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theproperpoisonCharacters: Don Draper & Yukino
Prompt: None
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex and an excessive amount of psychology. Spoilers for Mad Men Season 3.
It wasn't just the feeling--although he'd be a liar to say he didn't enjoy being inside of her, didn't enjoy touching every inch of her body and making her squirm--but also what it did to his brain. It erased things.
He didn't remember that he had children he missed with a dull ache, or the fact that if he were home, he wouldn't be a good father anyway. He didn't remember that his marriage was failing, or the fact that if he appeared back in New York all these months later, he knew his wife would have moved on to that Henry fellow. He didn't remember that the company he had so much pride in was floundering, about to be bought out. He didn't remember any of the other women he'd pushed onto the bed and felt this way with, because each time it was new and different and just as good as the first time.
Once he'd had her once, he used her all the time. He didn't like to think of it as using, but it was, because it was like a good dream and he had to keep getting his fix. He could get it from other people but not like this, she was different because it had taken so long to get her to give in.
Nothing was real except that, the feeling of erasing everything with his thrusts in and out of her, sometimes quick and eager, sometimes slow and teasing. He knew she got something out of it too, although he hadn't asked her what it was, hadn't been able to hear the answer because he didn't want it to be something too sentimental.
She was on her hands and knees, fingers tangled in the sheets because his pace was relentless, and every thrust pulled her back and forth with him. He needed it like this, because the thoughts were too much to be erased by gentle lovemaking, but the longer he did this the more incoherent his thoughts got, and that was what he wanted.
What had started as "I need to go home, I need to see my kids, I need to get back to work" stream of thought had turned into a steady litany of "I need I need I need" and it didn't matter what he needed because he was getting it from her.
He gripped her hips tight and slammed into her, eliciting a wail somewhere between surprise and pleasure. He knew she still hadn't quite figured out what made him gentle some days and almost violent the next, but he hadn't figured it out either, and that was fine. He didn't need to know, it all felt good, but sometimes he wondered.
Her hips might be bruised tomorrow, fingerprint welts that would fade over the next few days but that would remind her of tonight and what they'd done. He hoped she would dream about him. When it was like this, he didn't make noise, he didn't say anything, more intent on replacing the thoughts in his head and taking pleasure in her noises. On other days, he was more talkative, asking her what she wanted, teasing her when she invariably flushed bright red and tried to bury her face in his chest. He knew she didn't like herself when she enjoyed it so much.
Maybe they should both feel guilty. After all, she let him do things his own wife didn't let him do, and she enjoyed nearly everything he tried, even if she tried to hide it. And maybe he should feel guilty for the sole reason that she was twenty--twenty, only twice his daughter's age--and he was married and nearly forty. But she was beautiful and good to talk to and good in bed and that had always been enough for him. The better he knew someone, the better the sex was, as long as they didn't know him.
And she doesn't know me, he reflected smugly as he adjusted his grip on her hips. All she knew was that he was an advertising executive who couldn't keep his hands off of beautiful women, that he'd had a bad childhood that had made him want to give his children more, that he knew how to sell just about anything to anyone, and that he never backed down when someone told him no.
But she didn't know who he really was, and that thought was better than any other thought he'd had the whole time he'd had her on the bed and been inside of her. There hadn't been any foreplay today. As soon as he'd gotten into her apartment he'd picked her up and carried her to the bedroom, and he'd known she wanted it because of the way her legs wrapped around him, even while she was protesting his forwardness.
He could have lied to her the first time she let him do anything to her, when he'd backed her up against the wall and she'd asked him why he did this, if he'd done this before. Of course he'd done this before, and maybe it might have painted him in a more sympathetic light if he'd said that this was the first time, that he was so overwhelmed by her beauty that he was breaking his marriage vows.
