Work Text:
the whole thing's almost funny- it's your scotch he's swigging, and you can see the faintest grimace on his face when he swipes his tongue over his teeth.
he kicks his feet up on your shoulder, crossed at the ankles, gives you a sharp grin. your face burns. (key word being almost.)
'you know how hard i work all day,' he says, lighting a smoke, bright flick of his lighter and flash of white teeth. 'don't you?'
you scowl, and the heel of his shoe digs into the tender meat of your clavicle until it actually starts to hurt, a sharp sting- 'yes,' you mutter finally, when it gets to be intolerable and he's just looking at you with something smug in his eyes.
(he's going to kill you one day, you think, if the booze doesn't get you first, and what a good day it'll be, gasping your last breath looking into quackity's dark shark-eyes. you're really fucking whipped.)
'i don't ask for much,' he says. 'i pick up your slack all fucking day-' that makes you wince, hits on something just right, the liminal space of almost-insecurity where you keep inviting him to poke at delicate shit- 'and all i want is a hot meal at the end of it. is that unreasonable?'
'no,' you say, and there's his heel again pressing on your collarbone and you barely have a second to wonder what the fuck you did now before you remember and gasp out no sir. he smiles. it's lethal and you love it for that. he takes his legs back- small mercy. crosses at the knee. he's all angles, all sharp lines and neat creases, and you think not for the first time that he's really genuinely terrifying in the best way possible. if you were standing you'd have to look down to meet his eyes.
you watch him take another sip of scotch, straight from the bottle with his hand around its neck, and you watch his mouth, the tendons in his throat. you can see him swallow. it's sweatslick and golden and when he tilts his head like that the muscles in his neck do something that makes your mouth go dry.
he crooks his fingers, beckons for you, and when you lean forward he takes your chin in his firm grip and raises an eyebrow expectantly; you open your mouth and his eyes light up, like they always do, as if it's a pleasant surprise that you'd obey, as if you wouldn't follow him to the ends of earth. as if you wouldn't walk out into traffic right this second if he asked. he flicks his smoke into your mouth and your stomach squirms pleasantly at the realization that he's had you doing this for long enough the taste of ash barely bothers you anymore.
'you aren't even dressed,' he says, leering, and you feel your face go very red.
he doesn't shave your face, which makes you feel- complicated. you don't dislike it. what he does do is lift your leg up on the lip of the tub and take his straight razor down it in neat, even passes while you shiver faintly at the brush of the blade.
'honestly,' he says, 'you're lucky you're pretty. you little whore.' your calf twitches. 'not a fuckin' brain in that head, huh? you're basically useless.'
you're watching the razor, and you know he can tell, you know he's looking at you with the same old predator-intensity, but he doesn't comment on it. he's never really cut you. only threatened it, and once, you don't remember what led up to it, took your knife from your pocket and dragged it down your throat to your chest, and it might be a miracle you didn't cum on the spot.
'hey,' he murmurs, and your ears perk up of their own accord- 'move over for me, dollface. i need your thighs.'
he spreads your legs himself and he doesn't need to drag the blade over your femoral like that, your nerves on a hair-trigger, the edge needlesharp on your thrumming pulse, but he does and he grins and he doesn't speak and your cock twitches. you think the word painslut, and you hear it in his voice.
he dries you off himself and it's strange, because you're usually the one to do this for him, but it's a kind of gentleness that you can tolerate, under the sharp edge of condescending sicklysweetness. makes you feel sort of small and stupid, which is funny considering he has to pull you down by the horns to dry your hair.
what's he brought you to wear is-
(the towel rubs at your shoulders. 'do you want to keep going?' he asks, and it's quiet, but he sounds excited.
'yeah,' you say, and he kisses your back.
'i got you an outfit,' he murmurs, devilish, into your skin, and you shiver.)
-barely even clothes. sheer white thigh-highs, topped with lace, and a strappy little white slip that's cut in at the waist to frame a figure you don't have and so short you don't think it'll cover the panties he's given you to wear with it. lacey white panties and the leather straps of a low-waisted harness. and his favorite strap.
he helps you into the stockings first, makes you stand naked and chilly while he rolls the nylon up your ankle in a way that shouldn't be as obscene as it is, his hands finding the back of your knee, the pulse running through the inside of your thigh. one of his fingers swipes across the sole of your foot, as he's helping you into the second one, and you flinch, but he just tucks a smile in the corner of his mouth and keeps pulling it up.
the panties fit well. embarrassing, how well he knows your size. embarrassing, the way he's pulling the dress over your head and you're bending to help him. embarrassing, the way your skirt tents around your cock.
