In another life, Joan liked to be experimental. Now, Joan feels like a skeleton, somehow uglier than the creature she was before. She wants to be greedy, because she'll never do this again. Joan crawls onto the bed more fully, getting on her hands and knees. She looks over her shoulder at him, curious. Is he a kinder lover than he is a man?
His gaze sweeps the column of her spine, to her freckle-dusted shoulders. He searches her eyes for the truth even though he doesn't disbelieve her. Hap runs a hand along her thigh, setting himself between her legs.
"If that's how you like it," he says, softer than any words he's uttered all evening. Hap positions the head of his cock at her cunt, coats it in her arousal. He braces his other hand on her hip, looking at her as long as she'll look at him, and pushes in slowly. The pace will soon be unforgiving, their demands of each other intemperate, and his promise that he hasn't forgotten is in the strength of his grip.
She keeps her eyes on him for as long as she's able, but the slide of his cock is overwhelming if only for its novelty. Her back curves and her head drops; she's left moaning into the air, rocking backward into his thrusts. She wants to be overwhelmed, to stop thinking entirely. He accomplishes this goal for her, and at some point-- she's not sure when-- she drops to her elbows, her back a long slope up to him.
She repeats herself, please, please, wrapped up in the comfort of having her requests finally met.
Hap's no less desperate to stop thinking. To purge his mind of Prairie, of Leon, of the despicable tryst he's in the middle of. Soon he can't tell whose rhythm is meeting whose. A cacophony of wanting flesh, her heat surrounding him, spreading into him. Being in sync with someone like this is intoxicating. He grips her with both hands, nails digging into her hips, broad fingers bruising her waist. Labored breaths, angered moans, start to drown out the relentless slap of their bodies.
As the pressure mounts, he can't help himself. He reaches around her waist and pulls her to him, back to chest. Hap holds her tight, breast groped, hand locked around her hip. Her hair snags on his lips, his mouth dragging along her ear as he thrusts into her from behind and below.
"Joan," he growls, accusing himself with her name.
Edited (autocorrect wanton to wanting and improve my sentence, phone? How dare you) 2024-08-18 18:23 (UTC)
Joan lets herself sink into this feeling, the best part of sex: the sensation of being wanted, of being able to give someone pleasure. She pants, breathing hard the whole time, but her gasps become sobs when he gets closer, when she has to support some of his weight. Her arms shake a little, lost in fatigue and desire. She doesn't want this to ever end, but it's about to.
"Come in me." It's stupid for a variety of reasons, but she wants it.
It's less risky than she thinks, and that's the signal that he should put a stop to this right now. It should sicken him. It, along with his revulsion with himself, brings him closer than everything before. There is no deeper desire she could express for him. Hate feels like love as his hand slides up to her neck. His head drops, mouth agape in the crook of her shoulder as he fuck her recklessly.
Behind closed eyes, instead of nothing, he sees it all. Wheat blonde hair, the flash of a revolver, Joan's throat flexing with shame the first time she peeled her shirt off for him. Hap comes with a guttural cry, buried inside her, his careful grasp of her throat the only tether to the man he wants to be himself.
She likes the feel of his breath on her skin; she likes the way he slackens against her even more. Slowly, carefully, she settles flat onto the mattress, dampening it with her sweat and shame. He did this of his own accord, though. She didn't tempt him into anything-- she's not tempting. And he did say her name; he couldn't be thinking about someone else and saying her name, right?
She decides Hap is both smart enough and duplicitous enough to multitask while fucking her hard enough to make her sore. But maybe that's just because she's been untouched for so long. Underneath his comforting weight, she lets her eyes close, wishing he'd believe her if she pretended to fall asleep, that he'd care enough to let her rest before marching downstairs with come dribbling down her leg.
The guilt is nearly instant, but it begins as a trickle. Hap listens to her with his body; when she doesn't throw him off her, he follows her down and rests partially atop her like a lover, slipping free of her and softening. He noses at the nape of her neck as the cold air on his cock triggers pinpricks of shame in his gut. His touch smooths down her shoulder blade, the back of her arm. He's sorry. He's thankful.
