Girl On An Elevator

He always got off at the fifth floor, no matter what he was wearing, what his day had been like, whether he was alone or not, or how much he’d had to drink. Even when he was practically drenched in alcohol, he’d always press the right button, always get off at the right floor. Heather liked that about him, since this regularity always meant there was some time for a chat, just typical everyday subjects like the weather, work, the noise of the dog in the third floor apartment... What it would be like to make love... to that Mark Hoffman...

It was a vice of hers, to stare at him, observe every blink of those clear blue eyes, and wonder what it would be like to be lost in sheets and sweat, for him to run his lips and hands, large hands too, nice nails, over her body, the pure act full of precision, slow, steady, sensual. Not ‘having sex’, going through a mundane biological act that barely rumpled the covers, but real ‘making love’, something far more than having him stick his cock inside her. She’d stand there, her blouse, jacket, and skirt all of a sudden too hot and itchy, as she imagined him taking them off, meticulous with each button.

It grew harder to imagine lovemaking with the man with each day, beginning five years ago. She’d heard about it in the newspapers, remembering his name and face well enough to recognize the articles on his sister. She’d been in the elevator with him when he came back from the funeral, not daring to look at him, all of her usual thoughts replaced with a rush of pity, sympathy, sadness. She’d wondered if she should have laid an hand on his shoulder as she told him she was sorry for his loss, not that it would have been any different. He’d shrugged off her sympathies with cold silence anyway.

As the months went on, he’d been like that, less prone to joke with her about the humidity, less sympathetic about the amount of work she still had to do, so very distant, as if still not accepting his sister’s death. He’d started to drink, the smell of the smoke from the bars he’d gone to lingering in the elevator, still morose despite what he must have downed. She would try not to stare at him, looking at the floor, feeling slight guilt as he cried, just knowing he was reliving the funeral, reliving seeing her body.

Sometimes he was sober, still a shadow of his former self, but far less awkward to talk to, even if it was hard to do so, far less awkward to fantasize about. Of course, it was far easier to just go home, haven taken in her daily dosage of close proximity to him, to remember the exact scent of him, sometimes cologne, sometimes sweat, occasionally a mix of the two with soap, to sink back into the bed with that scent of the day embedded in her brain, her hands reaching down to stroke her, imagining her hands to be twice the size they were... God...

She’d noticed something was different, something was strange, when he started to walk with a new energy in his gait, the day he had been released, if she’d read the newspapers right. It was strange, that way; Heather would have thought having his sister’s killer released would lead to an increase in that sadness, in the amount of drink he would consume, that it wouldn’t lead to an almost cheerful demeanor.

He began to smell of grease along with the cologne.

It was nothing, really, to her, merely another scent to sink into at night, nothing. She had no warning.

The rush of blood, his fingers fumbling with the knife, the first he could get, the slick slice, turning his wrist to create a curve, another...

“You going up?” she said, the girl, Hayley, no, Heather. Heather Mayes. That was it, that was her name; she must have mentioned it once or twice, when she wasn’t busy looking at him like her last meal was a week ago.

“As usual.” He smiled, smirking while sober for the first time in what was it, five years. It took five years for him to feel alive again, he might as well relish every second of it, savor the memories of that bastard’s face, of those screams, how every sick fantasy of his had been illustrated in that one moment. Well... sick fantasy about him, anyway.

“Good night?”

“Amazing night, really.”

“Shame about the rain, though.” He shrugged at that, his lips stretching a little further, until the soft smile almost resembled a grimace.

“I didn’t notice that much. Indoors most of the time.”

“Right.” God... the smell of grease was there, sweat, rain, and something else, salty, dark, cloying... He had his back to her, a welcome time to lick her lips, suddenly so dry, shift inside her clothes, suddenly so constricting, escape into those fantasies of him, those lips pressing onto her neck, her collarbone, her breasts... She began to breathe with more effort behind him, as the floor numbers began to increase.

Without warning, between the third and fourth floor, his hand lashed out, fingers pressing the emergency stop button. Thank God for small favors... that this is an old model... no alarm bells for us, now...

“Hoffman? Jesus, what-” she started, eyes wide as he turned to her, stepping closer to her, a hand on her shoulder, the other on her waist as he slammed her against the back of the elevator, muffling her cries with his mouth.

She’d writhed, thrashed, tried to get him off her, she’d definitely fought it at first... She wasn’t sure at which point she’d given up, or why she’d even tried in the first place. God, every fantasy you ever had... Lucky girl...

