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.

With Child And Hate (Pt. 7)

It was hard to stick with her original plan, to just sit on her bed and ignore him, act like he wasn’t there, when he stormed into her room, the door slamming against the wall from the force he’d opened it with.

“Amanda, we need to talk. Now.” A pause filled the air as she tried to follow the mindset that he didn’t exist, that he couldn’t hurt her. “Are you fucking listening to me, or do I have to-”

“God, Mark, don’t... don’t get so... John told me about the new game, alright? And, you know, I think this is going to be the breakthrough, the real... the game to end all games, I guess.”

“You really think that?”

“Well... John said his work was, you know, far from over, but... what if this game gets some of the others to... change? Without needing our help?”

“Bullshit, Amanda. You know he’s putting you in the-”

“He told me that too, Mark. See, unlike you, he tells people when they have to do something for him, he gives them a choice.”

“You are not doing this to me. You’ll be risking your fucking life, you could at least remember what you’ve got inside you,” he snapped, glancing at the calendar, glaring at the seven ‘X’s that should have reminded her.

“What’re you going to do? Kill me? John’ll be so pleased-”

“When he asked you, did you even consider telling him that you were knocked up? Did you just want to screw with me, have me tell him the good news, that you won’t be going in the house because you’re fucking having my child in nine months? And, yes, I told him. What the hell was I supposed to do, considering you wouldn’t tell him, whore?”

She stood at that, her face flushing, hands curling into fists as she looked up into those harsh blue eyes. “You’re fucking overreacting, Detective.”

“Didn’t I make it clear enough, that if you put my baby in danger, if she dies, you’d be next?”

“So, if I die, what’re you gonna do? Spit on my grave? I am not going to abandon John’s work just because-”

The sentence ended with a gasp rather than what she had meant to say, formed by his hands gripping her sides, pushing her back down onto the bed as he held her down with his body. Her scream was muffled by his lips crushing against her own pair, forcing his tongue into her mouth. The stifled scream turned to a groan as a hand reached up her shirt, those calloused fingertips rubbing her tit through the bra. He pulled away, panting along with her, fingers still pressing into her, rotating around her nipple to an increase in the intensity of her moans.

“God... You- You think this- this ends the- fuck, the argument?” she spat, regaining some semblance of sanity, a feat harder and harder to achieve as he pulled his hand from her shirt, slowly unbuttoning it with a kiss to her neck, his teeth lightly digging into her flesh. “It- Oh, fuck, Mark- You’re so fucking- It doesn’t- Stop!”

His lips dragged in withdrawing from her skin, as he tore open the now fully-unbuttoned shirt, glancing from her face to her breasts, heaving behind the scarlet bra. “Listen, Amanda. I know you don’t want me to do that. I know you want this. But you have to promise me... if I do... You don’t obey John this one time. You stay safe.”

She struggled to try and get out from under him, but he held her down, slowly tugging down the zip of her trousers. “Please, Mark, I- I can’t-”

“Shhh, sh, Amanda, don’t say that.” His fingers slipped into the aperture, stroking the darker red cloth; she could never find the matching underwear for any bra, but she tried, oh God, she tried, tried so hard not to scream for him to fuck her now, not as long as his deal was still on the table.

“No... Mark, ohhh, please, wait... I’ll- I’ll stay safe. I’ll try to- to keep out of the way... Please, I can’t- I can’t disobey- please, Mark, I won’t- I won’t put m-myself in danger... Just... Just give it to me, you son of a bitch.”

“Good enough.” Those were the last coherent words she heard before he pulled her trousers and panties down, before his own lower garments were discarded. As her eyes closed, all she could feel was his thrusting into her, turning her to push against the wall, lips returning to her neck to feel the vibrations of her throat as she moaned, screamed for him, finding herself lost in that ecstasy again.

With Child And Hate (Pt. 6)

It had been a long day at the police station for Hoffman, even longer than normal, his eyes constantly straying to the clock in his office, counting down the seconds rather than concentrating on the paperwork in front of him. Granted, he never did much work anyway, or at least, never did any work that advanced the case, but his mind was far too preoccupied with thoughts of Amanda, of those two pink lines to confirm what he’d hoped for, of the child that would be in only nine months.

