Work Text:
"Keep me as the apple of your eye;
hide me in the shadow of your wings."
--Psalm 17:8
Two days after the kiss, Mariah led him upstairs in her refined home and showed him a small, neat bedroom. “You’re going to sleep here,” she said.
Shades noted the phrasing: she was a lawyer, and there was a world of difference between “this is your room” and “you’re going to sleep here.” Nothing here was his; everything was hers, including him and wherever she chose to put him. That was the deal, he could take it or leave it. She was a smart woman and he was useful - their business partnership wouldn't end if he declined. But he didn't want to decline.
There was something so artful about the way she asserted dominance.
He removed his glasses and looked over the room. It was just down the hall from hers, decorated in masculine green and grey. It was small but there was a nice view out the window, afternoon sun giving it a warm glow. She hadn’t stuck him someplace facing a brick wall or in the basement. There were people who would do worse, who liked to go harder. Start off degrading someone and never let up. He had taken that before and even liked it sometimes. But this was new. Interesting.
The bed, he noted, was big enough for two.
After the kiss, he was waiting for something to happen. This brought up exciting thoughts about being kept here, available to her at all hours. He looked at her, calmly raising an eyebrow.
“Somebody told me I need security,” Mariah said, amusement in the soft curl of her lip and the light in her eyes. She had to know what was going through his head. This was a clear message.
But whatever else she wanted – that was for her to know, and him to find out.
The graceful way she worked made him thrill inside. Most of his life when people had power over him they treated him like a stupid animal to kick around. Blunt force cruelty that grew monotonous after a while.
She gave him the compliment of expecting him to follow without yanking his leash. He wondered if she'd done this before.
“You should have a system too,” he said, “and regular guards.”
Mariah waved a hand, negligent and graceful. “Arrange it.”
She was trusting him to take care of her. To live right beside her, in the home she was so proud of. In a room with sunlight streaming in. She wasn't ashamed. Wasn't in this just to use him as a punching bag. He felt warmth come over him and looked away, wishing he had left his shades on.
His eyes were always saying too much.
Mariah crossed the space between them, and gripped his chin, turned his face toward her. “You can tell the housekeeper if you want to change the décor in here,” she said. He loved it when she came close; he could smell her perfume. Musky and rich. The moment was tender, and then it was over. She stepped toward the door and cast a stern look back: “I better not regret that,” she said, and sashayed out.
Shades watched her leave with a smirk. She owned the last word between them and they both liked it that way.
-
Mariah was testing him. Teasing him. Figuring out how she wanted to use him. They worked long hours, building her empire. He handled the muscle and the dirt, the things that were beneath her. She handled the higher things, her and her protégé Alex.
They weren’t like Diamondback: there was nothing forced about the references to literature and art that peppered their conversation. They were easy with it all, phrases in French and Latin rolling off their tongues as they laughed together. He didn’t always get it, but he wasn’t being excluded. She made him feel like he had a place there too: she wanted his opinion, took his words seriously.
He tried not to let it show what a change that was from being struck down if the boss got the idea he was thinking too much.
There were touches, kisses. In her time, according to her interest. She left marks on his skin. Looked him over like she was assessing one of her paintings. It made him feel valuable, to be looked at like that by her. And hot as a live wire when they were alone together.
In the evenings, she had bi-weekly meetings with him and Alex in her kitchen or living room, but when they were over he would go out on business or retreat to the room she’d put him in. He wasn’t sure how much she wanted him around when she didn’t need him for something. This was her home. He was one of her possessions.
She must have seen his hesitation. One night she came in after walking Alex out, sat down on the couch and said: “Bring me another glass of wine and have a seat.”
She loved to watch documentaries and historical films. When he came back with her wine she started one about the conditions in the New York juvenile justice system, which made him feel uncomfortable and angry: he saw the young defendants and remembered being that powerless. Twelve years old. Terrified and trying to hide it with bluster. His ribs aching from his first beating in juvie, relying on his public defender, an overworked old white lady whose clothes were covered in cat hair and who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—do shit for him.
A mother on screen talked about them keeping her son in solitary so long he had a breakdown and hanged himself.
Shades was a tough man – he’d been around too long to not be able to look at anything without flinching. But something about the embarrassingly sincere way the filmmakers recounted the humiliating abuses little kids went through every day, something in the tender interviews with mothers who couldn’t protect their own babies because love was nothing without money in this world, hit him on the raw.
Just when the knot in his chest was getting so tight he couldn’t enjoy the wine anymore, Mariah yawned, stretched, and turned to put her stocking clad feet in his lap.
He jolted, surprised out of his thoughts.
She raised an eyebrow and wiggled her toes. “Do I have to draw you a picture?”
Shades laughed, setting his glass of wine aside and settling in to rub her feet.
“Mmm,” she said. “Harder.”
He worked his thumb into the ball of her foot until he felt an almost sexual release come over her as she sighed, relaxed deeper into the cushions.
“What do you think about starting a criminal defense fund for Harlem youth?”
