All the Devils Are Here - The Social Network - girl!Eduardo/girl!Mark - R
Title: All the Devils Are Here
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: girl!Mark/girl!Eduardo (always-cis-girls genderswap)
Summary: It's mercy, compassion, and forgiveness I lack. Not rationality.
Rating: R
Warnings: Seriously disturbing content including past sexual assault (not by the protagonists), favorable discussion of torture and murder (by a protagonist), and general sociopathy (by everyone).
Word count: ~1600
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, but I doubt Fincher or Sorkin would lay claim to these versions, either; as real people, of course, the characters in this story never existed. The summary is a line from Kill Bill: Vol. 1. Thanks to you-know-who for aiding and abetting.
She brought a change of clothes and the warehouse has an outdoor shower, but it's not much more than a faucet pointed diagonally downward, enough to rinse off the worst of the blood and brains and bone shards. She still needs soap and shampoo and preferably a nail brush.
Before she leaves, Eduarda goes back into the warehouse and inspects the space. The floor is clean, the tarp rolled up and folded into the drum along with the bloodied mass of former humanity whose name, she decides, does not merit sullying her thoughts from this point on. The disposal company will arrive in the morning and remove that drum along with nineteen of its outwardly identical peers, and it will sit, filled with acid and now nothing else, in a lead-lined vault until the end of time. Eduarda pours bleach down the drains, just to be safe, and then turns off the lights. She's done.
She'd like to drive the Mercedes-nothing flashy tonight, just a silver SLS inconspicuous among so many others in northern California-home with the top down, feel the wind and the cool air on her skin, but it's probably best to be conservative, not quite recognizable. She turns her iPod to an Albinoni concerto, elegant and stately, and starts the trip home to Mark. It's about an hour and a half from Stockton to Palo Alto, and there's not much traffic at this hour, mainly long-haul truckers and a few lone cars on errands known only to the person inside. Eduarda makes her way through the set of Albinoni, and it's a Sibelius symphony, also elegant but low and tense, that guides her over the Dumbarton Bridge and into East Palo Alto. Almost home. She hopes Mark is asleep-she sleeps better now than she did in the immediate aftermath, but it's still not ideal. Eduarda is going to wake her, though, because Mark will want to know.
She rearms the security system and walks through the house as quietly as she can. She opens the door to their bedroom and doesn’t need a light to find her way across the floor: as she does so often these days, Mark has left one on. Mark is asleep, her breathing steady and undisturbed. Eduarda wants to walk over and kiss her between her shoulder blades, but Mark sleeps lightly now and there’s no reason to wake her up yet.
In the shower, anything that remains is washed off and away: when Eduarda gets in bed, all Mark will smell is geranium conditioner and lemon-basil shower gel. (Mark likes to expound disbelievingly on how much they cost but also has a habit of burying her nose in Eduarda's belly or in her armpit or between her breasts and telling her how good she smells.) Eduarda dries herself, rubs on lotion whose scent matches the shower gel, and finds the La Perla nightgown that Mark likes so much.
Eduarda turns off the light-Mark is fine to sleep in the dark as long as she's here-and climbs into bed beside her. Mark shifts in her sleep, and Eduarda runs her fingers through Mark’s curls. I love you, she thinks, because Mark always makes a face when she says it. Mark turns over and opens her eyes. "Hey, baby," she says sleepily. She reaches up for a kiss, which Eduarda gives her gladly. Mark settles in beside her, arm across Eduarda. "Where were you?"
Eduarda is sure Mark knows exactly where she was-they hadn't discussed the day's agenda directly, but they didn't really need to-and she answers, "I paid someone a visit."
Mark looks up at her and smiles, and moves to rest her head on Eduarda's shoulder. A good position for storytelling-they often talk at night like this. "Yeah? Tell me about it."
“The generalities or the specifics?” Eduarda asks.
“Definitely the specifics,” Mark says, and settles in.
Eduarda wraps both arms around Mark and tangles her fingers in Mark’s hair again. “I started simple,” she says. “I wanted to begin with knives, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to be carrying too much with me, so I used razor blades instead. I kept some sharp, but I chipped the edges of a few others ahead of time. That was enough for a while, but I didn’t want him to lose too much blood-if he passed out from blood loss, the whole endeavor would have been pointless and I might as well have shot him in an alley.”