It’s a girl. It has to be a girl. Just like- “Angie,” he whispered, turning to stare at the photograph behind his desk. Imagine that, though. A sweet little girl, dark, dark hair, dark blue eyes, vibrant, quick to smile... such a cute smile, too... And this time, this time, you can care for her, you can make sure she grows up the right way, won’t go out with- with scum, make sure she has a long, happy life.

A soft smile hit his lips at the thought of a daughter, one that had a fifty-fifty chance of existing. He had thought about a son, a little, miniature version of himself to carry on his surname but it was always the image of a small girl, her eyes wide in curiosity about the world, he kept coming back to.

Although, while he did enjoy the thought of the future as of nine months, he was slightly more concerned with the immediate future. Staring down at another ‘missing person’ report, thoughts of what would happen if his cover was blown, how his child would be in the hands of a whining, suicidal bitch- Or, worse, what would happen if they caught up with the aforementioned whining, suicidal bitch... If they discovered the fact that she was more than just ‘whining’ and ‘suicidal, if they added ‘homicidal’ to the list... All the things that could go wrong, stemming from that...

The thoughts of the danger coming from her still working in the warehouse kept attacking him throughout the day, not helped by the announcement he had waiting back at the Gideon Building.

“Mark, I require your assistance in setting up another game.”

And how exactly is this meant to be new? “Sure. Just tell me the subject-”

“This game differs from our previous work. Instead of a single subject, or two sharing a game, this one shall feature several.”

Well, isn’t that a step forward. “Hold on, how does that work-”

“Quite simply, the game takes place inside one of the residential properties, as opposed to another warehouse; a toxic nerve agent will be ventilated into the house at such a rate that the eight subjects within the house will succumb within two hours, while the exit unlocks in three. In order to survive, the subjects must find, and go through, tests around the house, the end of which will feature an antidote to combat the nerve agent.”

“Anyone in mind? I mean, there’s a gang, skinheads, down-”

“Remind me, Mark, of the concerns you had regarding a Detective Eric Matthews.”

“...Matthews? He’s no longer on the case. Something to do with his divorce, from what I can gather.” If by ‘divorce’ I mean, ‘those late, late nights working overtime with Kerry, leading to his son being whisked away in settlement claims’.

“Never mind that. You told me about this... divorce a few weeks earlier, mentioned a weakening relationship with his son.”

“Yes... So, you’re... you’re going to put them in the house? Some kind of reunion via surviving this... trap house?”

“Not quite. I’ve... been working on an idea, of sorts; the son-”

“-Daniel-”

“-Daniel goes through the tests in the house with seven of his father’s convictions, convictions gained unjustly, from what we can gather. The entire game will be filmed via security cameras, and, by the end, the son, Daniel, will be transported to... say...”

“Wilson Steel?”

“The Wilson Steel warehouse, to be kept, sedated, while we bring in Eric Matthews, showing the footage. If he can keep control of himself, and stay there for the optimum of two hours, he will be reunited with his son.”

“...Wait. What if Daniel... doesn’t win the game?”

“He will.”

“I’m just thinking of possibilities here-”

“Amanda will make sure he will. She will be tasked to-”

“Amanda. You’re putting Amanda into danger? Willingly, into danger? Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“You seem upset about this decision to-”

“You’re goddamn right I’m upset! Fuck this game! Fuck your goddamn work! Shit, Matthews can be tested, his son can be tested, but Amanda is not going into the house, you hear me? She is going to stay right here, where it’s safe, alright? She is not going to be put into a fucking death-trap, just for your sick power-fantasies, you can’t kill my child-” Hoffman broke off, a growing sense of dread filling him as the last words out of his mouth caught up with him. Oh... shit.

“Child?”

“Amanda... she’s- I- we kind of- I can explain.” The pause provided seemed to give him more than enough reason to stop talking, but, then again, it would have been worse if he didn’t take this brief opportunity to give his side of the argument.

“Amanda... well... Amanda is carrying my child.”

With Child And Hate (Pt. 5)

It was too cold in her bed, even curled up in her covers, even with the miniature heater practically inside her cot with her. Maybe it was her sweat, drenching her skin, the slight cool making her feel as if she was freezing to death.

It had been a few days since Amanda had been given the test, although ‘given’ was too generous a word. He’d merely walked in, back from the pharmacy, and tossed it for her to catch, leaving her to confirm it, to realize it to be the truth.

It was a color-based test; even as the clock ticked on without a hint of her period appearing, she kept wishing for that one pink line, that one slim hope she had of not being pregnant, free of a nine month sentence. But no.