He could feel her relax, those hands, once satisfied with clawing at his raincoat, now laid on his shoulders as she reciprocated with the kiss. He detached from her, satisfied with the soft groan she let loose as he did so, hitching up her skirt, fingers taking a hold of the edge of her panties. She whimpered ever so slightly as he pulled them to her knees, nails dragging in her skin, closing her eyes as he stroked the inside of her thighs.

“Why?” she breathed, as the rasp of a zip filled the air, his hands pulling down his own trousers and boxers, lifting her legs, spreading them.

Because what good is celebrating the death of the bastard who killed Angelina than a nice, hard fuck with some whore I barely know? “You wanted this.” Well, at least you spoke the truth there.

“H-Hoffman... Oh... Oh God...” He entered her slowly, just as she’d envisioned, her legs wrapping around him as his hands supported her, his mouth sucking at her neck. She cried out as his teeth sank into her, nails scraping at her ass, his hips crushing hers as he rammed himself harder inside her, drumming against the wall with each powerful thrust.

“Little... whore...” he grunted, pulling away from her neck, holding her up with one hand as he gripped a fistful of her blond hair, continuing to force more of himself inside her, any softness he had begun with gone, replaced with a sexual demon.

“Please... fuck... fuck...” The thoughts of him, those screams, rang in his head, harmonizing with Heather’s wails, as her legs tightened around him, almost against her will. This wasn’t what she wanted, this wasn’t what she’d envisioned, but she got it anyway... something more than sex, on a different plain to love... Another thrust, his hand tugging her hair until the crook of her shoulder could be bitten, another red mark on her body... Even as she came, the thought that dominated her mind was disbelief that her clothes were still technically on her body, a body his other hand returned to. He came a few seconds into her orgasm, the hot rush of liquid added to his nails tearing through her skin, drawing blood.

She could bear to open her eyes as soon as he was finished, still inside her, his bloodstained hands still holding her. He gave a breathless smirk, letting her legs down, holding her steady by the waist. There were no words to say, merely harsh panting to fill the elevator, as he slipped out of her, hands still on her hips as the skirt fell to cover her again, while she bent over to pull up her panties, staining them with blood and come. One hand left her, the other deftly patting her ass, as he pressed the button again, letting the elevator continue on its ride up, in awkward, uncomfortable silence. He got off at the fifth floor, as usual. She stood there, legs shaking as he left the elevator, the scent of him lingering not merely in the compartment, but her skin. The doors closed, leaving her alone with her thoughts, her doubts, her fears, sinking into her bed once she got home, her head aching with all those worries weighing her brain down.

She never saw him on the elevator after that night.

Infidelity

The television screen flickered for a moment, as he slid the cassette into an almost-completely outdated VCR, kept from aeons ago, from a time back when Diana was almost impossibly small. The thought of her at that age, those big, inquisitive eyes, and the wispy gold hair that would later darken brought a smile to his face- a look he hadn’t had for nearly a month now.

All at once, the image cleared into a halfway recognizable picture, that shot from seemingly the corner of a ceiling, of two people in a bedroom, one dark-haired, male from what he could tell, the other a blonde, very fair-haired in a natural way. The shot changed to that closer to the bed, showing the mattress, covers, and sheets in all their non-glory, although he could see a closer, albeit blurrier, vision of the two, currently engaged in some form of conversation. Again, the shot changed, just as he considered switching off the television, in the case that he’d stumbled upon some sort of homemade pornographic film, sent to the wrong address for some reason; this time, the picture was all too clear, the face of one, the blonde’s, focused on, as his smile dropped from his face as recognition set in.

“Ali...”

“Are you sure.. I mean... we practically only just...”

“Ms. Gordon, if you really didn’t want this, you would have said so at the station, shit, the car. So, unless you’re seriously considering making your marriage work again... Strip.”

She began to unbutton her blouse, staring at the ground as he started to take off his own clothes, beginning with his shoes and socks. She paused as he began to work at the buttons of his shirt, staring at the photograph at his bedside. Jesus, Ali... You really want to wreck homes? Really want to do that?

“I can’t-”

“When I say, ‘strip’, Ms. Gordon, don’t interpret that as a suggestion.” Her hands shook as she slipped her blouse off, glancing at him as he began to slide his belt off, throwing it to the floor. Their eyes met as he moved closer to her, her lower lip caught between her teeth as he stepped toward her, each step slow, deliberate.

