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I. break the skin
“Root,” Shaw croaks, hands yanking uselessly against her metal restraints. “Let me out.”
“Soon,” Root promises.
Shaw watches from inside her cage as Root smooths the flat of her hunting knife down Martine’s cheek.
All three women shudder.
Root’s kisses are desperate – punishing; Shaw’s unhurried – forgiving.
Teeth sink into Shaw’s neck, and she knows Root’s hunger for violence has peaked, has spilled over, has solidified into need.
“Root,” Shaw gasps as fingers dig into her hips and Root’s mouth drags a wet path down her collarbone.
“Sameen,” Root murmurs quietly.
Reverently, even.
She rips the fabric of Shaw’s top in one angry movement and tosses the torn garment carelessly to the carpeted floor of the shitty motel room.
“I’m not telling you anything,” Martine says breathlessly.
“I don’t expect you to,” Root says, lips twisting.
She carves into Martine’s clothes carelessly, each slash leaving a trail of crimson until the fabric is in tatters. With a flick of her wrist, what remains of Martine’s shirt falls to the ground, and Shaw can see the constellation of shallow lacerations spanning her naked arms and torso.
Root smiles, eyes cold and devoid of light.
Root rakes her nails down Shaw’s bare chest, slight streaks forming in their wake, and Shaw arches into her touch. Lowering her head, Root takes Shaw’s nipple into her mouth, tongue flicking the tip, as her fingertips draw intricate pictures over Shaw’s side. The moment Shaw loses herself – allows her eyes to drift closed – Root bites down harshly.
A hiss just manages to escape through Shaw’s gritted teeth.
Heat floods into the pit of Shaw’s stomach as her muscles tense, and Root traces the clench of her abdomen with flat palms.
“Tease,” Shaw accuses through the thick desire that weighs her tongue down.
But Root’s eyes don’t glint with her usual playfulness.
Instead, she hesitates, torn between pulling stinging pleasure or faint shivers from the body beneath her.
Is this worship or desecration?
Shaw decides for both of them and grabs a fistful of Root’s hair, hauling her upwards sharply.
Taking a slight step back, Root appraises her work like a painter deliberating her next stroke of color. Shaw swallows with some difficulty, cautiously greedy for the finished masterpiece.
Decisively, Root bores a hole into Martine’s shoulder with the tip of the knife, digging in slowly. Shaw is reminded of her own shoulder, scarred over.
As the serrated edge drags through flesh and muscle, Martine’s jaw trembles.
Thin lines of red well up along Root’s back as Shaw scratches blindly, lost in the way Root abuses the tender skin of Shaw’s inner thigh with her teeth.
Shaw groans, hips bucking in her search for friction, for gratification.
“Sameen,” Root whispers against her skin.
Shaw absorbs the sound of her given name, blazing fire in her chest and buzzing warmth in her head. No one says it quite the way Root does – hushed and awestricken.
Shaw’s thighs quake.
Root rips the blade out violently, blood splattering, and a rush of satisfaction fills the pit of Shaw’s stomach. Restlessly, Shaw moves against her restraints again, chains clanking noisily.
Martine just laughs through the pain – the sound ugly and derisive.
“I’m glad you’re having as much fun as I am,” Root says affably.
“Did you want me to beg?” Martine asks with a scoff.
“Makes no difference to me,” Root shrugs. “Our Gods have abandoned us. So pray away. No one will hear it.”
And Shaw wonders just how much Root has sacrificed to get here.
Impatiently, Shaw grabs her wrist and forces Root’s fingers inside of her in one motion. Root curls her digits, relishing in the liquid heat, and swallows Shaw’s moan with an open-mouthed kiss.
Breaking the kiss, Root captures Shaw’s lower lip between her teeth and tugs once. Shaw tastes hot copper and tightens around Root, the pressure in her gut unbearable.
“You’re so wet for me,” Root says appreciatively.
Abruptly, her gaze drops from Shaw’s mouth to her shoulder, marred by a disfiguring scar, and Root stills.