Instead, two pink lines. Two lines to signal that, once again, she was back in prison, this time one of her making, no one for her to place blame on other than him. For the days that followed, every time she was sure he couldn’t hear her, she would scream insults at the walls, imagining he was present to listen to her outburst, yet powerless to do anything to her, to carry out the threats he’d promised.

She hadn’t been sleeping well; awake, her head might have been full of thoughts of Hoffman telling her she’d be next if the fetus died, or of what John would say by the time she balled herself up enough to tell him, or of the thing itself, what it would be like to have it grow inside her, squeezing against her organs, demanding more of her... but, however many thoughts she didn’t want drifted through her mind while her eyes were open, it was nothing compared to when they were closed.

“Please, oh god, oh god, don’t do this to me, not now, please-” -cut off by the pain coursing through her body, worse than she thought she could bear, collapsing onto her back, echoes of her screams ringing in her ears, screams she couldn’t remember forming.

He was there, crouching by her side, as she felt it squirm inside her, its tiny, unformed hands stroking her insides as it lashed out against her with uncontrolled brutality. He began to stroke her temple as her cries of pain increased, choking on what little breath she had left from her screams.

“Amanda, you need to give it up to me. Give me my child, now.”

She couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t her decision, that when the thing was tired of hiding, it’d come out of her. As if on cue, it tore at the wall of her womb, ripping a hand through her skin, reaching out into the outside. Through the pain, she could feel him still stroking her forehead with one hand, his other hand helping the thing in widening where her flesh had been split, gripping hold of intestines, tugging strands out of her body to make way for the thing.

“No, Mark, no, please-” she moaned, as it crawled into his arm, his hand supporting its legs, neck by the crook of his forearm and elbow. He shushed her gently, as the thing started to wail, as the air began to cool her torn-apart body, as she gasped for breath, her vision fading, all noises so distant, so far from her...

“It’s okay, Amanda. Now shhh, honey, shhh...”

“It’s alright,” Hoffman murmured, sitting on the edge of her bed, still stroking the sweat from her face as she whimpered and gasped for air, as her eyes snapped open. He sat still as she wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him, her sobs soaked up by his shoulders.

“Oh god, Mark-”

“Shhh... it’s okay. You’re fine, and, from what I can tell, the baby’s fine.” His own arm tentatively stroked her back, as she trembled in fear, tears still rolling down her face from her dream, the one she’d spent moaning, whimpering, asking for him, in reality.

She still inhaled heavily, taking in the soft scent of his cologne, her tears forming a dark, wet patch on his shirt collar, burying her face into him as his body warmed her. She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, no words between them, merely the feel of each other in their arms, before she broke away, remembering who the bastard was, remembering what he’d done to her.

He stood, stepping toward the exit, Amanda’s eyes burning into him from where she lay in the bed. He paused, turning to meet her glare, a glare that dropped to her arms the longer he stared at her for.

“I’ll be here for you. If you need me, or... I’ll be there. Alright?” Without waiting for her to reply, he turned back, briskly walking out of the room, leaving her to slump back into her pillows, back into a restless slumber.

With Child And Hate (Pt. 4)

The walk back was silent after that, his arm holding her against him, almost as if to absorb her into his body. Every word Amanda attempted was stifled by another squeeze, another soft shush, another backhanded, “Later, when we get back. Talk then.”

He opened the entrance for her, holding it for her to walk through, eyes never leaving her body, flicking from breasts to hips, traveling slowly back up, before dropping his gaze back down again. His tongue stroked his lips, trying to wet them quickly, eyes taking their time to go back to her face.

In his defense, her face was still drawn, pale, make-up smeared around it in a way that made her seem eight years old. He would have preferred to look at her physique, imagining the flat stomach swelling to accommodate a child- his child.

“You know, Mark, you’re gonna have to settle down someday... have a few kids-”

“Jesus, Angie, how many times do I have to say it before you stop asking? I’m not really the type who has those... things.”

She’d laughed at that, telling him that he said that now, but, sooner or later, he’d see, that maybe someday, he’d change his mind... that he’d find someone to-

“Hoffman,” she said, breaking the thought of her, dragging his mind back to reality. “I- I... I need to-”

Her voice broke into a whisper, completely inaudible despite the motions of her lips, as she looked down, staring intently at the ground. “Mandy, sweetheart, what is it? Honey, you can tell me anything. Anything.”

