate me now don't you, for real..."
Taking a deep breath, you swallow the lump in your throat and try to figure out what the hell is going on. "Isn't that what you wanted? You were sure as hell treating me like you were sick of being matesprits."
He actually flinches, which tugs at the pity you thought you'd pretty much lost for him. How can he go from driving you insane with rage to driving you crazy with pity in the space of a heartbeat?
"You alwayth get crankier when I pity you too obviouthly after you've had a bad night, like it maketh you feel even worthe about yourthelf," he explains, barely above a whisper. "It'th better when you get mad, when you're humiliated inthtead of hurting, becauthe then you thtart trying to prove that you're worth thomething and that remindth you that yeah, you are. Tho I athked tz to taunt me until I flipped out on her, only then I got carried away and took it too far. I'm thorry, I really..."
You shut him up with a kiss, because you can't think of any other way to both get him to stop apologizing and to show how much you appreciate the lengths he goes to for you. He hates being in his unbalanced phases, but he deliberately put himself into one for you, to make you feel better about yourself. Fuck, that must be the ultimate form of pity. "You are the most screwed up, pathetic troll I have ever known," you whisper against his lips, lingering traces of hate fading fast. "I am so fucking lucky to have you. Even when I hate you. Especially then."
The best part about having a bipolar freakjob for a matesprit is that he can be your kismesis when you need one, and he pities you enough to know when you do. Nobody could ask for a better matesprit than that.