The words were like an electrical charge across his skin. Not only had she read his book, she’d put her hand right on the sore spot. Not to hurt, but to offer something.
She was always thinking.
“That would bring you loyalty,” he said, his voice calm the way his heart wasn’t. “It works with the image you built in your criminal justice work. And it would be a good cover for funneling money to our people.” Then he bent down and kissed the arch of her foot, soft and reverent, and met her eyes. Let her see everything that was there. “It’s brilliant.”
She hadn't told him to call her by any special titles, which was fine by him. He didn't need that to convey submission. Respect.
A shiver went over her and her breath went ragged. “Oh,” she said. She got herself together too quickly, though. He missed the look of shocked pleasure when it was gone. Wanted to put that there again. He was beginning to think she really hadn't done this kind of game much before. “Yes," she said, "if we define ‘youth’ broadly enough, we could use donations to defend some of our own assets when they’re caught.” Her face grew serious: “I don’t want you recruiting younger than we do now, though.”
“Of course.” She wanted to do real good for people and build her power too. That was the Stokes genius. He nodded and went back to rubbing her feet.
-
The next night, he came up to her office in the club and she said, “Everyone gone for the night?”
It was well after closing time. Since leaving politics, she’d switched over to the vampire hours of a club owner. She was sitting on the couch, her jacket off revealing the cream colored silk blouse beneath. There was a glass of wine on the table and a laptop open beside her. She’d kicked off her heels and curled her stocking clad feet up under her.
“Locked up tight.”
“Good,” she said. She closed the laptop, tilted her head. “Stand right there," she said, gesturing to a spot on the floor in front of her, "and take off your clothes.”
He didn’t let his surprise show. But he felt the big window looming behind him as he moved to the spot. He started slowly, feeling this out. He took his glasses off first and met her eyes in a challenge as he slipped off his suit jacket, folded it neatly, and set it on a nearby chair.
He was the one stripping for her like her personal whore, but she’d admitted that she wanted him too – she wanted him. That was its own kind of naked. And he wanted her to know that.
“Sure you don’t want music for this?” he asked, pushing.
“Cute,” she said. “But don’t talk. And don’t look at me.”
He dropped his eyes to the floor and felt a shiver run over his skin: she was stripping him down in more ways than one. When his hands steadied he continued, reaching up to unbutton his dress shirt. He aimed for calm dignity since she’d taken cocky away from him.
The lack of feedback was a pain. Not being able to look at her made him realize how much time he spent doing just that. Reading her. Doing everything to please her. He’d set her up at the center of his world and she wouldn’t let him glance up, check in.
She was as subtle in her cruelty as she was in everything else. Didn’t need to break bones or rub his face in the dirt. She just knew where to press.
But she wasn’t going for him because she wanted a weakling who got rattled at every little thing. He set a steady count in his head and went on, fronting confidence, like he did this every day. First the shirt. When he got it off he took his time folding it, placed it on top of his suit jacket.
The silence was something else: he strained to hear a catch in her breathing, anything.
Self-consciousness curled around his rib cage along with the cool air and squeezed: he had working muscle, but he wasn’t a pretty boy. He didn’t waste time on that shit. There were tattoos and… scars. A lot of scars. Could she see them all in the low light? Would she care? Did that kind of thing turn her on?
He got his shoes off as gracefully as he could, setting them aside. By the time he got to unzipping he was feeling better about things: he was hard and, fuck it, either she’d want him or not. He finished stripping with confidence, setting the pants aside and standing there with his shoulders straight, even if he had to keep his eyes on the floor.
But then she just let the minutes drag, the cool air and silence heavy around him. It became a battle not to show the fine shivers running over his skin.
Just when he thought he was going to get himself in trouble glancing up because he couldn’t stand it anymore and he wanted something, anything to happen—she said “Turn around. Slowly.”
He saw his chance and took it: he turned a slow circle and then, at the end, bowed grandly. Like he was one of the fancy pricks in the historical movies she liked.
Mariah laughed. It felt good to sneak through the rules she’d set and touch that rich chuckle.
“I forgot you can mouth off without saying a word,” she said.
Shades smirked down at the floor, proud of himself. There were so many things he wanted to say. He settled for a cocky shrug.
"All right," she said. "Get your ass over here."
He crossed to her. Her office's large rug was soft as silk under his bare feet.
"I want you on your knees right there," she said, pointing to a spot on the floor at her feet.
She’d been touching herself: her stockings were cast aside, the bare smooth skin of her legs so close to his face. And he could smell her, the way his performance had made her react.
His smile widened.
Mariah huffed another laugh, dry as the desert. “I grew up around thugs, you know? Decided I’d never fall for their game. The rough charm, the violence… meant nothing to me. I looked down on women who went for it. Spent my time with educated men. And you—“ She extended her foot and pushed at his shoulder, a rough jab, but not intended to knock him down. “You cocky little son of a bitch... You’ve got a lot to answer for.” She took a breath, leaning back and spreading her legs. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
“Whatever you want,” he said, smoothly.