"You don't have to worry," are the words he chooses to burden her with first. Just above a whisper, a half-rasp after their exertion. He means to go on and tell her the chances of impregnating her are below 1%, but it sits sourly on his tongue, cruelly clinical. He inhales their mingled sweat and lets out a deep breath.
"You can stay up here tonight. I'll leave unless you don't want me to." He's ready to move off her, unable to imagine she wouldn't want to be alone.
She doesn't have to worry, because he'll let her stay the night? It shocks her into a reaction she wasn't planning to give, her head turning, eyes wide. She stares at a man disarmed, totally vulnerable in this moment. She could wrestle him to the floor, she could stab out his eyes with her thumbs. She could rip off his dick.
He's too calculating for this to be an accident. He's showing himself to her, disarmed, for a purpose. Everything has a reason with Hap; it's why his presence is to enticing. Fucking her, showing her that he finds her attractive, disarming himself, giving her what she wants-- it's a lesson. He can be kind. He's sorry for grabbing him.
Careful like a deer is careful, feeling as clumsy as a rhino, she leans in to kiss his mouth with her chapped lips.
Hap is trying to reclaim himself. Once again through her. He can't treat her like a subject after what he did, because he doesn't do this with his subjects. He would never. There was an unacknowledged security to Prairie's rejection of him, in that sense. Maybe that's why he couldn't stop himself from wanting her.
In the split second as she shifts to face him, he braces himself for bewildered loathing. Raw, searing disgust. A brittle mask over sorrow. And his heart pitches with anticipation; he could treat her like a subject then. Subjects look at him like that all the time.
He's captivated by the candor in her eyes. A glistening open wound. Hap ensnares her kiss. The tension of readying himself becomes the tension of remaining still, infinitesimal and frantic like the buzzing of atoms.
But this is too much. Whatever kindness he's trying to show her, she's misunderstood again. Her gut feels cold and heavy; she moves away, looking down. How can she be so awful that her kidnapper rejects her? She stews in self-pity, moving quietly away.
She curls her arms around herself, a transparently self-comforting gesture, and stares at the mattress, her forehead pressed into it. "Can I have a shower? Or a bath?"
Her trust — her hope — flickers out. Hap swallows hard, bereft. She has more right than ever to deny him. It will keep him awake, wondering why. The trigger. The core. The rest, he understands. It's his doing.
His hand slides down her back, and off.
"Yes." If that's all she'll accept. "I'll get it ready."
It's difficult to look away from her, as well as a comfort. Apart, with a task ahead of him, he can ground himself, even though a miasma of eager self-recriminations surround him. Hap gets up and leaves the room without another word.
He retrieves a pair of pajama bottoms from his room, then gets underway. After cleaning himself off and dressing in the guest bathroom, he goes about stripping it of anything that could present a danger, an escape, or both. Chemicals, implements, all bath towels but one. The window is a narrow rectangle set near the ceiling. He can't do anything about the glass, or the medicine cabinet mirror, but keep an ear open.
It's not ideal, but Hap gave his word. She can't lock him out, at least. He didn't skip this one when fitting the doors with keypad locks.
Before returning, he checks the state of her on his computer monitor. It grants him insight into whether or not to pause between announcing himself with a knock and opening the door to her room.
Once Hap leaves, Joan... doesn't move at all, just breathes into the mattress and feels her breath reflected back at her face. She realizes after a minute that she's wasting her time. He's still going to send her back down. She wraps herself in a sweaty blanket and walks over to the far wall, staring out the window, fogging it with her breath. Intermittently, she wipes the window down.
She can't decide how she feels. She can never decide how she feels about him. Acceptance, then rejection. Interest, and more rejection. Whenever she does something good, he turns around to step on her throat. It makes him feel unattainable, exotic in a way that sets her teeth on edge. She thinks she hates him. She thinks she's as close to loving him as she's ever felt for anybody. She wants to make him come again; she never wants to see him again. If she could, she'd leave simply to exorcise these feelings from her body.
The image in the computer monitor is a woman standing very near the window, not moving at all except to breathe.