Mark nods. “Too fast. That would have been disappointing.”
“I had a couple of lighters with me-not the little kind that people use for cigarettes, but the big kind that you use for grills and things, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, the long ones.”
“Right. A butane torch would have been preferable, but, again, too much to carry. I wanted to be able to fit everything in my bag.”
Mark laughs. “I love the idea of you carting around all this stuff in your Prada.”
“I needed something bigger than a purse,” Eduarda admits. “But it was a Prada-my black briefcase.”
“That might be even better,” Mark says, still sounding amused. “So go on-wait,” she interrupts herself, and now she sounds perturbed. “You didn’t leave him with his balls, did you?”
“No. I had pliers for that. And the razor blades came in handy, too. But you want to know what the best part was?”
“Of course,” Mark says, running her fingertips idly over Eduarda’s arm.
“I made him look me in the eye-right in the eye-and I told him why he had to die.”
“What’d you say?”
Eduarda’s arms tighten around Mark, and her voice comes out more quietly than she intends. “I said that he’d hurt the person I love most in the world-I know you’re making that face, shut up, it’s true. I said that he had hurt you, and for that alone he wasn’t permitted to live, but he’d also probably done it to other people and he would continue to do it if he was alive. And that couldn’t be allowed to happen.”
Mark rubs her cheek against Eduarda’s shoulder. “I do wish you’d taken me along.”
Eduarda kisses the top of her head. “You needed the sleep.”
“I could have taken a nap after work if you’d told me what the plans were,” Mark protests, but she doesn’t actually sound mad. “So did he say he was sorry?” she asks.
“At first I think he was just sorry I caught him.”
“Of course,” Mark says, with the tone of voice that usually accompanies an eye-roll.
“But he was apologizing by the end. He was screaming how sorry he was, and how he’d never do it again-which was true!-and then after a while he just begged. I don’t think he could scream any more. He begged me to kill him, and I did, after a while.”
Mark shifts suddenly and looks up at her, and though the room is dark, Eduarda can see the frown on her face. “But what about the body? You could get in trouble!”
Eduarda smiles. “Industrial acid is really useful for certain things. There isn’t a body, anymore.”
“Alright,” Mark acquiesces. “As long as you won’t get in trouble. I would buy you out of it, but it would be complicated.”
Eduarda would buy herself out of it, if it came to that, but she doesn’t voice that thought: Mark likes to promise her things. She’s good at delivering, too, but Eduarda went to great lengths to make sure that Mark wouldn’t have to, for this. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” Eduarda assures her. “I just wanted us both to know that the problem was taken care of, and sometimes the only way to be certain of that is to do it yourself.” Impulsively, she pulls Mark close again, holding her as tightly as she can. “He can’t hurt you ever again, querida. Never. Not you or anybody else.”
Mark tucks her head under Eduarda’s chin, and Eduarda feels her nod. “I know.”
“Good,” Eduarda says, stroking Mark’s hair, letting the ringlets encircle her fingers. “As long as you know that.”
Mark reaches up to cup one of Eduarda’s breasts through the sheer lace of the nightgown. Her agile fingertips circle Eduarda’s nipple, but with no real intent. “You’re wearing that nightgown I like,” she observes.
“You just like it because you can feel me up without having to take it off,” Eduarda retorts.
“That’s a definite positive. But mostly I like it because you look hot in it.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Eduarda says. Mark is in some aspects fantastically complicated and in others not complicated at all, and one of those is her obvious and continual pleasure in looking at Eduarda.
“Let’s both take tomorrow off,” Mark says. “You know, in celebration.”
Eduarda was already planning to-she’s too exhausted to wake up again in three hours-but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to convince Mark. She runs her hand up and down Mark’s spine, and Mark sighs contentedly. “That sounds good to me,” Eduarda says. “We can stay in, maybe. Do something about those bags under your eyes.”
“Whatever you want,” Mark says, and yawns. Good; she needs the sleep. She cranes her neck to kiss Eduarda on the lips, then nestles back into her arms again. “You had the strenuous day today.”
Mark is smiling a little as she falls asleep.