“I- I don’t want to... I don’t want to keep it.”

Total silence pervaded the room, nothing but her voice echoing those words in his head, letting it sink in, letting that thought, that she’d give up- no, kill his child. His fucking child. She began to talk again, about how John wouldn’t understand, how she wasn’t going to give up nine months of her life, all of it blending into one statement, that she had no regard for his child, for his DNA growing inside her, for him, period.

“...Mark?”

“Listen, you fucking whore. I don’t give a shit about what John thinks. It’s not his kid, you understand? This isn’t one of your junkie fuck buddies’, or your dealers’, or whoever was paying for your fucking smack habit. This is my child, you get that, stupid bitch? My child. If you harm her, him, whatever my child is... if you murder my baby, you’re next. Can you get that much through your head, cunt?”

He slammed his hand against the wall for emphasis, making her twitch as she stood there, flinching with every word he snapped at her.

“Mark, please-”

“What did I fucking say? It’s Hoffman, or Detective Hoffman. You might be carrying my child, but until you learn to treat me with some respect...”

“But- But, Mark- Please, Hoffman...”

“Amanda, I thought I made myself very clear.” He took a step toward her, gripping her shoulder, slamming her against the closest wall. “If you even think about getting rid of her... I won’t have anything between you and a bullet. Understand? Nod if you do.”

Her eyes were screwed shut as she nodded obediently, breath transformed into gasps of shock. He slipped away from her, leaving her to slide down the wall, her legs collapsing underneath her.

“I’ll be back with a test. Make sure you’re not just fucking me around.” With that he left her, a twinge of guilt as he thought of the woman in a heap behind him, so close to tears. It isn’t good for the baby if she’s stressed, Mark. She’s got the message... Don’t have to do it again, don’t do it again. You don’t want your child harmed, do you?

With Child And Hate (Pt. 3)

It was a long way to the club, a small place near the police station; Amanda had overheard him talk about it before, on the phone mostly, making no effort to conceal his conversations with acquaintances about another woman from the club. During the weeks after they’d- after he’d screwed her, she’d started to listen to the conversations with a little more interest, wanting to know if he’d mentioned her at all, if he was going to acknowledge that little incident. But... nothing. Just the club, just how wasted that slut had been, just his life outside, understandable, true, but...

She shook her head, slipping her hood back up where from where it had fallen to her neck, trying to hide her face from the glares of street lights and passers-by. She knew it was stupid to think that they could know anything about her, that they could even suspect her of murder- John’s work- the crimes she was guilty of, but with the stares, directed at her smeared make-up for the most part, transformed by the shadows to become threatening... She tried to bury her face a little further into the hood. Why the fuck are you even going there, huh? John told you not to leave the warehouse unless necessary, that even though there was no reason, that- that it wasn’t safe. So why the fuck are you outside? You might have fucked him, that doesn’t mean he has to know, the self-righteous piece of shit.

All the thoughts questioning her motive for even stepping outside the doors of the Gideon- of the warehouse disappeared as she stood outside the entrance of the club, inhaling and exhaling with difficulty, as if she had crawled out of drowning in a bathtub- out of drowning. Taking in as much air as her lungs could allow her, she stumbled through the doors, into a haze of lights and smoke.

She could see him almost as soon as she stepped inside, sitting at the bar, not alone, as she would have hoped he would be. Instead, a short blonde- well, in other’s words, she would have been ‘petite’, but in Amanda’s mind, it was ‘short’- sat in his lap, long hair trailing over his shoulder as she twittered in laughter; Amanda unconsciously tugged at the short strands of her own dark hair, studying the woman with fascination, the immaculate neatness of her make-up, the way the lipstick hadn’t been smudged, the way her eyeliner stayed a line rather than a smoky circle around her eyes. The dress barely went past her hips, barely held in her breasts, which strained against the material in a way that screamed plastic surgery, not that Hoffman seemed to mind, judging by the way he half-discreetly slipped a hand onto one with barely-hidden pride. It took his bringing that hand away from the woman’s tit, lifting those fingers to her mouth, for her to suck with that red-lipsticked mouth, for Amanda to remember that she had something to say, that she wasn’t just going to stand there.

“Detective?” she spat, striding toward the pair, gaining a few looks from the other patrons of the club. Hoffman sharply turned his head to look at her, eyes wide as he hastily slipped his fingers out of the blonde’s mouth; upon seeing the face, recognizing the voice, they narrowed into icy slits as he stood, pushing the woman out of his lap.