Her stillness could fascinate him. He's not going to make that mistake twice in one night. Hap takes her resilience for what it is and respects it by addressing it as nothing else.
A knock, and then the door is opened. Peripherally, he notes where their clothes are strewn. Distantly, he wants to grab his glasses.
While her back is turned, he glances at the matte gleam of cum streaking her thigh.
"Come with me," he says in the commanding monotone he uses in front of the other subjects.
She ignores him until the last possible moment, turns only when he addresses her. In her mind, that's the voice of common address. It's what everyone gets, and her only sometimes. Oh, she thinks, I'm an idiot. Hap is just like every other man in the world. Once he's fucked her, he's lost interest.
It's a huge relief. It means she's no longer interesting enough to punish. She's not going back down forever. He just wants her to bathe so he doesn't have to clean her himself. She turns around, no longer caring about her own nakedness, and walks calmly at his side and a little before, just like always. "Are you gonna handcuff me?"
"Do you want me to?" The potential for flirtation is a dimension away from them. Hap isn't even sparked to wonder if that's something she likes, or just something she dreams about. He's thinking in variables and asking for information.
Her nose wrinkles. She hasn't considered flirtation either, often forgets that 'kink' isn't just a way of describing hair. "No. It just seems like something you'd do."
Being allowed to use her own bathroom is an absurd privilege, if- oh. "You're going to keep the door open, aren't you."
"I have to," he commiserates. "It's that or keep coming in to check on you."
And putting her on a timer is too systematic. It rings of establishing a process, and tonight is an anomaly. An aberration. She's learned she doesn't want what misery and isolation coerced her into believing she did. And whatever he wants is of no consequence, the same as it's always been. His worse instincts will go back to sleep once they don't have hers to play with.
"As long as you don't sit on the toilet and watch," she murmurs, dragging her hand down the side of her face. It's a lucky thing she no longer feels any shame around him-- he watches her on a 24 hour camera. He's probably seen her pee. He's now been inside her. He is, currently, the person on the planet who knows her most intimately. It shouldn't make her feel safe, but it does.
"Do I get shampoo? Or soap? I'll wash my hair with soap, I've done it before."
"There's soap." Hap left the door open, and pushes it wider ajar as they come to it. He peers into the bathroom. warily, as though he's ushering her into a den of slumbering wolves.
Hap stands aside, allowing her in. He lingers as she familiarizes herself with the space, reluctant to leave her.
He knowingly opens himself up to mockery, warning her, "Don't make me regret this."
Her brow furrows, her jaw tightens. Her hands curl into fists. Standing in a bathroom, naked and used, with a clothed man who eats hot food and drinks ice water, and he acts like she has the upper hand?
"What have I ever done to you? I'm sorry being mouthy has you running scared."
She turns away, walking toward the tub, her shoulders hunched with embarrassment.
Hap scoffs. Her jab puts him at ease as it roles him. That's all he needs. Joan behaving like Joan. Maybe later he'll use her comment to prop himself up. He's not the one who cowers from tenderness.
He leaves her, fingers catching on the door to drag it with him a couple of meaningless inches. Then it's back to her room, to gather his clothes, deposited directly into a laundry hamper, and hers, folded and left on the chair he'd occupied. (Her underwear, he deigns to add to the wash.) His glasses are recovered, as well as the electrodes dotting the carpet. Provided the time, he strips the mattress and dresses it with fresh bedding.
Hap peers in on his trips down the hall, monitoring her incidentally.
Joan just lets herself float in the water for a hundred count. In a world without clocks, she's begun counting time by her breaths, counting up one on every inhale and exhale. She'd like to luxuriate in the water for hours, but Hap's patience isn't infinite, or very long at that. She sits up eventually and scrubs her body as hard as she can, wishing she had a fucking loofah or something. The corner of her towel does just as well, until her body is red and her hair is clean for the first time in what feels like years.
The water is a soupy shade of brown when she gets out of it. The sum total of months (maybe a year?) of suffering adds up to sweat and dirt in a few gallons of water, and come swirling in the drain. She washes herself up, dries off as best she can, and tries to catch Hap's eye as he looks in on her. "You a peeping Tom, now? Seems kinda beneath you."
