fic: Dollhouse, Adelle/Dominic
Title: Nero, Nero
Fandom: Dollhouse ; Adelle/Dominic
Rating: R. There is sex, and it's not nice.
Spoilers: Epitaph One
Word count: 724
Summary: The world burns. She falls.
Notes: Written for my darling miss-atom for the whedonland fic fest. Happy dark!apocalyptic!Adelle/Dominic exchange week, Kelly. ♥
Further notes: My second brief foray into the Epitaph One-verse. I fucking love Joss Whedon, you guys.
If she is honest with herself, she had seriously doubted she would ever see him again. If she is brutally honest, the thought had made her sick to her stomach.
He had left, hissing that she couldn’t keep him there any longer, not like this, and she’d had to accept the truth in his words. There’s no cure, he spat. A fucking fairytale you’re making yourself believe in so you can sleep at night. She doesn’t sleep, hadn’t then, either, but she was silent as he seethed, because his contemptuous, furious malice was all he had left - all she had left him with - and she’d be damned if she was going to take anything more away from anybody; from any body.
Tonight the House fell, once and for all, and he seemed to rise out of the dust: she whirled around, and there he was, looming in the darkness. Angry, and bitter, and - defeated.
They are, the both of them: defeated creatures, and what she has left is a faltering desperation (anything but acknowledge the tower of guilt, anything but feel herself pinned under it), and what he has left is a roaring fire (the world is burning down), and he turns it on her.
So they fall: she hits the desk and hears as though from a distance the sound of her blouse tearing. His teeth are sharp and his skin is hot, and his hands take possession of her in a frenzy. He is everywhere at once; it is all she can do to breathe. Her head lolls backwards over the edge of the desk. Her mouth hangs open without a sound.
She deserves his fury. He wants her, and he hates her, and it is the hate she responds to. Let him take everything out on her; let him give her her due. She will bruise. She groans.
His mouth finds her ear and clamps down. With his teeth clenched around her flesh, he growls, “Come on, Adelle. Don’t tell me you’ve lost your fight.”
She shudders. He bites harder, then releases her ear and kisses her roughly. She tastes blood.
At once, it’s as though a match has been struck in the hollow of her heart: she comes alive beneath him. With a tremendous effort, she pushes him up and off of her, and he stumbles backwards, a dangerous, almost gleeful spark in his eyes. He grins at her.
Before she can think what she is doing, she hits him. Her fist makes contact with his jaw and he staggers. She feels a savage pleasure at his shocked expression. She has always had more weapons at her disposal than words and guile and a bloody tea kettle; he ought to have known.
Then he is in her face, his features a snarl, and he grabs her by the arms. Her hair has come down and she blows it out of her eyes, staring him down. He half guides, half pushes her around her desk, and presses her up against the window. Her back is bare and the glass is cold. Then, without warning, he jerks her forward and shoves her back, hard. Her head hits the glass, dizzying her, and a sideways glance out into the night has her wondering wildly what would have happened had the pane shattered, sending her reeling over the edge. Is he picturing the same thing, envisioning toppling her to her death? Slowly, she turns back to look at him. So logical, suddenly, that they should return to this: a carnal, primitive coupling, crudely theatrical amid the destroyed opulence of her past: the highest and the lowest of humanity’s legacy; the two of them caught up in it all, pitching, tossing, as the height of human progress blazes the way for the unstoppable tumble of mankind into the chaos it rose from. He advances and she unzips her skirt, and her thighs hook over his hips as he surges forward, pinning her to the darkness; and she can almost see them, through the eyes of a third person in the room, silhouetted against the stars.
They are falling, she knows, the tumult swallowing them along the with rest of the world; everything is falling, and as she comes, her nails drawing blood from his shoulders, their faces catch the glow of fire streaking the sky.
Fandom: Dollhouse ; Adelle/Dominic
Rating: R. There is sex, and it's not nice.
Spoilers: Epitaph One
Word count: 724
Summary: The world burns. She falls.
Notes: Written for my darling miss-atom for the whedonland fic fest. Happy dark!apocalyptic!Adelle/Dominic exchange week, Kelly. ♥
Further notes: My second brief foray into the Epitaph One-verse. I fucking love Joss Whedon, you guys.
If she is honest with herself, she had seriously doubted she would ever see him again. If she is brutally honest, the thought had made her sick to her stomach.
He had left, hissing that she couldn’t keep him there any longer, not like this, and she’d had to accept the truth in his words. There’s no cure, he spat. A fucking fairytale you’re making yourself believe in so you can sleep at night. She doesn’t sleep, hadn’t then, either, but she was silent as he seethed, because his contemptuous, furious malice was all he had left - all she had left him with - and she’d be damned if she was going to take anything more away from anybody; from any body.
Tonight the House fell, once and for all, and he seemed to rise out of the dust: she whirled around, and there he was, looming in the darkness. Angry, and bitter, and - defeated.
They are, the both of them: defeated creatures, and what she has left is a faltering desperation (anything but acknowledge the tower of guilt, anything but feel herself pinned under it), and what he has left is a roaring fire (the world is burning down), and he turns it on her.
So they fall: she hits the desk and hears as though from a distance the sound of her blouse tearing. His teeth are sharp and his skin is hot, and his hands take possession of her in a frenzy. He is everywhere at once; it is all she can do to breathe. Her head lolls backwards over the edge of the desk. Her mouth hangs open without a sound.
She deserves his fury. He wants her, and he hates her, and it is the hate she responds to. Let him take everything out on her; let him give her her due. She will bruise. She groans.
His mouth finds her ear and clamps down. With his teeth clenched around her flesh, he growls, “Come on, Adelle. Don’t tell me you’ve lost your fight.”
She shudders. He bites harder, then releases her ear and kisses her roughly. She tastes blood.
At once, it’s as though a match has been struck in the hollow of her heart: she comes alive beneath him. With a tremendous effort, she pushes him up and off of her, and he stumbles backwards, a dangerous, almost gleeful spark in his eyes. He grins at her.
Before she can think what she is doing, she hits him. Her fist makes contact with his jaw and he staggers. She feels a savage pleasure at his shocked expression. She has always had more weapons at her disposal than words and guile and a bloody tea kettle; he ought to have known.
Then he is in her face, his features a snarl, and he grabs her by the arms. Her hair has come down and she blows it out of her eyes, staring him down. He half guides, half pushes her around her desk, and presses her up against the window. Her back is bare and the glass is cold. Then, without warning, he jerks her forward and shoves her back, hard. Her head hits the glass, dizzying her, and a sideways glance out into the night has her wondering wildly what would have happened had the pane shattered, sending her reeling over the edge. Is he picturing the same thing, envisioning toppling her to her death? Slowly, she turns back to look at him. So logical, suddenly, that they should return to this: a carnal, primitive coupling, crudely theatrical amid the destroyed opulence of her past: the highest and the lowest of humanity’s legacy; the two of them caught up in it all, pitching, tossing, as the height of human progress blazes the way for the unstoppable tumble of mankind into the chaos it rose from. He advances and she unzips her skirt, and her thighs hook over his hips as he surges forward, pinning her to the darkness; and she can almost see them, through the eyes of a third person in the room, silhouetted against the stars.
They are falling, she knows, the tumult swallowing them along the with rest of the world; everything is falling, and as she comes, her nails drawing blood from his shoulders, their faces catch the glow of fire streaking the sky.