“Amanda, what the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped, taking her by the arm, yanking her through a crowd parting obediently for him.

“I have to tell you something, Detective.”

“Really? And it couldn’t wait-”

“My period is five days late.” He stopped, his hoarse breathing the only sound she could hear, mouth partly-open in shock.

“Are- Shit, you aren’t just- just missing the- fuck, the cycle-”

“I’m regular as a fucking clock, Hoffman. And five days? We both know what this means, you son of a bitch.”

He blinked, slowly breathing out, visibly making an effort to remain calm, to stay as still as possible. His arm, surprisingly gentle, wrapped around her neck, covering her from the staring eyes of the others. “Amanda... let’s get you home.”

“What about the slut?” she muttered, glancing at the woman staring at them in a mix of rejection and confusion as they walked past, his stride changing into slower and shorter steps to compensate for her.

“Her? She’ll find someone else soon enough. Just... you’re sure? You’re- You’re really- And it’s- he or she- the baby’s mine?” he breathed as they stepped into the cool, brisk air of the street.

“All yours, Detective.” She cast her eyes down, staring at their shoes, side by side. “Not like I want it.”

“Amanda-”

“No, please, I can’t handle- John- I- Please, just... let me think about all of this, alright? I...” Her voice shrank to a creaking whisper, as he pulled her tighter toward him. “...I’m scared, Mark.”

With Child And Hate (Pt. 2)

Looking back on that night, it hadn’t been as good an idea as Hoffman had thought, say, five minutes before feeling up her tits. He wasn’t drunk, he knew that much, though he might as well have been; after all, it would have been a better excuse to screw the ex-junkie than ‘boredom, mixed with curiosity’. Tapping a pencil against the desk, staring at the unfinished blueprints in front of him, his mind kept drifting to reprimanding him for being such a fucking idiot.

For fuck’s sake, Mark. Didn’t even consider that she might have AIDS? That she might have gotten something from one of those needles she used to jab in herself? Fucking idiot.

He knew there was a feeble reason for his lack of protection, that he just wanted it over and done with, get that curiosity satisfied before it drove him insane. As it was, she wasn’t bad, she was much tighter than he’d expected, but, truth be told, he was done with her, now that his desire to know what she would be like, naked under him, had been fulfilled.

In all honesty, he was mildly unsatisfied with her, not the sex, but the lack of buildup she gave him. She hadn’t given him any of the teasing he had pictured in his mind, slowly stripping as he, in turn, felt every inch she exposed; nor the fighting, no clawing, slapping, punching, no spark of violence in her, as he would have thought. She was disappointingly easy, letting him fuck her as soon as he came up behind her with a kiss and a feel. In the end, that was probably why he hadn’t gone as rough with her as he would have wanted to, not being worked up enough; he’d come, certainly, and it was quite good sex, all in all, but, for him at least, she didn’t exist.

Of course, it was hard to think that, what with her being in the same building, at that moment standing at the doorway, watching him with shadowed, accusing eyes. He didn’t think that she’d be the clingy type, although, then again, given that she’d grown so attached to John as a father figure just for taking her in... Not surprising she thinks she’s fucking engaged after one fuck.

“Hoffman,” she whispered, her voice barely audible from so far away, only reaching his ears from the fact that nothing else, at the moment at least, made a sound. “We-We need to talk.”

“Jesus Christ, Amanda.” He let the pencil fall out of his fingers, onto the desk, as he stood and turned to look at her. She hadn’t washed for a couple of days, her clothes rumpled, probably slept in the previous night, hair unkempt. That last aspect he rather liked, giving her a sweet, innocent air... reminiscent of- No, don’t think about her now, you’ve screwed her, don’t compare her to her.

“Hoffman- Mark-”

“Amanda, let me get one thing straight. I want things to go on as they normally would, alright? You... you’re a good-looking woman, mostly, but I’m not going to fuck you again. I’m not interested in you, alright? Pretend none of it ever happened. Can you do that?”

“N-No, Mark, please-”

“Just because I fucked your brains out doesn’t mean you have to act like an idiot. I don’t want to say it again; don’t see me like that, alright? Fuck it, I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.”

“But Mark-!”

