[ for a moment, the serrated edge of his own guilt fades. not gone, just out of focus enough that he can think again. mark doesn't love me. he wants to say of course he doesn't, he's mark fucking trevena. mark doesn't love anything but hoarding the secrets of the rich and famous like a dragon sleeping on gold. that, and fucking like dionysus himself in front of his sea of adoring sexual deviants. embry has no shame about the kind of sex he likes to have, but he also doesn't feel the need to perform these acts on a stage.
if isolde is betrothed to him with a neatly inked contract, what is she giving up that mark wants? surely it's not just her family's banking empire. not when mark is sitting on the kind of blackmail that can destabilize governments themselves. ]
If it's any consolation, Isolde, it's not you, it's him. Do you love him?
[ it feels outrageously off color to ask. but she knows him as president moore, which means she saw ash die, she saw his reaction in tandem to greer's, and she saw his acceptance speech. in a way, she's seen more of him than most of the people here.
case in point: the speed at which she arrives to her conclusion. the guilt is back, though now he's fucking humiliated, too. a heady combination. ]
I'm good for it. [ yes. please. ] I don't think there's a lot of people that understand. But you do. Your terms. However you want it to go.
( he embarrassed her, the unfun kind of humiliation. he degraded her and didn't pick up the pieces afterwards, just left her shattered on her father's desk, in her childhood bed. he took something from her that she hoarded as a valuable resource, a physical description of her commitment to god, virgin, and then abandoned her, and told her it was her fault. you don't love a man like that. and yet βΒ it's been years and isolde still knows she'd crawl to him. she'd act like it was an act. she'd pretend, and the pretending would be that she doesn't want to do the things she would do, if he asked.
of course she loves him. of course he'll never return it. some people are born to be pawns β at least isolde is one with a knife. )
okay.
( here's the part where you say, i haven't actually done this before. i'm not a dom. i'm not mark, i'm not maxen βΒ i'm isolde, knives and ice and shadows, and i only know how to suffer.
on the other hand, if the president says he wants a rough hand, what's a knife in his pocket to deny him? )
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no subject
if isolde is betrothed to him with a neatly inked contract, what is she giving up that mark wants? surely it's not just her family's banking empire. not when mark is sitting on the kind of blackmail that can destabilize governments themselves. ]
If it's any consolation, Isolde, it's not you, it's him.
Do you love him?
[ it feels outrageously off color to ask. but she knows him as president moore, which means she saw ash die, she saw his reaction in tandem to greer's, and she saw his acceptance speech. in a way, she's seen more of him than most of the people here.
case in point: the speed at which she arrives to her conclusion. the guilt is back, though now he's fucking humiliated, too. a heady combination. ]
I'm good for it. [ yes. please. ] I don't think there's a lot of people that understand. But you do.
Your terms. However you want it to go.
no subject
i shouldn't.
( he embarrassed her, the unfun kind of humiliation. he degraded her and didn't pick up the pieces afterwards, just left her shattered on her father's desk, in her childhood bed. he took something from her that she hoarded as a valuable resource, a physical description of her commitment to god, virgin, and then abandoned her, and told her it was her fault. you don't love a man like that. and yet βΒ it's been years and isolde still knows she'd crawl to him. she'd act like it was an act. she'd pretend, and the pretending would be that she doesn't want to do the things she would do, if he asked.
of course she loves him. of course he'll never return it. some people are born to be pawns β at least isolde is one with a knife. )
okay.
( here's the part where you say, i haven't actually done this before. i'm not a dom. i'm not mark, i'm not maxen βΒ i'm isolde, knives and ice and shadows, and i only know how to suffer.
on the other hand, if the president says he wants a rough hand, what's a knife in his pocket to deny him? )
hard limits?