“What I want should be obvious. If you can’t figure it out…” she started to sit up.
Shades leaned forward, kissing her inner thigh, stroking his hands up the smooth skin of her legs. Soft and reverent.
“Mm,” she said. “Not quite there yet. But you’re getting closer, baby.”
The casual endearment made his whole chest feel like someone had set fireworks off inside. He pushed her skirt back and kissed his way up to the salty slick warmth of her cunt. Gave her a lick and a nuzzle as she rocked up against his mouth.
This was exactly where he’d wanted to be.
He kept working, figuring out her reactions in the moment. When to suck and how hard, how to work his tongue for her. It got her pretty far and then they hit a wall. He tried to vary it up, hit something that would take her further. After a minute, she made a frustrated noise and her hand came to cup the back of his head. “I like fingers,” she said.
Happy for the direction, he moved his mouth up to focus on licking and sucking at her clit while he worked his middle and ring fingers into her. Curled them just so to hit a spot he hoped would…
Her hand tightened, nails raking against his scalp and she bucked up into his fingers so sweetly. He smiled into her cunt and went with it, the rhythm of his fingers fucking her and his mouth working at her clit.
When she was done, she trailed gentle fingers over his head and neck. He felt shivers running along his spine, the frustration of his hard-on an annoyance, since he never wanted this to end. Just lie against her, smelling her, tasting her on his lips, feeling her breathe and her gentle hands trailing over him. Like he was something precious.
After a while, she sat up, straightened herself. Pulled on her designer ballet flats and stroked her hand over him tenderly. From the back of his neck to his hip, like he was a good boy. “You can clean up in the private shower,” she said, then picked up her laptop and purse and walked out the door.
He would not be getting anything else from her tonight.
Shades leaned forward, buried his face in the leather couch and groaned. Loudly.
Mariah’s laughter echoed down the hall. He smiled, and gathered his clothes. She was perfect – tender and cruel and maybe one day she’d let him fuck her while her hands trailed over him, her touches going from sharp nails to tender fingertips. The thought carried him to the shower, running around his mind as he finally got off.
-
Days passed before Mariah had time to sit down for another quiet evening in. Shades took what he was coming to think of as his place at the other end of the couch. If she wanted to be alone she’d tell him. But she didn’t: instead she settled her feet in his lap and played Citizenfour.
It was about a man who had been making bank living in Hawaii with his hot girlfriend and doing it all on the right side of the law – until he threw it all away because he was shocked to discover the United States does nasty shit.
Mariah was riveted; Shades privately thought that this was the dumbest white boy he’d ever seen. It was a good story, though, and got him thinking about their own cyber security. They could do with better encryption practices.
There was a whole segment where lawyers discussed the 1917 Espionage Act that lost him. He asked about it after and Mariah launched into an explanation that was intimidatingly knowledgeable but plainspoken and understandable too. She told him about World War I, Eugene Debs, and the birth of the ACLU.
She was passionate about it, her expression open and earnest, her hands gesturing, occasionally touching his shoulder or forearm as she made a point. It was a vision of the college girl she’d been, he thought. Imagined her sitting up late at night talking to people like her, educated people with big ideas and ways to make them happen.
She was brilliant and beautiful and pouring it all out for him, like he mattered. Like she cared about him knowing things.
He felt his cock harden and tried to shift so she wouldn’t feel it.
“Most people,” she finished, her hand on his arm again, “don’t appreciate that the Supreme Court didn’t really put teeth into freedom of speech until the 1930s. They don’t know how recent these decisions were or why the ACLU is so necessary… but as long as bullshit laws like the Espionage Act exist they’re vital.” As she finished speaking she shifted and her foot brushed his cock.
Her eyes widened and then she laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. “Were you listening at all?”
He could tell from her voice: she was disappointed in him. He thought about her saying she’d sworn never to be with a thug and it stung.
“I was,” he croaked, feeling helpless. He didn’t want her to think he was an idiot who went around thinking with his cock. “Mariah, I swear I—“
Her hand squeezed his forearm, silencing him, and her expression softened. “So you’re just into that law school shit, huh?” she asked, gently.
“You’re brilliant,” he said, by way of answer. “When you talk about those things you just… shine.” He reached out, brushed her hair back from her face.
Mariah came closer, cupping his cheek. “Found myself a real constitutional law freak,” she joked, “how about that?”
He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes.
“Oh, baby,” she said, soft and tender, leaning closer, her thumb tracing gentle circles against his skin, “how did you get so sweet?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said, opening his eyes, his lips curling into a wry smile, “you’ll ruin my street cred.”
“Nah, this--” she said, pressing her hand over his chest. He felt like his heart leaped up to greet the touch, unsettled and very aware of her. “--this is all mine. My secret.”
He put his hand over hers. There wasn’t any use denying it.
“Why don’t you go up to bed and wait for me?” she asked, standing. She left the room without getting an answer. It wasn’t really a question.
-end-