“Stick to Hoffman, or Detective Hoffman.” With that, he pushed past her, feeling a slight twinge of pity as she stared at him, open-mouthed, black tears rolling down her cheeks as she stammered. Poor bitch... But you know what they say; ‘Got to be cruel to be kind’.

With Child And Hate (Pt. 1)

The burning feel of his skin against hers, hands pressed against her back, pushing further into her...

Amanda stared into the mirror, trying to remember what he’d been attracted to that night, that confusing mess of sweat and heat that she could hardly remember. She could only see the disarray of hair left not styled, eyes rubbed until her make-up made her look even worse than she felt, mascara trailing down with her tears, clothes unwashed, worn again and again throughout that week. A fucking mess.

Another glance at the calendar. Another check as to whether her life was really ruined. Another running of her hands through her hair. Another collection of tears to be shed as she thought of the thing inside of her, in her mind eating away at her, demanding her to look after it, a different kind of cancer foisted upon her without warning.

“Why?” she whispered to herself, as she crossed off another day, another day to confirm what Amanda had dreaded ever since the lack of her monthly blood became clear to her. She stepped back, staring at the four ‘X’s, seemingly taunting her, giving her the hope that she was just late, that she’d find her panties stained the next day, even though she knew it wasn’t going to happen.

She could remember how it started, a night she was free to do anything but leave the confines of the building, a moist kiss on the side of her neck as he approached her from behind. She had whimpered as his hands cupped around her breasts, thumbs circling her until satisfied with the hardness of her nipples, until he turned her around to look at him.

She let out a mix between a sob and a breath as she sank to the ground, cheeks scraping against the concrete as she curled into a ball, hiding her face with an arm. It was too much effort to stand, too much to talk, too much to think; all she felt she had enough energy for was sleep, stirring restless slumber, full of dreams of him, every physical aspect of him as she could remember it, how he had looked at her before, how he’d looked at her after he was finished.

She was surprised how open she’d been to him, how she’d welcomed sex after months without, how she’d been the one to kiss those lips, how she’d unbuttoned his shirt as he lifted her, how she’d loved the feeling of him strain to carry her to the workshop, her failed attempts of traps seemingly watching her as she slipped her top over her head, unclipping her bra, tossing it onto the floor as the two clambered onto the worktable.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” she’d asked after another kiss, as he took his own shirt off, albeit faster, with more urgency. He smirked as he pulled her slacks and panties down, leaving the answer hanging in the air with her whimpers and moans as his fingertips circled her already swelling centre.

She’d begun to beg for him as he took his hand away to drag the remnants of his clothing down his thighs. He’d hung over her for a moment that felt like a century to her, staring at her with a mix of lust and fascination, clearly not expecting this to be as easy as it had been, a slight hint of disappointment clouding the blue, disappointment that she hadn’t put up the fight he’d thought she’d give him.

She’d arched her back to him as he plunged into her, slipping his hands around her to further push her toward him, burying her moans in his chest. She closed her eyes, only hearing his pants and grunts mixed with her own animalistic sounds, only feeling his skin, so unbearably hot against hers, the cold metal of the worktable, her nerve endings exploding into harsh ecstasy as he thrust deeper, faster. The sheer force of his hips made her half-wonder how badly she’d ache afterward, although those thoughts were washed away, as she dug her nails into him, as she cried out with pure pleasure, the feeling of his hot seed bursting into her adding to the sensation of her orgasm. Another scream, muffled by his hand, a feeble attempt to keep the entire event secret...

All she could remember after that was the way he’d looked at her after he was done, after he pulled out of her exhausted, numb flesh. Disinterest, complete disinterest, no hint of the pleasure she was sure she’d given him. Those blue eyes, staring at her the same way he looked at her as she worked on a new design, the same bored, cold expression. A month after that night, she tensed, tightening her protective curl into herself at the thought of those cool, emotionless eyes.

Cold And Catatonic (Pt. 2)

“What the fuck is he doing here?” He’d taken that simple walk to clear his head, calm him down, put him in more of a mind to make up with her. Usually, by the time he got back, she had cleared herself up a little, gotten her hair back to pre-fight neatness, applied a little foundation to cover up the bruises, all ready to forgive and forget.

This time, instead of seeing her back to attempted-perfection, all smiles and the possibility of fucking that night, he opened the door to him, his girlfriend in his arms, crying into his shoulder.