“Detective Hoffman... Did you have any idea it would come to this, when... when you... when we... met?”

“Ms. Gordon- Alison... When we met... all I saw was a suspect. In fact... all I should see is a suspect.”

“What do you see now?” she asked, as he slipped behind her, one hand gripping her waist, the other lost in her fair hair.

“Not enough,” he murmured, his breath tickling the inside of her ear, as the hand on her waist moved forward, unbuttoning, unzipping, exposing a portion of her panties that he began to stroke. “Lose the bra.”

The doctor’s eyes widened at the sight of his wife, the woman he’d gone through- through his test for, the woman to whom he had given up a part of himself, mentally- physically... being caressed by the bastard with dark hair, groping the cleft between her thighs and those smooth, perfect breasts, still covered by the material of her underwear, although not for long. Without breaking the flow of running his hands over her chest, squeezing at intervals, he moved down her back, his head on the level of her bra, moving back up to her own head, the garment unclipped.

She’d squeaked as he’d unclipped her bra with his teeth, moaning as he ran his tongue up her spine. His hands halted in rubbing her nipples through the fabric, running up to her shoulders to slip the straps off, slide it down her arms to fall to the floor.

“Detective...”

“Please, I think we can drop the formalities.” His hands traveled down her body to her waist, pulling her slacks and panties down to her knees.

“Alright then... Mark...” He stepped away from her, fingers lingering on her drenched slit, before swiftly pulling away from her.

“Get on the bed, whore. Hands and knees. Now.”

His hands gripped the sides of the couch as the angle from the bed showed a good view of his wife crawling onto the mattress, definitely unsure, staring into space.

From there, she could see the picture of the smiling woman a little better, as she gripped the covers, the sounds of the detective removing his own clothes almost muted in comparison to her breathing. She couldn’t help but wonder about the girl in the photograph, if that was really his wife, a girlfriend, if the girl knew where her man was, about to screw the woman he’d been interrogating a few days before.

She’d resisted the urge to turn around, shivering in anticipation. Truth be told, she’d never done anything other than something brief, quick, generally uncomfortable, all lights off, a truth she started to forget as the creak of the bedsprings signified the readiness of her partner. Her eyes closed as his hands grabbed hold of her ass, his fingers digging into her skin with bruising force.

He knew he should have switched off the set, taken out the cassette, thrown it out the window, as soon as the dark-haired bastard entered his Alison, gripping her hair, pulling her head up to further let the cameras get a good look at her expression. It stabbed him through the chest, another spike in his heart with each thrust, agony reaching his entire body at the sight of her closed eyes, mouth open in thankfully soundless cries.

The feel of him inside her erased any concerns she’d had, as his hips rammed harder within her; she was unused to not being able to see the man invading her dripping centre, a fact that mattered less the more time he spent within her, the more she screamed in ecstasy.

He couldn’t help but feel bloodlust at the sight of his wife’s lover reach a hand up her body, cupping a breast, squeezing the sweet pink nub as the other hand raked his nails down her back. As if it wasn’t enough for his wife to be fucked, he had to cause her some form of pain... pain she seemed to fully accept.

“Ohhh, God... dear God... Mark, fuck- fuck me HARDER... Please... Fuck...!”

“That’s right, that’s it, scream for it, slut!”

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his life, his will to continue with his life, all of it, falling apart on the screen.

“Ohhh, fucking... harder! Please... I want... I want...”

“You want to BLEED for me?”

A nod of the head as his thrusts picked up an almost unbearable pace.

He wasn’t sure at what point he began to cry, at what point the realization, that all of it, all of what he’d gone through... none of it mattered.

“FUCK! MARK, I- I-” Tears began to roll down her face, blood began to drip down her legs from his force, that exquisite pain making her feel so... so very alive...

His nails dug into his palms as he witnessed his family formally splitting apart; anything he’d done... A month ago, it seemed like a fresh start, as if they could be a family again, be a father to Diana, a husband to Alison...

He joined her in her climax, the phenomenal power behind his thrusts making her feel as if she was splitting apart. The only way she could even remain in position was from his hands, half-holding her up, half-feeling the entirety of her skin. Their cries never quite matched in rhythm or pitch, hers high, yowling, his deeper, quieter, working up into a snarl as he released his come inside of her.