After the third inflicted wound, Root withdraws, watching delightedly as Martine writhes against the restraining zip ties, baring sharp incisors.
“What do you think, Sameen?” Root asks with a familiar warmth. “Can I get her to scream?”
“I’m not really a screamer,” Martine says gleefully despite the blood dripping from her nose. “Sameen, on the other hand...” The name is said insidiously – spat out cruelly.
The amusement slips from Root’s face, replaced with a cold impassivity that chills Shaw’s blood.
Martine sneers, “But I know you’ve never had the pleasure.”
Root grabs Martine by the chin swiftly, fingers forcing her lips apart, and Root inserts the knife into Martine’s mouth, edge against the inside of her cheek.
“Still funny?” Root demands, entire demeanor shifting, and her eyes glitter, dark and terrifying.
“Root,” Shaw calls out.
Shaw’s hatred for Martine rages like a wildfire trapped in her ribcage, howling and desperate to be loose. If anyone deserves this, it’s Martine.
But Shaw knows Root, and Root is not a monster. Not completely, at least.
Root’s knuckles whiten as her grip on the handle tightens, and Martine stares into her eyes, daringly.
“Root,” Shaw repeats, heart hammering loudly.
Jaw clenched, Root extracts the blade and turns her back on Martine to collect herself.
Lips brush delicately against the long-healed wound, and Root’s eyelashes flutter with the gesture.
There is nothing that Shaw wants less than this new kindness.
Shaw’s nails pierce Root’s arm with purpose, but Root’s fingers slip out disappointingly.
“Root,” Shaw objects in a low growl.
Root pulls Shaw to the edge of the bed by her thighs and sinks to the uneven carpet. If each touch is a whispered apology, Shaw isn’t interested. The bruises that form under Shaw’s insistent fingers convey as much.
Head dipping lower, Root’s tongue presses into scorching heat, and Shaw’s pulse throbs in her veins in response.
Her pleasure builds like a storm, and Root leaves crescent moons embedded in Shaw’s hip.
This, she’ll take.
“Your girlfriend’s got you on a tight leash,” Martine says, and Root looks like she wants to rip her tongue out.
“You could say that,” Root says tightly.
In one sudden motion, Root impales Martine’s hand through the palm, and Martine finally lets loose a surprised cry.
“Though not tight enough, don’t you think?” Root asks darkly. She leans her weight onto the handle and forces the blade farther in, red gushing from the wound.
It feels like justice for Martine to finally suffer what Shaw endured over nine long months.
Root’s lips curl upwards in a snarl, and Shaw wants to feel them against her own.
Trailing the point of the blade along Shaw’s stomach, Root’s eyes shine as Shaw heaves deep and eager breaths.
“Do it,” Shaw commands unwaveringly.
Root willingly etches into Shaw’s skin – new cuts forming over the old ones, and Shaw is reborn in spidery streams of crimson.
The sting of the lines is quickly chased by a rush of adrenaline, and Shaw exhales shakily.
Dipping her head, Root laps at one of the deeper marks, staining her lips, and crawls up Shaw’s body to kiss her. Shaw tastes her own arousal mixed with the blood, and her heartbeat races, thundering in her ears.
(Not that she’s ever been particularly bothered with right and wrong, but Shaw knows this is most definitely the latter – feels it in her gut – and revels in it.)
With ease, Root’s fingers slip inside Shaw again, curving almost painfully. The ache between Shaw’s legs becomes distinct as she matches Root’s steady tempo.
“You like guns, don’t you, Martine?”
“Give me one, and I’ll show you just how much I like them,” Martine says pointedly.
“I bet you’re fond of your trigger finger,” Root says, ignoring her response, and traces Martine’s fingers with the tip of the hunting knife.
“I am attached to it,” Martine says like it’s a joke.
Root raises an eyebrow coolly and says, “That can be easily remedied.”
“You’re not very experienced with this whole torture thing, are you?” Martine chuckles lowly.