Hap has set a load to start spinning in the washing machine. He's not going to sleep tonight, so he might as well. She'll have her panties back by morning; hopefully she sleeps so he can drop them off without having to put up with another biting remark.
Like the one she gives him on his way down the hall. Hap stops, seeing she's ready to return to her room.
"Thank you for not taking too much time in there." The temptation to push her luck must have been incredible. He could use a shower himself and intends to take one as soon as she's locked away. He gestures down the corridor.
Hap is whiteknuckling his facade of dispassion. Scoured of soil, skin red in patches from vigorous scrubbing, she's a damning vision. Colorless for the dirt that's been lost, her collarbone nearly punctures paper thin flesh. Tendrils of damp, deep red hair streak her shoulders like blood. And the bruise on her arm, a spiteful burst of frenzy.
It's at that moment that Joan turns her head and looks at herself in the mirror. She starts in surprise. She flinches on instinct. If she had any beauty before, she might be sad, but this is just more insult. "Christ," she says, "I hope whoever you were thinking of was hot."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"I like it like this."
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"If that's how you like it," he says, softer than any words he's uttered all evening. Hap positions the head of his cock at her cunt, coats it in her arousal. He braces his other hand on her hip, looking at her as long as she'll look at him, and pushes in slowly. The pace will soon be unforgiving, their demands of each other intemperate, and his promise that he hasn't forgotten is in the strength of his grip.
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She repeats herself, please, please, wrapped up in the comfort of having her requests finally met.
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As the pressure mounts, he can't help himself. He reaches around her waist and pulls her to him, back to chest. Hap holds her tight, breast groped, hand locked around her hip. Her hair snags on his lips, his mouth dragging along her ear as he thrusts into her from behind and below.
"Joan," he growls, accusing himself with her name.
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"Come in me." It's stupid for a variety of reasons, but she wants it.
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Behind closed eyes, instead of nothing, he sees it all. Wheat blonde hair, the flash of a revolver, Joan's throat flexing with shame the first time she peeled her shirt off for him. Hap comes with a guttural cry, buried inside her, his careful grasp of her throat the only tether to the man he wants to be himself.
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She decides Hap is both smart enough and duplicitous enough to multitask while fucking her hard enough to make her sore. But maybe that's just because she's been untouched for so long. Underneath his comforting weight, she lets her eyes close, wishing he'd believe her if she pretended to fall asleep, that he'd care enough to let her rest before marching downstairs with come dribbling down her leg.
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"You don't have to worry," are the words he chooses to burden her with first. Just above a whisper, a half-rasp after their exertion. He means to go on and tell her the chances of impregnating her are below 1%, but it sits sourly on his tongue, cruelly clinical. He inhales their mingled sweat and lets out a deep breath.
"You can stay up here tonight. I'll leave unless you don't want me to." He's ready to move off her, unable to imagine she wouldn't want to be alone.
cw gore imagery.
He's too calculating for this to be an accident. He's showing himself to her, disarmed, for a purpose. Everything has a reason with Hap; it's why his presence is to enticing. Fucking her, showing her that he finds her attractive, disarming himself, giving her what she wants-- it's a lesson. He can be kind. He's sorry for grabbing him.
Careful like a deer is careful, feeling as clumsy as a rhino, she leans in to kiss his mouth with her chapped lips.
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In the split second as she shifts to face him, he braces himself for bewildered loathing. Raw, searing disgust. A brittle mask over sorrow. And his heart pitches with anticipation; he could treat her like a subject then. Subjects look at him like that all the time.
He's captivated by the candor in her eyes. A glistening open wound. Hap ensnares her kiss. The tension of readying himself becomes the tension of remaining still, infinitesimal and frantic like the buzzing of atoms.
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She curls her arms around herself, a transparently self-comforting gesture, and stares at the mattress, her forehead pressed into it. "Can I have a shower? Or a bath?"
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His hand slides down her back, and off.
"Yes." If that's all she'll accept. "I'll get it ready."
