Keeley!Fic - Masks (1/1) - Heidi Macavoy/Julian Vaisey
This is the Hump Day Drabble director's cut, put up by special request from leigh_adams
Title: Masks
Word Count: 795
Rating: R
Summary: Sometimes she hates him.
She hates him sometimes, more often than she's ever admitted.
She used to tell him so - in light, lilting tones as she teased him, or in a flash of anger as they argued - but he never believed her, never guessed that it could be true, but she hates him now.
Hates him when he hides from her in his offices or clubs; when he leaves for weeks at a time on business, when he’s so absorbed in work that she slips from his mind completely.
She knows why he escapes that way, understands the needs that drive him, but she still hates it and knows that sometimes he hides from her on purpose.
She hates his endless intensity, his inability to ever relax. Everything about him is overwhelming. The world is a battle and he never lets down his guard. He exhausts her, and she wishes that he could stop fighting for a little while, stop plotting, stop clinging desperately to all that is his for fear of losing it.
She wants to just be with him sometimes, but she knows his mind never stops working.
She wants to scream at him. Force him to just let go of the brutal hold he has on the world, but she knows he can't, and she hates how weak and helpless this makes her.
Blame can be placed on both sides, but she’s never hated herself, only him. Sometimes.
He always comes to her at night. And sometimes she hates that too.
He comes to their bed much later than she does, turns out the light, moves under the covers, doesn’t speak, rolls over until he’s above her.
And at times she hates the weight of his hard, hot body, the press of his bare skin against hers, the skillful touch of his elegant hands.
She strokes her fingers down the curve of his shoulder, the tight muscles of his back, the familiar ridges of his spine, the strong contours of his thighs. She caresses him and sometimes hates the way he shudders in response.
It always feels like he’s pressing her into the mattress, like he’s everywhere, like she can’t escape from his warm, fast breath or from his glinting eyes in the dark room.
She hates that he never says a word as his mouth trails down her throat, hovering over her rabbiting pulse. She hates the overpowering silence as he takes one of her nipples in his wet mouth and flicks it with his tongue. Hates the accelerating rhythm of his breathing as his hand moves from her belly to between her thighs.
She doesn’t always understand why she feels a heavy clench in her gut when he slides inside her, when he closes his eyes as she clenches around him; the hard tension of his body often frightens her, and her whimpers in the dark aren’t always from pleasure as he starts to thrust into her over and over again.
She hates how powerless she feels in the wake of it, how she arches and clutches in response.
Hates that sometimes she begs for it.
Hates how he always starts to shudder, meeting her eyes in the shadows of the room. And how she can read what his eyes are telling her.
And then he begins to grunt, more like an animal than a man. But he never shapes any words; the articulate scion of wealth and privilege completely speechless as he fucks her, as he spreads her legs wider for him, as he chokes back whatever word is on his lips as he comes.
But the worst is afterward, when he rolls away to his side of the bed, panting and closing in on himself, the distance making her throat burn with unshed tears.
She hates that the world believes that she's his mistress, that he uses her merely for sex, that she has no autonomy, no dignity, no sense of self. She hates that everyone has always misunderstood them and that he can't - won't - make them understand.
And she hates how her future is mapped out for her irrevocably because she's chosen to spend it with him.
But she has, so it is.
And she knows, she's always known, the price of his wealth, the price of his ambition, the price of his blood.
She knew it when she chose and sometimes she hates herself for making that choice, but she knows she’d hate herself more if she’d chosen anything else.
He’s at the center of everything and she knows he always will be.
Some would call it weakness, but it’s the hardest thing she’s ever done.
Sometimes she hates him for it, but the masks she wears are so layered that he will never see it.
Title: Masks
Word Count: 795
Rating: R
Summary: Sometimes she hates him.
She hates him sometimes, more often than she's ever admitted.
She used to tell him so - in light, lilting tones as she teased him, or in a flash of anger as they argued - but he never believed her, never guessed that it could be true, but she hates him now.
Hates him when he hides from her in his offices or clubs; when he leaves for weeks at a time on business, when he’s so absorbed in work that she slips from his mind completely.
She knows why he escapes that way, understands the needs that drive him, but she still hates it and knows that sometimes he hides from her on purpose.
She hates his endless intensity, his inability to ever relax. Everything about him is overwhelming. The world is a battle and he never lets down his guard. He exhausts her, and she wishes that he could stop fighting for a little while, stop plotting, stop clinging desperately to all that is his for fear of losing it.
She wants to just be with him sometimes, but she knows his mind never stops working.
She wants to scream at him. Force him to just let go of the brutal hold he has on the world, but she knows he can't, and she hates how weak and helpless this makes her.
Blame can be placed on both sides, but she’s never hated herself, only him. Sometimes.
He always comes to her at night. And sometimes she hates that too.
He comes to their bed much later than she does, turns out the light, moves under the covers, doesn’t speak, rolls over until he’s above her.
And at times she hates the weight of his hard, hot body, the press of his bare skin against hers, the skillful touch of his elegant hands.
She strokes her fingers down the curve of his shoulder, the tight muscles of his back, the familiar ridges of his spine, the strong contours of his thighs. She caresses him and sometimes hates the way he shudders in response.
It always feels like he’s pressing her into the mattress, like he’s everywhere, like she can’t escape from his warm, fast breath or from his glinting eyes in the dark room.
She hates that he never says a word as his mouth trails down her throat, hovering over her rabbiting pulse. She hates the overpowering silence as he takes one of her nipples in his wet mouth and flicks it with his tongue. Hates the accelerating rhythm of his breathing as his hand moves from her belly to between her thighs.
She doesn’t always understand why she feels a heavy clench in her gut when he slides inside her, when he closes his eyes as she clenches around him; the hard tension of his body often frightens her, and her whimpers in the dark aren’t always from pleasure as he starts to thrust into her over and over again.
She hates how powerless she feels in the wake of it, how she arches and clutches in response.
Hates that sometimes she begs for it.
Hates how he always starts to shudder, meeting her eyes in the shadows of the room. And how she can read what his eyes are telling her.
And then he begins to grunt, more like an animal than a man. But he never shapes any words; the articulate scion of wealth and privilege completely speechless as he fucks her, as he spreads her legs wider for him, as he chokes back whatever word is on his lips as he comes.
But the worst is afterward, when he rolls away to his side of the bed, panting and closing in on himself, the distance making her throat burn with unshed tears.
She hates that the world believes that she's his mistress, that he uses her merely for sex, that she has no autonomy, no dignity, no sense of self. She hates that everyone has always misunderstood them and that he can't - won't - make them understand.
And she hates how her future is mapped out for her irrevocably because she's chosen to spend it with him.
But she has, so it is.
And she knows, she's always known, the price of his wealth, the price of his ambition, the price of his blood.
She knew it when she chose and sometimes she hates herself for making that choice, but she knows she’d hate herself more if she’d chosen anything else.
He’s at the center of everything and she knows he always will be.
Some would call it weakness, but it’s the hardest thing she’s ever done.
Sometimes she hates him for it, but the masks she wears are so layered that he will never see it.