She collapsed as he dropped her, pulling out of her, the two panting, faces flushed as they lay in the midst of the rumpled, stained covers.

“God... Mark...”

“Don’t worry about the sheets.”

“I- I... God...” A grin, a fresh smile that made her look ten years younger, worked its way to her face, as she gasped for air. “God... if only he could have seen that.”

He replied to the grin with a smirk, moving closer to run his fingers through her tousled hair, made darker with sweat. “Whatever you want, whore.” A flick of the tongue to her cheeks, her forehead, wiping off the tears and sweat. “Whatever you want.”

Innocence (Pt. 3)

[[Because you can't just leave it like that, now, can you? :P]

He’d left her almost as soon as she’d woken up, slipping his arms away from her, getting off the bed to find his clothes. She wasn’t sure whether to treat this with a mild disappointment, or moderate relief, that he wouldn’t try to do it again in the morning. Admittedly, the feel of his warm, tender arms around her, like she was six years old again, having a cuddle with a soft toy, albeit one that could fully squeeze her back, the possibility, judging from his bloodshot eyes and the rapidity he’d left the bed, that he’d stayed awake, watching over her... it was possibly the only good thing about last night.

His arms slipped through the sleeves of his shirt, back facing her, not wanting to look at her, to let her see the guilt he wore on his face. God... Why’d you do that? Why’d you forget she was a fucking virgin? Why’d you screw her anyway, if all it got you is her hate for you, for making her lose something she obviously thought was special... in some way...

“I-” he began, wanting to turn to let her see how serious he was about his apologies, those whispered apologies of last night, but cut off the rest of the sentence, the “-’m sorry,” he’d planned. Instead, he kept his gaze down as he turned to face her, sliding the buttons into their slits. 

“I’m sorry, and I know you don’t want to hear this, but...” He broke off again into a whisper of the words he’d been hoping to say, words he’d been hoping would make things right, words that should have been more than simple enough to just thrust out of his mouth.

“But what?” Heartless bastard... won’t even look at you... Screwed you, fucked you, used you... won’t even look at what he’s fucking broken... took it away from you... God... “But you no longer want to see me anymore? That’s fine. Perfectly fine. Great to know I’m nothing but a cheap fuck for you.”

“Angel-”

“No! Don’t you fucking dare to call me that anymore! Don’t even use my name, if I’m just some whore you don’t have to pay for!”

“Will you listen to me for FIVE seconds-”

“I. Want. You. Out. Of. My. House. Hear that? Just... go. I’ll let you put your fucking pants on first. After that... we don’t talk. Alright?”

She could hear him swear repeatedly under his breath as he put his legs into the slacks he’d so nonchalantly thrown aside the night before. Other than that, the only sound was her harsh breathing, as her words caught up with her, as she realized she’d just told someone to get out of her life, someone who could have easily beat her into unconsciousness if he wanted to. The fact that he was merely getting ready to leave, slipping on a jacket as he stormed out of her apartment, almost made her want to throw a lamp, anything around her, at him, ask him why he was taking this so well. Maybe you were just a cheap fuck for him.

The slam of the door rang in the air with her fresh tears, her gasps for breath as she sank back into her pillows, back into wishing it were only an hour ago, back into the memory of his arms. Before she could close her eyes, the final glimpse of the calendar on the wall next to the bed threw any pretense of restless, unhappy sleep out of the window, as she recalled the red circle, the red scrawl of ‘Meet Up W. Mark’, on that day... There was no time for instant regret. There was only time to slip on and clip up her underwear, not even matching like she would have if she could, pulling on a top, zipping up the first skirt she laid her hands on, abandoning cosmetics in favor of rushing out the door, only just remembering to lock it behind her. She looked a mess, and she knew it; then again... with him... would it matter between siblings?

Innocence (Pt. 2)

He’d gone slow with her... at first, anyway. He’d been cool, calm as he slipped her already unclipped bra off her shoulders, his hands lingering there, stroking her now bare skin, as she began to remove her pants, fumbling with the buttons and zip as she did so. His own hands moved away from her breasts, almost reluctantly, taking off his slacks with far more ease, and far less speed, than she did; by the time she was completely naked, he was only in a shirt, a garment he took off a little more urgently as she lay down on the mattress, eyes closed as her breathing became harsh with slight fear rather than excitement. Her legs clenched together as he moved over her, running a hand up her thigh as he exhaled, his moist breath heating her sweat as she squirmed underneath him, as he propped himself above her, pressing a hand into the mattress above her shoulder.