Mark Hoffman. It always puzzled him, the difference in surnames, but he’d never demanded a reason for it; he preferred to think that her cop brother didn’t exist. It was hard to ignore the bastard, the way he’d keep calling, asking for hourly updates from Angelina, the way he’d invade their home, place himself firmly between Seth and his sister, literally in this case, his arms shielding her as he squeezed her body. 

Yeah, bet you want to feel that ass, fucking piece of shit. There had to be some truth in that thought, the way Hoffman never seemed to have a girlfriend, just his sister... The clingy fuck was too overprotective for comfort, in his opinion.

“Angelina! I asked a fucking question!”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you right now.” Hoffman turned to look at him, those piercing blue eyes glaring at him in accusation. It was just typical of him, to view his sister as completely innocent, as if she didn’t contribute as much as he did to the arguments that always preceded their fights. He let Angelina out of his embrace, hands lingering too long on those shoulders.

“Tell me what you’re fucking doing here, before I-”

“Before you do what you did to my sister to me? Careful. I bite back.”

“This is my house, she’s under my roof, she doesn’t fucking need you.”

“That so?” That fucking smirk. It was one of the features of the man that Seth could stand the least, that self-satisfied smile that seemed to signify that he was superior to everything, especially some piece of white trash who happened to be banging his sister. “And she needs to be beaten around? She needs to feel helpless? She needs to have to check she’s still breathing by the end? She needs to feel scared for her fucking life?”

“I never fucking hurt her!” he spat, glancing at Angelina, who had taken a seat, hunched over, still sniveling in shock, obviously putting on a show for her big brother. Lying whore.

“Bullshit,” Hoffman snarled back, stepping forward, an attempt to intimidate him, judging from the way he seemed to be making those few inches of height work against him.

“Don’t you think she’s old enough to make her own choices? Think she might actually be able to deal with it herself?”

The detective leaned in, until his face was almost touching Seth’s, his eyes on the same level, that smell of spicy-fresh cologne too intense, causing him to wince.

“Listen closely, Baxter. You’re right, she can make her own decisions. And she decided to call me in. So, here’s the deal. You don’t make her feel like you’re going to kill her. You don’t fucking beat her around. You don’t harm her in any way. If you do... I’ll fucking tear you apart, Baxter, that you can be sure of. So, before you even think about raising a hand against her, just remember... I’ll kill you, I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Project #2 (Pt. 1)

There were so many things he loved about her, those bright, vivid eyes, that quick-to-smile mouth, the way her tongue would flicker across her lips when she wanted him, her sweet demeanor... In some ways, it made things even worse when she pissed him off, when they entered those arguments, the ones where he needed to slap her to get her to stop shouting at him, those times when he had to inflict more than a slight amount of pain on his little angel to end the conversation.

It killed him sometimes, seeing one of her eyes yellow-purple from his fist, her upper lip puffy and swollen, the way she cringed when he tried to touch her again. It was pitiful, in some ways, how all she could do was cry, plead for him to get away from her, whimper when he slipped an arm around her in an attempt to comfort her, show her that he’d never do it again, a resolution he always had to break, no matter how hard he tried.

“I’m sorry, Angie, what else can I say?” She’d fixed her gaze to her feet, as she nibbled at her lower lip, arms wrapped around her legs, tucking into herself. “I... I know you don’t want to talk right now, and I know you don’t want to forgive me... Shit... Just... Angie, will you fucking look at me!”

She turned her head to look at him, eyes wide in fear as he stood, looking down at her in revulsion; it was surprising how hideous she could look, mascara running black lines down her face, her split lip and black eye nauseating to view, while the way her dark hair had been tangled... She was always a mess after their fights, he knew he was the reason behind how she looked, but, Jesus fucking Christ, it was hard to sympathize with her when she looked like that.

“Angie, you stay here. Just... fuck... I need air.” She just sat there, still breathing in and out with difficulty, tears still rolling black down her face. Pathetic... little bitch had it coming. 

That was always her problem, the fact that she was so weak, fragile, and yet, she’d still argue with his demands, as if unaware of the fact that he could, and would, break her if she fucked around with him too much.

Harsh, echoing footsteps rang in her ears as he stepped out of the room, into the hallway, slamming the door to his home behind him. She closed her eyes, choking on her breath, the cold air drying the tears on her face. God... He’s going to kill me... Please... Oh, God...