It's difficult to look away from her, as well as a comfort. Apart, with a task ahead of him, he can ground himself, even though a miasma of eager self-recriminations surround him. Hap gets up and leaves the room without another word.
He retrieves a pair of pajama bottoms from his room, then gets underway. After cleaning himself off and dressing in the guest bathroom, he goes about stripping it of anything that could present a danger, an escape, or both. Chemicals, implements, all bath towels but one. The window is a narrow rectangle set near the ceiling. He can't do anything about the glass, or the medicine cabinet mirror, but keep an ear open.
It's not ideal, but Hap gave his word. She can't lock him out, at least. He didn't skip this one when fitting the doors with keypad locks.
Before returning, he checks the state of her on his computer monitor. It grants him insight into whether or not to pause between announcing himself with a knock and opening the door to her room.
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She can't decide how she feels. She can never decide how she feels about him. Acceptance, then rejection. Interest, and more rejection. Whenever she does something good, he turns around to step on her throat. It makes him feel unattainable, exotic in a way that sets her teeth on edge. She thinks she hates him. She thinks she's as close to loving him as she's ever felt for anybody. She wants to make him come again; she never wants to see him again. If she could, she'd leave simply to exorcise these feelings from her body.
The image in the computer monitor is a woman standing very near the window, not moving at all except to breathe.
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A knock, and then the door is opened. Peripherally, he notes where their clothes are strewn. Distantly, he wants to grab his glasses.
While her back is turned, he glances at the matte gleam of cum streaking her thigh.
"Come with me," he says in the commanding monotone he uses in front of the other subjects.
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It's a huge relief. It means she's no longer interesting enough to punish. She's not going back down forever. He just wants her to bathe so he doesn't have to clean her himself. She turns around, no longer caring about her own nakedness, and walks calmly at his side and a little before, just like always. "Are you gonna handcuff me?"
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Does she feel like she might do something?
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Being allowed to use her own bathroom is an absurd privilege, if- oh. "You're going to keep the door open, aren't you."
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And putting her on a timer is too systematic. It rings of establishing a process, and tonight is an anomaly. An aberration. She's learned she doesn't want what misery and isolation coerced her into believing she did. And whatever he wants is of no consequence, the same as it's always been. His worse instincts will go back to sleep once they don't have hers to play with.
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"Do I get shampoo? Or soap? I'll wash my hair with soap, I've done it before."
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Hap stands aside, allowing her in. He lingers as she familiarizes herself with the space, reluctant to leave her.
He knowingly opens himself up to mockery, warning her, "Don't make me regret this."
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"What have I ever done to you? I'm sorry being mouthy has you running scared."
She turns away, walking toward the tub, her shoulders hunched with embarrassment.
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He leaves her, fingers catching on the door to drag it with him a couple of meaningless inches. Then it's back to her room, to gather his clothes, deposited directly into a laundry hamper, and hers, folded and left on the chair he'd occupied. (Her underwear, he deigns to add to the wash.) His glasses are recovered, as well as the electrodes dotting the carpet. Provided the time, he strips the mattress and dresses it with fresh bedding.
Hap peers in on his trips down the hall, monitoring her incidentally.
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The water is a soupy shade of brown when she gets out of it. The sum total of months (maybe a year?) of suffering adds up to sweat and dirt in a few gallons of water, and come swirling in the drain. She washes herself up, dries off as best she can, and tries to catch Hap's eye as he looks in on her. "You a peeping Tom, now? Seems kinda beneath you."
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Like the one she gives him on his way down the hall. Hap stops, seeing she's ready to return to her room.
"Thank you for not taking too much time in there." The temptation to push her luck must have been incredible. He could use a shower himself and intends to take one as soon as she's locked away. He gestures down the corridor.
Hap is whiteknuckling his facade of dispassion. Scoured of soil, skin red in patches from vigorous scrubbing, she's a damning vision. Colorless for the dirt that's been lost, her collarbone nearly punctures paper thin flesh. Tendrils of damp, deep red hair streak her shoulders like blood. And the bruise on her arm, a spiteful burst of frenzy.
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