“Anything for you, love,” Eduarda whispers.
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: girl!Mark/girl!Eduardo (always-cis-girls genderswap)
Summary: It's mercy, compassion, and forgiveness I lack. Not rationality.
Rating: R
Warnings: Seriously disturbing content including past sexual assault (not by the protagonists), favorable discussion of torture and murder (by a protagonist), and general sociopathy (by everyone).
Word count: ~1600
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, but I doubt Fincher or Sorkin would lay claim to these versions, either; as real people, of course, the characters in this story never existed. The summary is a line from Kill Bill: Vol. 1. Thanks to you-know-who for aiding and abetting.
She brought a change of clothes and the warehouse has an outdoor shower, but it's not much more than a faucet pointed diagonally downward, enough to rinse off the worst of the blood and brains and bone shards. She still needs soap and shampoo and preferably a nail brush.
Before she leaves, Eduarda goes back into the warehouse and inspects the space. The floor is clean, the tarp rolled up and folded into the drum along with the bloodied mass of former humanity whose name, she decides, does not merit sullying her thoughts from this point on. The disposal company will arrive in the morning and remove that drum along with nineteen of its outwardly identical peers, and it will sit, filled with acid and now nothing else, in a lead-lined vault until the end of time. Eduarda pours bleach down the drains, just to be safe, and then turns off the lights. She's done.
She'd like to drive the Mercedes-nothing flashy tonight, just a silver SLS inconspicuous among so many others in northern California-home with the top down, feel the wind and the cool air on her skin, but it's probably best to be conservative, not quite recognizable. She turns her iPod to an Albinoni concerto, elegant and stately, and starts the trip home to Mark. It's about an hour and a half from Stockton to Palo Alto, and there's not much traffic at this hour, mainly long-haul truckers and a few lone cars on errands known only to the person inside. Eduarda makes her way through the set of Albinoni, and it's a Sibelius symphony, also elegant but low and tense, that guides her over the Dumbarton Bridge and into East Palo Alto. Almost home. She hopes Mark is asleep-she sleeps better now than she did in the immediate aftermath, but it's still not ideal. Eduarda is going to wake her, though, because Mark will want to know.
She rearms the security system and walks through the house as quietly as she can. She opens the door to their bedroom and doesn’t need a light to find her way across the floor: as she does so often these days, Mark has left one on. Mark is asleep, her breathing steady and undisturbed. Eduarda wants to walk over and kiss her between her shoulder blades, but Mark sleeps lightly now and there’s no reason to wake her up yet.
In the shower, anything that remains is washed off and away: when Eduarda gets in bed, all Mark will smell is geranium conditioner and lemon-basil shower gel. (Mark likes to expound disbelievingly on how much they cost but also has a habit of burying her nose in Eduarda's belly or in her armpit or between her breasts and telling her how good she smells.) Eduarda dries herself, rubs on lotion whose scent matches the shower gel, and finds the La Perla nightgown that Mark likes so much.
Eduarda turns off the light-Mark is fine to sleep in the dark as long as she's here-and climbs into bed beside her. Mark shifts in her sleep, and Eduarda runs her fingers through Mark’s curls. I love you, she thinks, because Mark always makes a face when she says it. Mark turns over and opens her eyes. "Hey, baby," she says sleepily. She reaches up for a kiss, which Eduarda gives her gladly. Mark settles in beside her, arm across Eduarda. "Where were you?"
Eduarda is sure Mark knows exactly where she was-they hadn't discussed the day's agenda directly, but they didn't really need to-and she answers, "I paid someone a visit."
Mark looks up at her and smiles, and moves to rest her head on Eduarda's shoulder. A good position for storytelling-they often talk at night like this. "Yeah? Tell me about it."
“The generalities or the specifics?” Eduarda asks.
“Definitely the specifics,” Mark says, and settles in.
Eduarda wraps both arms around Mark and tangles her fingers in Mark’s hair again. “I started simple,” she says. “I wanted to begin with knives, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to be carrying too much with me, so I used razor blades instead. I kept some sharp, but I chipped the edges of a few others ahead of time. That was enough for a while, but I didn’t want him to lose too much blood-if he passed out from blood loss, the whole endeavor would have been pointless and I might as well have shot him in an alley.”