Still trembling, she stood, listening for anything to suggest that he would storm back into the house. Satisfied that there were no sounds other than her own pants for air, she stepped toward the phone on the table she’d had her head slammed into a few weeks before. Her fingers shook as she pressed the numbers for the one person she could trust, the one person who’d never hurt her, who’d promised that he’d never harm her in any way... and had been consistent with his words.

“Mark? It-It’s Angelina. Please... please come. I-I need you.”

Pt. 6: Stroffmanda

She lay there, a relieved smile spreading across her lips as her hook-up, not his, never fucking his, walked toward her, having taken the key out of the still-open drawer. Her eyes closed as he knelt, getting down to her level.

“I’ve been thinking, Amanda... How badly do you want us to fuck you?” Her eyes snapped open, filling with dread as he held the key in front of her eyes, just above her face.

“For fuck’s sake, Peter, just take the handcuffs off, alright? Please?” For god’s sake, do NOT start fucking Hoffman in front of me, I’ll do it myself, alright? Just please, unlock, alright?

“What do you think, Hoffman? Think she wants us?” He glanced at the detective as he pulled his lower clothing down in one movement, stepping out of the pile of clothes in a brisk movement.

Rather than give a vocal answer immediately, her fellow apprentice grabbed her thighs, pulling her legs apart, holding them there as he eyed her folds of dripping flesh. 

“If she doesn’t want us right now... Give me a few minutes,” he said, hot breath wafting over her centre. He tightened his grip as her legs jerked up, moving forward until his mouth cupped around her, flicking his tongue across her clitoris. She couldn’t help but grind her hips against his face, moaning as he lapped with more strength, as his nails dug into her skin. He lifted his head to stare at her face, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

“Do you want me?” he growled, returning to running his tongue over her, not letting her answer his question in anything other than a desperate nod. He released his grip on her legs gently, giving her drenched slit one last lick. “Unlock her, Strahm.”

Her arms now free, the detective still between her legs, she sat up, striking one of her newly-freed hands across his face. He slammed her shoulders against the mattress in response, trapping her body under his, their harsh sets of breathing seemingly the only sounds in the room. She shuddered to the sensation of his skin, damp from sweat, as the tip of him stroked against her centre, almost dipping into her, as she felt herself become even wetter, as she felt her nipples become even harder as he stared into her eyes. She closed her eyes as he laid a moist kiss onto the crook of her neck, landing another just above her jugular, raising his lips to her ear.

“No more games,” he whispered, rolling off of her, his hands grabbing her waist, drawing her onto him. She hovered over his erection, rubbing herself against him, but not impaling herself quite yet, as he turned to the agent still standing by the bed

“Strahm? You joining us or not?” This prompted the other man to crawl onto the bed, positioning himself just over Amanda, using his hands to slowly push her onto Hoffman’s cock with a gasp, nothing compared to the noise she let out as he slipped into her from behind, hands pressing against her back as he thrust deeper into her.

Hoffman’s hands wrapped around her back, pressing her nipples into his skin, letting her moan into his chest as the two thrust further in her, yelping as Strahm slapped just between her shoulder blades, leaving a red mark on her skin. Amanda’s moans transformed into screams as the man under her dug his nails into her sides, scraping skin away, inducing Strahm to whack his hand against her skin again, as they attempted to get deeper into her than the other. Her eyes scrunched shut, her own fingernails dragging along Hoffman’s arms, her screams heightening in volume with each smack, which . She buried her face into his chest, muffling her cries, chewing on his skin, the dull pain causing him to lose control. A final muted scream as their own cries intensified, as they pounded as far as they could into her, as he began to thrust further up, his hot fluid jetting out of him. The other gave her one last smack of the hand, before dissolving into her, collapsing onto her reddened back.

He pulled out of her, rolling to the side, letting her lift herself off of Hoffman. Words seemed just out of reach as they lay there panting, their sweat mingling, their heat intertwined. Hoffman reached a hand out, stroking the side of Amanda’s face as she gasped for air, eyes closed in sheer exhaustion.

“We... never speak of this... again... alright?” she wheezed, opening her eyes to stare into the detective’s pair, as Strahm slipped an arm across her waist.

“If you want...” Hoffman replied, giving her cheek a soft, open-mouthed kiss as she lost herself to sleep. He laid his head against her breast, listening to her heart as it hammered against her ribcage, slowing as the excitement wore off, as she slipped further into rest. He closed his own eyes, a smirk still playing on his lips as he fell asleep.