Chapter Text
"It's like you're screaming, and no one can hear. You almost feel ashamed - that someone could be that important, that without them, you feel like nothing. No one will ever understand how much it hurts. You feel hopeless, like nothing can save you. And when it's over, and it's gone; you almost wish that you could have all that bad stuff back - so that you could have the good."
– Agyness Deyn; ‘We Found Love’
Read all the tags and warnings. This is not a light read, and should be read at one's own discretion. In this chapter, there is most definitely sexual coercion. Yes, that amounts to rape, no matter how one slices it. Blackmailing a person into sex is not, and will not ever be, okay. That being said, though the description is not explicitly graphic, it is important for every reader to be aware of before they begin. Also, it is important to note that other chapters will, of course, be longer. However, I thought it was best to let this stand alone. Thank you.
She knows exactly where he is before she even opens her eyes.
Left corner, lips turned up, inching closer and doing a lackluster job of trying to be quick about it. Just like most men – always so slow.
It almost makes her laugh, save for the fact that she can feel his breath now – and that’s disconcerting, if only a small bit.
She doesn’t need to look to see this happening, of course.
Irene just knows.
She always knows.
“I take it then,” she says, pausing before her lips curve upwards into a smile – unable to help the tightness of it, unable to help the fact that her fingernails are sinking themselves deeper into her palms as her eyes open – “That what you’d like is me. Very…vanilla, you know. I find it, personally, to be heavily predictable.”
She still hasn’t forgiven herself for letting this happen; she’s supposed to have the edge, have the last say, be the “end all be all” in these kinds of situations. That’s how it works, how it always works, how it always should work.
Luck has not been running with her, however. Not since her undeniable rescue in Karachi, prompted by a man whose name she won’t think of right now, because she’s Irene Adler and she can and will get herself out of anything.
Dead women hold a lot of secrets; dead women hold a lot of value.
Dead women, she thinks, are supposed to be dead.
So why is Charles Magnussen smirking into her skin?
“I own you.”
He lets the sentence hang there for a moment before continuing, cutting off Irene’s huffed out laugh.
“Don’t pretend that you’re safe, Miss Adler–”
And ah, there it is. Irene’s identity is in his mouth, at risk to be out and publicized. It doesn’t take a genius to know she’ll go from ghost to ground if she allows this man to speak out beyond the walls of this room – which, certainly, she will not.
“Oh, I’m not going to beg, Mister Magnussen. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Easy, she thinks. Simple, even as his tongue burns a trail up her cheek and her stomach coils and she feels for the first time in years like she’s losing.
“You will find me very agreeable, Miss Adler, so long as you remain compliant. I am an important man, and I know when I’m being fooled.”
Irene almost smiles, feeling the familiar tug of hope dig itself into her resolve; his arrogance will win her the game – his control may seem iron-tight now, but she’ll win. She knows she will.
(She can’t even stomach the thought of losing.)
“Mm, yes. I think I could live with this. Although,” she takes a breath, eyes hard as she pushes out the words, “You will call me Elizabeth, Magnussen. We can’t have my name falling from your pretty mouth too often, lest it becomes a disgusting habit.”
She’s surprised at how easily the faux compliments fall; at how easy it is to swallow back her fear and paint on her seduction.
A façade, she thinks. Just a façade. A game, really, something she won’t have to remember but something she needs to win.
This isn’t her job (never has been, never will be) but Irene wants to live and self-preservation rules all.
(The need for payback, for revenge that will spread through her bloodstream and make it boil like poison, remains desperately unspoken.)
When he kisses her, she remains in control. Her lips part and she breathes in his blackmail, his conceit, his cowardice and lies.
(She thinks it’s quite possibly the worst thing she’s ever tasted.)
When he groans, she plays her part; she curls her hand around his neck and makes him believe –because she has to, has to make him believe – she’s not disgusted by him.
When he pushes her back and her legs collide with soft fabric, she smiles and flips them so that she’s on top – because she has to be, needs to be, to ensure her face paint sticks. He even allows it for a while, but soon – too soon – they’re flipping again and it’s harder to keep the emotion from her face, though her nails are digging deeper into her palms. She closes her eyes and responds accordingly, ignoring the coiling in her stomach because this isn’t her job (never has been, never will be) but Irene wants to live and will do anything to win.
(There’s a voice in her head that tells her she’s moderately clever, so she should find a new solution.)
Once again, Irene almost smiles.
I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Mr.Holmes.