“You’re... You’re going to have to open your legs.” He could feel her muscles tense as she slowly spread her thighs, letting his fingers circle her center, his lips stretching at the sound of her desperate gasps, her whimpers of his name as he stroked her clit.

“You like that? That feel good?” he breathed, delicately closing his finger and thumb over her swollen flesh to nods accompanying her moans of need. Still grinning, he slipped his fingers away from her burning nerves, slowly entering her to her soft cries, her arms wrapping around him as he broke through her.

“Oh, god... GOD...”

“You... fuck... That hurt? That feel good? You want more?”

“No... This... This is good... Oh God...” The feel of him inside her already felt too much at too little notice, her eyes squeezing shut as he thrust ever so slightly, apparently trying not to deepen himself in her. After this, it’s ‘fantastic’? I can... God... I can see why I held off for so long. Whores like this?

It almost drove him to insanity, the sensation of her drenched flesh tight against his organ, the sound of her soft, sharp sounds, whimpers rather than moans, as he lightly jerked his hips. He would have gone further in, pushed into her until she possessed every inch of him, but for the sliver of control he still had, that small part of his brain that seemed to conquer the majority telling him to ram all of him inside her, to hell with the fact that she’d never done it before. He gently pressed his lips against her own, almost stifling her cries, pulling away to look at that expression, that odd mix of pleasure and discomfort.

“Peter... God... Strahm... Don’t stop...” That breathless gasp, her black hair spread against the mattress, a raven-dark halo around her face, the way she’d gently bucked her hips upward... all of those factors... put together in that one moment... Any control a section of his mind once had vanished, buried under the wave of his libido. His hips slammed into hers, his groans increasing as he felt his entire length inside of her, his moans almost drowning out her screams.

She writhed from the pain of his repeated grinding into her, his cock digging into her depths without mercy, without some form of rest or preparation. She could feel water bead up in her eyes, rolling down her face as his pelvis continued to crush hers, as she felt her screams run out and transform into mere dog-like choking on her breath, as he continued to fuck her seemingly without end.

A final roar as he peaked, while she worked up the breath enough to wail as he gave one final, hard shove into her. She could hardly feel the sensation of his come, rushing through him and into her, rather focusing on the ache within her, the pain that seemed to remain even after he pulled out, rolled next to her, panting.

“God... Angelina... Fuck, that... I... You’re... For a virgin, you’re a good fuck.” He looked back at her, noticing for the first time the tears that she’d been producing; he’d vaguely heard her screams, seen her face screwed up in agony, but, in all honesty... he was only half-within reality. He extended a hand to her, brushing her hair out of her eyes to better see her face, while she sat up, wrapping her arms around her legs as she sobbed.

“Angel? Shit... Was it... I’m sorry?”

“God...” She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at the spots of blood staining the sheets, the mark of losing a part of herself, could only look at her knees as the tears continued to flow down her face.

“Please... Angie, if... I... What’s wrong?”

“It- It hurt. It hurt.” She whispered it as he moved closer to her, wrapping her in a softer, gentler embrace than she would have thought, given how hard he’d gone with her. To whispers of ‘I’m so sorry’, to the sensation of the wet, dark red spots of blood on the sheets under her, to the feel of his breath drying her tears, she was able to ignore the pain, lapse into a coma-like version of sleep.

English Assignment

A Sprig Of Nochnine

Far away, not too long ago, the king of the city of Graves longed for a child; having spent all of his younger years studying the arts of magic and clockwork, he had never taken the time to find a wife. As his hairs grew gray and his bones frail, he began to search the city crypts for fresh parts, linking the sinews and muscle into one body, stretching it over a bone and metal frame, weaving skin and stitching it to the body; before he knew it, he had put together two girls, or rather, most of two girls. 

However, although he had searched long and hard for hearts and brains, he could only find one of each fresh enough to give the girls. He gave the heart to one, giving her a clockwork brain, naming her Madrienne, while the other, named Reneva, received the real brain and a clockwork heart. With a click of the fingers, the hearts began to beat and the brains began to think.

The princesses grew into quite different young women. While Madrienne would dream her days out in the woods, reading sonnets to the world, giving her jewels to her servants and traveling the city giving the poor the money to buy food, Reneva would study logic, reading treatises on science, magic, and the arts, handling matters of state with her ailing father. However, despite Reneva making good decisions for the people of Graves, the state and the king far preferred Madrienne, for her warmth and kindness, even if she had no interest in the matters of the state.