'you know i need to discipline you,' he says, and a bright little thrill unfurls in your chest.
he bends you over the back of the sofa- god knows he couldn't get you over his lap, and it's almost better this way, the low hum of anticipation as he undoes his belt, metal on metal on your own shallow breathing.
'how many do you think a tramp like you deserves,' he murmurs, 'hm?'
your voice catches in your throat. he's groping you under your skirt, one delicate palm on your ass; he squeezes, and you flinch, and it makes him laugh, a loud, jagged thing.
'how about twenty,' he says, dangerously soft, and his sharp little nails score lines into the back of your thighs. 'you remember how to count, don't you?'
'fuck you.'
he tsks, and for no reason at all the sound sends a shiver through you, runs down your spine to your dick.
'thirty, then.' you hear his belt snap. 'i can go all night, sweetheart. so why don't you be a good girl-' and you bury your face in your arms without even thinking about it, feverhot and redfaced- you didn't think it'd feel bad but you didn't know it'd be so- 'and keep your mouth shut.'
and he warns you, but when the first strike comes it's hard, somehow harder than you think it will be, hot and stinging- your gasp is too-loud, mortifyingly, breathy and whiny and girlish and it aches, through you, through all of you, and, and, and
his palm is rubbing over the spot he hit, cool and gentle, and when you relax into it he smacks you, just a sharp tap that makes you jump.
he chuckles, darkly, and his fingers skate over your back, up your spine.
'yes, sir,' you whisper, trembling even as the pain aches in the deep, pleasant sensation of a fresh bruise.
'that was one.'
you hear the metal clink again, and for a heartbeat you're frozen with animal-fear and the thrilling realization that there is nowhere to go and then the impact comes and pushes a gasp out of you, fills up your veins with heat.
'and that is?'
'two,' you manage, your voice strangled and breathless, 'sir.'
it doesn't get harder each time. somewhere around nine or ten- you're losing count already- you realize, maddeningly, that the pressure is precisely uniform and not quite enough, until you're pushing back into it and he's noticed and he's laughing, quiet and smug. one of his thumbs finds a particularly tender bruise and digs into it, and you squirm.
'you want it harder? we can go harder, sugar tits, but i'm not sure i want to tire you out yet.'
he swats you, just a sharp little sting, but it makes you jump anyway, a bright new pain on top of the ache.
'eleven,' you whisper, even if you know it doesn't count, and he cackles the kind of excited, wheezing laugh that always throws his head back.
'uh-uh, no, no, no, baby-' and there is the belt, there is the snap and strangled noise that leaves your mouth, there is the hot rush. 'that is eleven.'
he leans closer, and his hand knits into your hair and tilts your head to mutter in your ear, 'not like it matters. you were on ten.'
he lets you go none-too-gently and the next hit lands with no warning, and the impact of it drives your cock into the back of the sofa, your thighs pressed together. 'so that is?'
'ten?' you guess.
his palm touches your ass, and you flinch, but he's only carrassing you softly, and then there is the soft brush of his lips over your spine, his warm mouth. 'good girl,' he murmurs.
you don't start to cry until twenty-six, and even through the hot haze of humiliation what settles in you most, as you choke out twenty-seven, sir, and he keeps going, is dizzying relief. you're crying because it hurts. he's hurting you on purpose. your sobs are mortifyingly lewd even to your own ears, where the things taking auditary superiority are the rush of your blood and the crack when he hits you.
you could live like this, you think, just in this thoughtless endless moment where you're feeling and anticipating and helpless, endlessly, stupidly, helpless, the only solid thought forming when you spit motherfucker and wonder if he'll scold you for cussing. he doesn't.
't-thirty,' you pant finally, and in the second before your next word you think maybe you could keep your mouth shut and take five more- 'sir.' (what sells it to you is the addicting half-firm rub of his smooth palm over your sore ass, something you refuse to give up.)
'beautiful,' he says, hushed. 'my pretty girl.'
he takes you to bed, when you can handle the gentleness, makes sure you can feel the ache in your ass when you sit. he wipes your tears, but he doesn't mention them, and there isn't a hint of pity in the way he looks at you.
'you feeling alright?' he asks kindly.
you nod. your face burns. he runs his fingers over your slip.
'still wanna be my slutty little housewife?'
you nod.
he shoves up the hem of your skirt, inelegantly exposes the shape of your strap, and he leers at your cock, rubbing his hand over it more for the show of the thing.
'dirty girl,' he mutters, but he's grinning around it, too bright to be stern. 'that's naughty,' he says, and it strikes on something- 'you're only supposed to fuck me to knock me up.'
strikes on something like a fucking match, christ, lights you right up inside, a strangled fuck leaving your mouth as he twists his wrist and plays delibrately with the lace hem of your dress. 'd'you wanna fuck me?'
