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We have nothing left but each other. Everything has fallen to pieces in an apocalyptic fuck-up of epic proportions. The anger and hate and pain wants out, needs out or else we'll both implode from the sheer superiority of our feelings overpowering us.

He has lost everything, everyone he loved. Just as I have lost everyone I loved and cared about and although he has every right to blame me for playing a major role in taking Linc and Sara from him, I know that he has been sorry to learn that my sister and my daughter have become victims in this company game, too.

These are the things I am thinking about while Michael Scofield is fucking the hell out of me, or maybe he' s fucking hell right into me. What's the difference? All I know is that I have never been fucked like this in my entire life and if this is how it feels to be thoroughly hated then I never want to be loved again. 

He is slamming his cock so hard into me that each thrust shoves me another inch across the concrete and by the time he will be done my backside will probably be scraped off down to my spine. I don't care. This feels too good. The burning pain something that corresponds with the dull ache between my thighs. It enhances the experience, heightens my senses, a welcome punishment for my crimes.

And he is punishing me now, every thrust feeling like a backlash, like a blow to my jaw, like a kick to my guts. He hates me so much right now that he has to tell me, voice raw and dark, forced out through clenched teeth.

I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

I feel his hate, every damn overwhelming inch of it and just as I think he can't possibly be hating me any more he takes it to a whole other level and I am unravelling before his eyes. My thighs gripping his waist, legs hooked behind his back I force him to thrust deeper, impossibly deeper, cradling his head against my neck and whispering I hate you too! 

And I do. I hate him for outsmarting me back in Panama, for putting me through this whole ordeal of reigning them all in, of regaining control over Whistler, Scylla, the whole damn operation. But most of all I hate him for making me feel so damn alive, so fucking aroused every time I laid eyes on him or heard his annoying voice on the phone. I recall every single face to face encounter, every occasion: at the Plaza de Francia, in the museum, the church, in the parking lot, every particle of tense atmosphere between us, the current of hate and desire that was roiling between us, that has finally dragged us down.

Now, here. At the end of all things. 

I feel the hate in him radiating, seeping into me like poison, like something inevitable, inescapable, something you can only surrender to. And he has. He has let himself be overruled by it yet he seems to be so very much in control of it, despite being total out of control. He is furious, cruel, insane, brutal but beneath it all there's this honesty in all his ferociousness, something that is so very true and simple and will kill us both if we acknowledge it. It has been there all the time and now that we have nothing else left we might as well give in to it. 

But for the moment we're still fighting, my fingernails scratching his back while he does his best to fuck me to pieces, to shatter me between his anger and the concrete floor of this warehouse that has become a grave for the people we loved the most. His fierceness is slowly overcome by desperation but still he tries his best to maintain the role of the furious abuser. 

Hate you, hate you, hate you!  

Each uttered hate another thrust that threatens to destroy me but instead builds me up to something he cannot overcome. I have already arrived at the final conclusion, at the inevitable truth. Maybe I have been there all along, feeling something flutter to life inside of me whenever I looked into his narrowed, angry eyes, saw that sleek physique coiled tight into resistance.

Beside all the hate I felt for him, for being another obstacle in my way, I couldn't ignore the admiration I had for his loyalty, his dedication, his fierce brilliance, the way he was willing to surrender everything including himself to save the ones he loved.

 We are so very much alike in this and we both lost in the end, paid the highest price there was.

Maybe this is consolation instead of revenge. Maybe to match the pain tearing at our souls we have to be so violent in our desperation, in our need to blame the other one for our own failure. 

I taste his blood on my lips and realize that while thinking about all this my body - or at least parts of it - has been putting up a good fight not to make it any easier for him. I have scratched and bitten and even tried to smack him, like my upper body - closer to my brain and intellect - is still resisting while the rest of me, driven by instinct, has already given in, is willingly participating. 

I am open, wide, needy and eager, cradling him between my legs, rising, meeting, wanting every violent thrust of him so badly. Just as badly as he wants to pound into me with a further increased intensity if that is even possible. And yet I feel that he knows that this is coming to an end. Or maybe a beginning. 

You. You. You. 

His voice is tinged with desperation and his wonderful eyes are wide in horror or surrender to the one thing we're finally unable to ignore. His thrusts are the wildest and fiercest I have ever endured. He is terrified despite his physical rage, terrified to admit the truth. I wonder when he first felt it, if it was there from the beginning or if it was something that developed, changed from the one extreme into the other, like after hating me so much there was only one more thing to do. 

To do right now.

He pauses for a moment, hovering over me, outside of me and his eyes, scorching intensity, seem to see me completely with all there is to me and simultaneously not see me at all. His fingers gently brushing a strand of hair off my face and tenderly cupping my bruised cheek are not nearly enough time I have to prepare myself for what will come next. 

I feel it in the way he slides into me the next moment, the almost reverential hesitancy, feel it in the taste of his lips on mine, the soothing, comforting brush of his tongue. 

Before he speaks in a voice I have never heard from him before, I already feel the words, my echo of them, burn on my skin, burn in my heart. More than any pain I ever endured, their honesty sharper than any knife that ever cut me, any bullet that ever pierced me.

And it kills me and brings me to life in the very same instant.

I love you!

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