Mark nods. “Too fast. That would have been disappointing.”
“I had a couple of lighters with me-not the little kind that people use for cigarettes, but the big kind that you use for grills and things, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, the long ones.”
“Right. A butane torch would have been preferable, but, again, too much to carry. I wanted to be able to fit everything in my bag.”
Mark laughs. “I love the idea of you carting around all this stuff in your Prada.”
“I needed something bigger than a purse,” Eduarda admits. “But it was a Prada-my black briefcase.”
“That might be even better,” Mark says, still sounding amused. “So go on-wait,” she interrupts herself, and now she sounds perturbed. “You didn’t leave him with his balls, did you?”
“No. I had pliers for that. And the razor blades came in handy, too. But you want to know what the best part was?”
“Of course,” Mark says, running her fingertips idly over Eduarda’s arm.
“I made him look me in the eye-right in the eye-and I told him why he had to die.”
“What’d you say?”
Eduarda’s arms tighten around Mark, and her voice comes out more quietly than she intends. “I said that he’d hurt the person I love most in the world-I know you’re making that face, shut up, it’s true. I said that he had hurt you, and for that alone he wasn’t permitted to live, but he’d also probably done it to other people and he would continue to do it if he was alive. And that couldn’t be allowed to happen.”
Mark rubs her cheek against Eduarda’s shoulder. “I do wish you’d taken me along.”
Eduarda kisses the top of her head. “You needed the sleep.”
“I could have taken a nap after work if you’d told me what the plans were,” Mark protests, but she doesn’t actually sound mad. “So did he say he was sorry?” she asks.
“At first I think he was just sorry I caught him.”
“Of course,” Mark says, with the tone of voice that usually accompanies an eye-roll.
“But he was apologizing by the end. He was screaming how sorry he was, and how he’d never do it again-which was true!-and then after a while he just begged. I don’t think he could scream any more. He begged me to kill him, and I did, after a while.”
Mark shifts suddenly and looks up at her, and though the room is dark, Eduarda can see the frown on her face. “But what about the body? You could get in trouble!”
Eduarda smiles. “Industrial acid is really useful for certain things. There isn’t a body, anymore.”
“Alright,” Mark acquiesces. “As long as you won’t get in trouble. I would buy you out of it, but it would be complicated.”
Eduarda would buy herself out of it, if it came to that, but she doesn’t voice that thought: Mark likes to promise her things. She’s good at delivering, too, but Eduarda went to great lengths to make sure that Mark wouldn’t have to, for this. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” Eduarda assures her. “I just wanted us both to know that the problem was taken care of, and sometimes the only way to be certain of that is to do it yourself.” Impulsively, she pulls Mark close again, holding her as tightly as she can. “He can’t hurt you ever again, querida. Never. Not you or anybody else.”
Mark tucks her head under Eduarda’s chin, and Eduarda feels her nod. “I know.”
“Good,” Eduarda says, stroking Mark’s hair, letting the ringlets encircle her fingers. “As long as you know that.”
Mark reaches up to cup one of Eduarda’s breasts through the sheer lace of the nightgown. Her agile fingertips circle Eduarda’s nipple, but with no real intent. “You’re wearing that nightgown I like,” she observes.
“You just like it because you can feel me up without having to take it off,” Eduarda retorts.
“That’s a definite positive. But mostly I like it because you look hot in it.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Eduarda says. Mark is in some aspects fantastically complicated and in others not complicated at all, and one of those is her obvious and continual pleasure in looking at Eduarda.
“Let’s both take tomorrow off,” Mark says. “You know, in celebration.”
Eduarda was already planning to-she’s too exhausted to wake up again in three hours-but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to convince Mark. She runs her hand up and down Mark’s spine, and Mark sighs contentedly. “That sounds good to me,” Eduarda says. “We can stay in, maybe. Do something about those bags under your eyes.”
“Whatever you want,” Mark says, and yawns. Good; she needs the sleep. She cranes her neck to kiss Eduarda on the lips, then nestles back into her arms again. “You had the strenuous day today.”
Mark is smiling a little as she falls asleep.
“Anything for you, love,” Eduarda whispers.