'yes,' you whimper, and you shut your eyes on the intensity of his gaze, shut your eyes on his fingers on the paperthin fabric that was supposed to cover your dick.
'you sure, honey?'
you nod, jerky, desperate, and he coos good slut and climbs into your lap.
'you whore,' he pants in your ear, your hands around his hips, 'my little harlot.' it drips with venom, and it makes you whine, like the way he does when he sits on your cock- god, he's wet.
he sighs, blissful, and his forehead tips onto your shoulder, his breath hot on your skin.
'you're so good,' he breathes, and he kisses at your neck. 'you take it so well.' he must sense something, some tension that you aren't even aware of, or he just knows you that well; his tone drops right back into stern husband like he hadn't been sweet at all. 'if you'd just behave-' and he rocks into you, guides your hand up to his cock, 'i wouldn't have to do that.'
christ, it does something to you when he talks like that. jesus.
''m sorry, sir,' you say, and you hear him huff something that would be a laugh if he had any breath to spare, his teeth against your throat, and you realize from the sound of it that- your cock throbs- he's close. he's closer than you thought he'd be, just from that, and-
'not sorry enough,' he murmurs, and you whimper-
-it makes you dizzy, almost, drives you a little crazy every time you remember, every time you realize all-over-again that he likes this as much as you do, he isn't just putting up with you-
'here,' he pants, and his hands are on your hips, 'lemme lie down. you can fuck me like you mean it.'
he doesn't take his suit off. you think you prefer it that way, with just the sliver of chest you can see where he's undone the first few buttons of his shirt, the way his tie hangs loose, him sliding his slacks down just so you can- fuck, you have to cut your eyes away just to breathe- see his cock glistening, where he leads you inside him, and something about it makes you feel as fumbling and bashful as if it was your first time.
he shudders, with his whole body, lifts his hips up into your hands- he weighs practically nothing in your grip, endlessly pliable and beautiful and sighing yeah, good girl, that's it.
it's- your face burns. you are- you should be- you are a predator. you're built to dominate. you're twice his size. he's got you wrapped around his little finger and he grins real sharp and sweet about it, hooks his fingers in your horns and pulls.
(you could snap him in half like this. you're wearing lingerie. god, this is better than drinking.)
he moans, not like he's putting it on but like he's really- he's actually- your head is spinning, nearly, and his sweat is on your skin, his hands tugging handfuls of your hair, his needleprick nails sinking into your back-
'fuck,' his breath in your ear, the slick mess of you inside him, 'fuck, yeah, good girl, that's so good,' he kisses you, he kisses you all tongue and spit and he takes your lip between his teeth and and and
(the pain is so white-hot and gorey, the sort of ache that you know will be bloody before you see it, the sort of ache that has you worried about red stains on the white dress, that you don't- you aren't thinking right- you don't even usually finish when you're wearing a strap-)
(you whine into his mouth and he bites down and you understand the french phrase more completely than you ever have.)
'fuck,' he says, breathless, and when you sort yourself out, find your hands and mouth and pounding heart, he's got blood running down his chin and it isn't his. you're still inside him. you're still catching your breath. your fingerprints left ink-dark bruises on his hips and he's dragging the sleeve of his shirt over his face. 'you really are a painslut.'
he says it like he's exhausted, and like it's endearing. your spent dick twitches anyway.
'c'mere,' he says, and there is the rearranging, the gentle manhandling, the swipe of his jacket-sleeve over your mouth, the way he undresses in a fluid motion that you envy, sitting cum-drunk and stupid in an outfit with too many small parts.
'aren't you supposed to sleep in this shit anyway,' you mumble, as he's making a real go at peeling you out of it- he barks a laugh, rough and tired at the edges, and he tells you if you really want to- at least take your fucking strap off.
'god, you're stupid,' he says, and he's smoking in his boxers with his hair barely out of place while you're still half-dressed and trying not to drip blood on the sheets and you shouldn't like it but you do.
'it's lucky you're pretty,' he says, and you're tired, you really are kinda stupid, and so you just grin at him and lay your head on his chest and agree. it's a nice thing, to be pretty and dumb and wanted.
(in the morning there is paperwork and monotony and the vast majority of it requires you to be in charge and put-together and the least amount of dumb possible, but right now he's making a space for you and lifting his cigarette to your mouth and giving you that sappysweet smile that normally makes you cringe and yeah, it's a nice thing. it's really probably better to sleep than dwell on it. aren't you tired?)