One day, the king’s physicians discovered that their supplies of nochnine, the plant that so soothed the king’s passage into death, were running out, with only a leaf and a half left in the medicine cabinet. The king decided to set his daughters on a quest, to go all the way up the mountains of silver to pluck a sprig of nochnine, believing that Madrienne, far more concerned for his comfort than Reneva, would return with the leaves.

However, as the two traveled up the base of the mountains of silver, Madrienne heard the sound of a beggar-child, calling for a copper coin or five.

“Madrienne, surely you can put copper in all beggar-children’s pockets if you return with nochnine, when you become queen,” Reneva said, as her sister ran off the path to drop an entire purse of copper into the beggar-child’s cup. Reneva, seeing that her sister was far too preoccupied with the urchin, continued on her way up the mountain. Madrienne soon caught up with her, as they walked up the mountain together, never quite outpacing each other.

Soon after, they came upon a maiden, weeping by her little puff-dog, caught in a forester’s trap. While Reneva offered advice to perhaps push down the spring in order to open the trap, and kept on her journey, Madrienne immediately ran to the girl’s side, pushing down the springs to release the little puff-dog. By the time the dog was free, running in circles and yip-yip-yapping, the sun, once high in the sky, had sunk to the trees’ level.

Reneva, on the other hand, had ignored every beggar, any who asked her to take her time off her task to start on another, and had reached the mountain-top, her metal joints click-clacking as she shook from the cold. There, in the white, white snow, a sprig of the nochnine stood out, shimmering silver, glimmering gold, every color imaginable, and some that aren’t, given a sheen to its stalk. Her click-clacking fingers took a hold of the bottom of the beautiful plant, and plucked it.

She returned home without trouble, while Madrienne reached the top of the mountain to be greeted by nothing but the white, white snow. She too returned home, in time for her father’s funeral and sister’s coronation; taking pity on the girl, Reneva made her the Secretary of The Welfare of the Poor, a position she maintained far more happily than being a true leader. And the city prospered under Reneva, the Queen of Graves.

Innocence (Pt. 1 of 2?)

She was a virgin, he knew that much; the third time they’d had dinner together, dropping her off with a long kiss accompanied by a hand reaching down her back, squeezing her ass, she’d pulled away, and told him she wasn’t ready, that she was still a virgin. It had surprised him at the time, considering she was just the kind of girl, vivacious, full of life, who would have tried it long before he ever came along.

It almost drove him insane, the way he’d tasted her, felt her, almost licked that soft, innocent part of her, holding back when she, again, told him that she’d never done something like that before. He’d settled for pressing his hands down from her thighs, pressing into her soft, delicate skin with care, working his way back down to her feet. She’d clenched her thighs together as he did that, so, there was definitely no chance of eating her out.

Admittedly, in her defense, her FBI agent, more than a few years older than her, giving him so much more experience in the unfamiliar world of sex, was... so... intense. It scared her, sometimes, the way he was so close to snapping, bursting into her apartment, throwing her onto a couch, spreading her legs, and sticking himself inside of her. Well... you gotta admit, Angie, it’s scary but... God... that’d be so... exhilarating. That was the way it was with almost-sleeping-with him... the thought always excited her, almost made her want to drag him into her bedroom and let him ride her the way she knew he was begging to. But, at the same time, the same way she knew he wanted to fuck her senseless... that was just it. There was no way in hell he’d go gentle with her, not after he got into it, she knew that much. Sooner or later, he was going to get tired of just kissing, massaging, letting him feel almost every inch of her skin in a way that made her shiver to think that he’d get her while any defense she had was down, while her shirt was off and bra unclipped.

“Mmmm... Peter...” He smirked at the sigh of contentment and his name breathed out as he pressed his thumbs into her flesh, relaxing any tense muscles, those muscles that would tense as soon as he moved his hands away from them. Every part of her instantly stiffened as soon as his fingers brushed against the side of her breasts, making her clutch the sheets, roll off her stomach, and pull away from him.

“What? Angie... What’s wrong? Don’t you-”

“No, please, it’s fine. It’s fine. Just...” She drifted off there, her teeth chewing on her lower lip as she stared at him, watching him in the same way a rabbit would have watched a fox, as if he wanted to devour her.

