Adult Content Warning
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Summary
She can't even figure out how to open his tunic. Decent clothes are obviously a foreign concept. "Leave it," he snaps.
"No," she says, stubborn as always. "You don't get to touch me if I can't touch you; it isn't fair."
"You come here, try to stab me in the back, and you want to talk about fair?" He's got his hand on her bare stomach now, searching for the waistband of her pants.
"You're the one who made me hope – " and he kisses her again, because he doesn't want to hear about her hopes, which probably involved dragging him to the rebels on a leash; he wants to feel again the way her brain shorts out when his tongue is in her mouth. That's power; that's what he needs. He's got his fingers into her pants, scraping at the edge of her curls, when she pushes him away, because she hates him and she doesn't want him to have anything nice.
(Several days late on both the hair-pulling and the hate-fucking prompts. Now with a second chapter, for the somnophilia prompt.)