Kiss With A Fist

"Just do it. You already have me tied down."

 

"Very well," she hums, pulling a new sheet to the front of her clipboard and walking up.

Then she reaches under him to start undoing his pants.

 

He stiffens, twisting beneath her in a futile attempt to escape. Stop. No.

 

Veronica gives an exasperated huff. "I said thorough. Stop wiggling. I'm not going to hurt you!"

 

He growls and stills, breathing fast. "I hope you're not planning to fuck me."

 

She patiently works his pants down, grips an ankle and unbuckles the strap, pulling the leg of his pants off, grinding her teeth.

"And I told you, you have done nothing to merit that kind of attention. Hit you, maybe. But fuck you?" She almost spits onto the floor, draws her breath in through her teeth. "No."

 

He keeps still, resisting the urge to kick her. He hates this.

 

She buckles his ankle back up. Moves to the other leg, repeats the process. Buckles him back up.

She goes silent, watching him.

She really wants to slap him. To see what he does. But...

She grinds her teeth.

Professional. Have to keep your toys in good shape before you think about breaking them. Be good.

 

He's almost as tense as he was when she was drawing a scalpel down his skin, breathing fast with anticipation. Like pain and sadism are more comfortable than the prospect of simple... examination.

 

"...Again, Adler? I'm not going to fuck you, it's a checkup, pull yourself together."

 

"I'm fine," he growls, teeth bared.

 

"You're flinching almost as bad as when I was installing the Contract, Adler," she replies flatly, settling a hand on the small of his back.

 

"I. Don't. Like. Being. Touched." It's almost worse, in a way, because there's no goddamned point.

The slow wriggle and undulation of the Contract makes him stiffen further, forces a low, distressed noise from his lips. He can feel it, puncturing into the spinal canal and the meninges, with something like teeth.

 

"Get. Over. It." She snaps, reaching up to pet the worm under his skin. "Calm down, baby. I know. I know. He is a thankless little dickweed," she sing-songs affectionately.

 

It makes a happy little chirr, thrumming into his flesh and bone.

"Fuck off," he gasps.

 

She kisses his stitches.

 

He gives a broken little sob, as his skin writhes with the movements of the worm beneath his skin.

 

"Tch. Whiner," this time she does slap his ass.

 

He snarls like a cornered animal.

 

She goes silent again, and patiently walks through the steps of a baseline checkup.