“Angel... Please... tell me what’s wrong.” He began to crawl closer to her, as she pressed herself against the headboard, her heartbeat escalating as he got closer, closer...

“I- I- Just- Please, Peter. I- I don’t th-think I’m ready yet.”

“Why? For fuck’s sake, Angelina... I’ll hazard a guess that you like me. And you like me touching you, so it’s not that... what’s holding you back?”

She whispered into her legs as she wrapped her arms around them, still staring at him with a mix of fear and fascination.

“Say it again?”

“It’ll hurt.” Her eyes dropped as her breathing shuddered out of her, as he still moved forward, an arm slipping around her shoulder.

“Angel, I... I can’t say that it won’t, a little bit, but... after that... fuck, after that, it’s fantastic. It’s just... really, just the first time that, well, isn’t.” His lips twitched at the thought of his own first time, so long ago now, how terrified he’d been himself, constantly asking his partner if that was normal, if that felt good.

“But- but it’ll hurt-”

“Listen. I won’t hurt you. I promise I won’t hurt you. And, if I break that promise, then...” His lips stretched into a wolfish grin as he moved closer, breathing into her ear. “...Then you can do anything you want with me. Hit me. Slap me. Bite me. Whip me. Anything.”

“...Anything?”

“Well... I’d like it if you didn’t kill me or... mutilate me... but, the point is... I swear I won’t hurt you.” She loosened her grip on her legs, lifting her head a little to stare straight into his eyes. “So, what do you say, Angie? Give it a go, and get it over with?”

A short breath that caught in her throat and- “...Yes.”

With Child And Hate (Pt. 8)

Face it, Mark, she’s growing on you. It was hard not to look with some fondness upon the woman working so eagerly on one of the deathtraps she could be faced with, not that she’d ever admit that.

“Hoffman, you’re being neurotic,” she dismissed another one of his warnings with, pushing rolled-up designs onto him.

“I’m allowed to be. In case you forgot-” he snapped, stepping toward her with his words, having her take steps back, into the door.

“-it’s your baby I’m carrying. I. Get. It. You’ve said it enough times, alright? I’ll be fine, Mark; none of these traps are for me-”

“That’s not the point. Fucking ex-cons, you think they’d go through their own traps? Giving them free reign, they’d force you through without blinking. You get that?” He took another step with each sentence, until he had fully pushed her against the door, resting an arm on the surface, wondering if it was sweet or exasperating that, despite having him inside her twice, screaming for more the latest time, she turned her face away from him, trying to press herself away from him.

“How many times do I have to say it? I’ll be fine.”

“Amanda, why do I have to threaten or fuck you to get a point across?” He leaned in with that question, lips delicately brushing against her ear as her breath shuddered out of her.

“Can we not do this... right now... Mark?” she whispered, eyes scrunching shut. “It’s not exactly the best moment.”

A slight pause as he pulled away from her, letting her free to move again. “Fine. But remember, I don’t want the baby hurt, in any way. And it’ll happen if you aren’t careful in this game, I mean, Mandy, look at these fucking designs. They’re... brutal.”

“And nothing else we’ve done is?” she spat, glancing at the trap design he’d unfurled, the pit dug into the room earlier, now filled with syringes. “They have to be, or they don’t learn anything-”

“You really believe that bullshit?” She stared at him with an expression he couldn’t help but want to laugh at, those wide eyes almost comical were it not for the fact that she was actually shocked by his opinion.

“Don’t say that, Hoffman. You just don’t appreciate his work, what would you know, you haven’t even been tested,” she said, her words getting faster and shriller as she went on.

“God... Will you just try and see what you’re going into? I mean, fuck, a pit full of needles, an oven for Tate, not to mention the whole house is filling with gas-”

“I can look after myself, alright? I’ll get a needle from the safe, alright? I mean, for fuck’s sake, you’re acting like I don’t know-”

“Amanda, he’s keeping things from you. I hope you can see that. And I hope you can wake up some time before you wake up here, because if you don’t... if you get hurt... God, I don’t know what I’ll have to do.”

“Listen to me, Detective. I’ve played before. I know the rules. I don’t need you to worry about me, and, look, the baby’ll be fine, it’ll only be two months when I go in there, you know? Please. I don’t want you to care.” She drew closer to him, taking the designs from him, getting onto her tiptoes as she softly kissed him, a peck that stayed just that, a soft, slight kiss, almost forgotten as she walked away from him, out of the room. Almost.