Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/826846.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Fringe
  Relationship:
      Roland/Amanda
  Character:
      Roland_Barrett, Amanda_Walsh, Original_Male_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Necrophilia
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-02-14 Words: 1333
****** Addictive ******
by Yung_Mofftiss_(OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink)
Summary
     A past and present view of something found in the upstairs bedroom of
     the Barrett mansion.
The agent looks at the…device with quiet regard. He can't say it's separate
from the bed or even that it’s joined to the bed, because everything has been
so carefully intertwined that it is the bed. He’s never seen anything like it
and as his pen hovers above the clipboard, he isn’t sure what to write.

A web. There are straps and wires and knots and hooks and fine chains that pull
and lift and shift and move its occupant(s). The towering frame is constructed
of hard wood and thick beams of steel, which seems to fit in the eerie mansion
with its tired antiquities and taxidermy. The top disappears into the black
ceiling; the room is dark and silent, only the light from his flashlight and he
peeks in between the heavy velvet curtains, the air cold and dry.

It's so alien, resembling both torture and pleasure. This perverse machine only
raises more questions than brings answers.

Everything Roland has ever done had been for her, for the love they had shared.
She was his and he was hers, that was the simple truth. Maybe he had loved her
too much but she had needed it, had needed someone to love her so deeply, so
purely that it hurt.

Their bed. It was theirs, built by him so that they could have one more piece
of their first life back and he had put many hours into each intricate detail,
much like the system he’d created in the basement for her dancing.

It takes him a full thirty minutes to figure out how the perp got the victim’s
body through the net of chains; a single gold tasseled rope hangs partially
hidden in the heavy curtains that are tied back to the posts of the bed's
canopy. He leans into the device to pull it and the pulleys creak above him and
move―the curtains are released and fall around the bed, surrounding him in
pitch black. With his flashlight, he watches most everything lifting to reveal
the surface of the bed. He leans back from the curtains and using one of the
life-like dummies that Massive Dynamic had donated to the field bureau a few
years ago, he climbs onto the bed to begin exploring the labyrinthine
contraption.

On the wall above the “headboard” is a single sconce that contains a half
melted votive candle, apparently the only source of light when inside. On the
notes he's making, he jots down this information, flashlight held in his mouth.
Next, he takes the dummy and lays it out on the centre of the bed. He imagines
how easily the victim's body would have slipped into the harnesses night after
night. There are cuffs for wrists, waist, ankles, thighs and he attaches each
corresponding part to the dummy, trying to disassociate himself from it all.

He shifts on the bed and feels the adrenaline race through him as the
contraption suddenly comes to life―something under his leg slithers and the
dummy's arm rises. He scrambles backwards and the arm lowers, lifting both the
knees instead. Once his heart stops pounding, he realises that the surface of
the bed is pressure sensitive, that the chains and wires and straps run under
him as well. And the device isn't designed to hold the body in place, but to
make it seem like it's actually participating.

The bed sighed and groaned as he readied them for the night. He had learned
every subtle shift he had to make on their bed to manipulate her body into the
position they wanted; it was no longer strange or awkward to use their bed―it
turned their time together into a glorious masterpiece.

He was in his blue nightwear, simple blue and white striped cotton pyjamas and
she was in her nightgown, pale pink silk and freshwater pearl buttons. He
smiled fondly down at her, taking great pleasure in their masculinity and
femininity here in their bed. Slowly he began undressing them in turns―first
his shirt, then unbuttoning her gown, next his trousers, and finally he pulled
the cool silk from her body. He'd been painfully erect since he'd carried her
to their bed and as he knelt between her legs, he chastised himself for
thinking of his own desires first. Of course he hadn’t made this bed for his
pleasure―it was about her, too.

“Oh yes, it's going to be good for you, very good,” he whispered. “We need to
keep your body strong, don't we?”

He brushed his thumb across her long lashes before cradling her face, kissing
her soft lips tenderly. 

The agent fights his gag reflex as the dummy moves as a weird marionette,
trying to reach up for him, parting its legs in a mockery of seduction. He's
tries his best to push away every disturbing thought that the poor girl's body
had been used this way so long after her death. Now he simply has to gather the
evidence nessasary to add in the additional charges the DA wants to press
against the man that had lived here.

The dummy’s head tilts back and the neck is exposed, vulnerable.

“What a fuckin' freak,” he mutters as he writes down his notes.

The perp was obviously insane―needing to have sex so bad that he was willing to
fuck a corpse?

Roland loved how her hair spilled across his pillows. Long, honey tresses that
he kept so carefully brushed. He wanted to thread his fingers through them, let
his finger slide through the silky and beautiful locks, but then he’d muss them
and he couldn’t bear the thought of that. Her skin was pale, soft, and
perfumed, cold but he knew it was a matter of time before her flesh would warm
under his touch. His hands travelled up the sides of her body, touching her and
as he shifted his weight slightly to the right, her arm raised to touch his
bicep.

Roland had already gently guided her hand into the cuff, tender as he tightened
the strap around her delicate ankle. He leaned forward and kissed her palm,
kissed her brow. The chains above their bed swayed as he entered her and he
exhaled softly; her head tilted back, her exposed neck long and beautiful.

She was not dead, just waiting.

Her eyes were closed and her mouth as well, but she was beautiful, beautiful,
beautiful still. He moved his left knee, prompting her hands trace from his
waist up his back, the tips of her fingers caressing his straining muscles.
Their lips meet and he trailed his kisses down her neck, listening to the
pulleys and chains and wires above them move. The light of the single candle
flickered across them, creating soft shadows and deep angles on their body.

Every moment was perfect, exactly as it had always been. As it had always been.
He couldn’t remember the world before her. She was his Christ, his saviour, the
most beautiful creature on the planet.

The agent wonders how many cries this room has heard, how many shouts and
screams had been echoed into the walls and drapes. He's careful not to shake
any of them loose from the heavy curtains that hang around the bed.

She was silent when they were together and over time he’d learned to be quiet
as well. He would bite his lip and concentrate on his breathing, fighting back
the hard grunts at their exertion. And truthfully, he was becoming more
accustomed to the sounds of weights and levers in their love making than he was
to the organic ones. He knew every position needed to make their bed sing.

His knees pushed down into the bed and her hips were jerked upwards against
him, wanting him. He wanted her, too.

“Oh, Amanda,” he whispered over and over, stroking her hair, kissing her lips
fervently.

She was beautiful and he was hers and she was his and this was theirs…
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