Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No profit is gained from my writerly endeavors and no copyright infringement is intended.
Mashed against the wall, she screams and kicks and bites and scratches. He wouldn’t call it violent, exactly. Not when she seems to want to escape rather than confront the shade that’s haunting her.
The belt of her thighs around his waist keeps her anchored to him, synched tight through their frantic rocking. Her fingers join in and burrow through his hair only to score his flesh as they drop to his neck and shoulders when she’s dragged away on every out-thrust. He watches her tangled hair fall in front of her face, sticky with sweat, a few ends clinging to the corners of her open, gasping mouth. She meets his eyes once or twice as hers rove. They shine when he tries to suppress his own glints of gold. If he could, he would take a moment to slow down, but she keeps on squirming, the constant movement her version of busy work until she can figure out what she’s really after.
He figures out fast that shoving her against the rough surface of the crypt grounds her. It keeps her at arm’s length, too, if only for a moment. When he hesitates on every surge forward, she goads him to go more quickly, her raspy pleas coming out through clenched teeth. Their wild dancing has him screaming, too, as his skin singes, the iron-hot sting of the cross on her neck sending smoke signals up from his chest like an S.O.S. The smell of his flesh burning has his demon on alert, trying to push its fangs forward in defense.
She’s close; he can tell. Palming her ass, he brings her in tight, fucking harder and deeper and faster. He figures it’s like the Heimlich maneuver. If he pumps hard enough and in the right rhythm he can dislodge what’s been suffocating her, choking her into paralysis. He wants to help her breathe. He already lost her once.
It’s over quickly after that, and they slide to the floor together, his arms circling around her back. It’s wet where flecks of blood dot her shoulder blades after being rubbed raw. His lips plaster themselves to her brow as he hums soothing syllables to her and rocks and rocks and rocks.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Glancing down, he frowns. Against her pale skin, the necklace is a bold statement. The cross bisects her chest straight down the center, an arrow pointing north and south to her throat and her cunt. Appropriate, that, he thinks.
He has time to look as she gradually raises her head, and her hands steady herself against his shoulders. When she doesn’t say anything, he realizes that she’s looking, too.
She takes in all the superficial little wounds coloring his skin, but the burn marks give her pause. Like tic-tac-toe, the burns are stamped across him in a grid. They’re the worst on his chest and neck, like half-constructed roadside grave markers. He thinks she grimaces, wants to ask why in the world she wore the thing, but holds his tongue and lets her look.
Her little hands creep down, hesitant, as though they’ve been chastised. She traces the clean edges of the wounds, her own form of branding, so it would seem. It hurts a little where she prods, but the burns are superficial – gone in a matter of days, maybe even hours, depending on how hard he hits the O negative. When she frames them with her teed and crossed fingers, her eyelids open and close like a camera shutter. It’s another memory. Her solemn attention unnerves him.
Wrapping his hands around her fists, he raises them to kiss her knuckles, already seeing the tension return to her body, her face.
“What do you need from me, love?” he murmurs, flexing his thighs where she’s still seated upon them.
She’s hesitates, blinks. “I want those,” she mutters, nodding off to the side. Thrown on the floor is a pair of handcuffs.
When he returns with them dangling from his thumb, he holds them out to her. She pushes them back.
“Not for you. For me.”
He raises his eyebrow and she looks away.
“Make it hurt. Make it burn,” she says simply, her wrists upturned.