Grabbing Martine’s hand, Root brings the smooth edge down onto her right pointer finger, hacking at it three times in quick succession. The final swing lops the digit completely off, and Martine stares at the stump in shock.
“No,” Root says cavalierly. “Not very experienced.”
Her back arcs rigidly, and her hips lift off the mattress as Root pulls a rippling orgasm from her body.
Shaw gasps, every nerve set ablaze.
Martine resists her shouts of agony until her throat is raw and tears streak down her cheeks.
Shaw is sick with vindication.
When Shaw’s senses calm, she sees Root staring ahead lifelessly, seemingly immobilized. The blank expression gives nothing away, and Shaw can only guess what Root is thinking about.
What are the right words, Shaw wonders. What will make things right?
She reaches out slowly, knuckles grazing Root’s cheek very gently, and has never felt more limited – never felt so wholly ineffective.
Neither of them say a word.
In the back of her mind, Shaw can still hear the grave voice of the hospital director as he lectures her on the difference between fixing and healing.
Anger rises up fast and hot in her helplessness, and Shaw strikes Root with the back of her hand, the slap resounding loudly.
Root’s eyes flash and flare – finally alive for the first time tonight.
Martine slips into unconsciousness, lips pale, the floor around her a mess of scarlet.
Root’s shirt is stained through by sweat, and flecks of blood adorn her face like war paint.
(Shaw has never seen anything more beautiful.)
II. soaked in sin
Root flips through Shaw’s medical file – a thorough catalog of every injury, major and minor. (A detailed record of every failure on Root’s part.)
All Shaw has ever done is save Root, but all Root can do is let her down.
“Harder,” Root requests gutturally.
Fingers pressed into her sex, Shaw acquiesces and thrusts deeper, matching the roll of Root’s hips.
It’s not enough. She’s still haunted by the ghost of their first kiss, the strain of Shaw’s lips against hers, the lingering ache for every single moment afterwards. Nothing will erase those thoughts from her mind.
Shaw twists up and clamps down on Root’s nipple with her teeth.
With a strangled sound, Root loses her rhythm and grinds down on Shaw’s hand desperately.
“Didn’t realize I was boring you,” Shaw says with a hint of reproach.
“I need more,” Root pants.
“More what?” Shaw asks, neck craning to look up at her.
Root bites her lip and sighs sinfully, “I need you to hurt me more.”
While Root was wasting time in Maple, Greer had a tracking chip inserted into Shaw’s wrist.
While Root was torching her way through three more states, Shaw had her shoulder burned straight through with a hot poker.
While Root had played recruiting officer for the Machine, Shaw had earned herself a long gash down her side during an escape attempt.
And it goes on for pages and pages.
Shaw’s free hand grabs Root by the neck, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. The noise all fades out – there’s no more Martine, no more warring Gods, no more reminders of lost loves – and Root can only focus on the feel of Shaw’s arm flexing under Root’s hand and the steady push of Shaw’s fingers.
Her lungs burn as she gets closer and closer, and she is completely at Shaw’s mercy.
At the last moment, Shaw’s grip loosens, and Root comes undone with a frantic inhale and a violent sob, finally broken and bare for Shaw to see.
Root slices a path into Shaw’s wrist, fingers fumbling in slippery crimson to find Samaritan’s chip.
“What took you so long?” Shaw asks, annoyed.
And Root can only laugh.
Root mumbles unintelligibly into Shaw’s ear as she collapses forward, words intoned with quiet devotion.
She hears please forgive me and please don’t lost in the stilted syllables.
So, Shaw marks Root’s neck with her teeth, a dark bruise forming clearly against the backdrop of Root’s pale skin.
The glassy look of Martine’s expression reminds Root of regression and the darkness within.
But she’ll embrace anything and everything if it means keeping Shaw safe.
And they begin again.
Shaw’s hands are on her like absolution; Root’s name on Shaw’s lips, a revelation.
And the blood washes away, debt swept along with it.