It's not so about much sex as it is remembering.

He'd never call it making love, love has nothing to do with it. It's all about power, domination - consensual of course. Korso's still got some honor left, torn and stained with God-knows-what as it is. Rape is for pathetic, scum-sucking cockroaches sunk so low they have to trap and hurt someone weaker than them; guys like that, every time the cellblock echoes with their screams, he hopes their victims hear it and feel a little warm and fuzzy inside.

It feels a little like his Academy days. Wrestling and hand-to-hand combat training. The only physical contact he got was fueled by aggression, kicking the other guy's ass before he got his, letting out his frustration and fury and fear (you're training in zero gravity because someday soon there won't be any) in a flurry of pummeling fists and snarled, gasping breaths.

So when he slams Preed against the wall and pins him to the steel and feels the sinewy, surprising strength in those too-long, spindly arms, he's right back there. The sense memory floods his head and suddenly he can smell the purified, antiseptic air and the coppery human sweat, he can hear the instructor barking at him to correct his form. And he feels like if he looked over into the corner of his eye he could see the surreal view outside the window. The field is green outside and there's a heavy electricity in the air, a coming storm.

But it's Earth, he's home, and if it takes beating the crap out of an Akrennian pervert and getting as good as he gives to take him there, he's glad to go.