But he didn't like that lie, not because it was dishonest, but because it would imply that he felt guilty, and then there would have been two of them stepping into the world of first-time adultery together and there would have been conversations about how what they were doing was wrong. As it was, she knew he was experienced in this field, and he could introduce it to her as only a man like him could, all smooth talk and kisses where his stubble burned against her mouth and cheeks and left her feeling simultaneously dirty and wanting more. And he knew that because he'd done it countless times before.
Often the ones that took the longest to fall for him were the ones that fell the hardest in the end. They denied themselves the enjoyment that they could find with him until it became too much, and then when they gave in, they fell desperately in love with him. He didn't want her love, and she didn't want to give it to him, but he would take what he could get. This was good enough. This was perfect.
Prompt: None
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex and an excessive amount of psychology. Spoilers for Mad Men Season 3.
It wasn't just the feeling--although he'd be a liar to say he didn't enjoy being inside of her, didn't enjoy touching every inch of her body and making her squirm--but also what it did to his brain. It erased things.
He didn't remember that he had children he missed with a dull ache, or the fact that if he were home, he wouldn't be a good father anyway. He didn't remember that his marriage was failing, or the fact that if he appeared back in New York all these months later, he knew his wife would have moved on to that Henry fellow. He didn't remember that the company he had so much pride in was floundering, about to be bought out. He didn't remember any of the other women he'd pushed onto the bed and felt this way with, because each time it was new and different and just as good as the first time.
Once he'd had her once, he used her all the time. He didn't like to think of it as using, but it was, because it was like a good dream and he had to keep getting his fix. He could get it from other people but not like this, she was different because it had taken so long to get her to give in.
Nothing was real except that, the feeling of erasing everything with his thrusts in and out of her, sometimes quick and eager, sometimes slow and teasing. He knew she got something out of it too, although he hadn't asked her what it was, hadn't been able to hear the answer because he didn't want it to be something too sentimental.
She was on her hands and knees, fingers tangled in the sheets because his pace was relentless, and every thrust pulled her back and forth with him. He needed it like this, because the thoughts were too much to be erased by gentle lovemaking, but the longer he did this the more incoherent his thoughts got, and that was what he wanted.
What had started as "I need to go home, I need to see my kids, I need to get back to work" stream of thought had turned into a steady litany of "I need I need I need" and it didn't matter what he needed because he was getting it from her.
He gripped her hips tight and slammed into her, eliciting a wail somewhere between surprise and pleasure. He knew she still hadn't quite figured out what made him gentle some days and almost violent the next, but he hadn't figured it out either, and that was fine. He didn't need to know, it all felt good, but sometimes he wondered.
Her hips might be bruised tomorrow, fingerprint welts that would fade over the next few days but that would remind her of tonight and what they'd done. He hoped she would dream about him. When it was like this, he didn't make noise, he didn't say anything, more intent on replacing the thoughts in his head and taking pleasure in her noises. On other days, he was more talkative, asking her what she wanted, teasing her when she invariably flushed bright red and tried to bury her face in his chest. He knew she didn't like herself when she enjoyed it so much.
Maybe they should both feel guilty. After all, she let him do things his own wife didn't let him do, and she enjoyed nearly everything he tried, even if she tried to hide it. And maybe he should feel guilty for the sole reason that she was twenty--twenty, only twice his daughter's age--and he was married and nearly forty. But she was beautiful and good to talk to and good in bed and that had always been enough for him. The better he knew someone, the better the sex was, as long as they didn't know him.
And she doesn't know me, he reflected smugly as he adjusted his grip on her hips. All she knew was that he was an advertising executive who couldn't keep his hands off of beautiful women, that he'd had a bad childhood that had made him want to give his children more, that he knew how to sell just about anything to anyone, and that he never backed down when someone told him no.
But she didn't know who he really was, and that thought was better than any other thought he'd had the whole time he'd had her on the bed and been inside of her. There hadn't been any foreplay today. As soon as he'd gotten into her apartment he'd picked her up and carried her to the bedroom, and he'd known she wanted it because of the way her legs wrapped around him, even while she was protesting his forwardness.
He could have lied to her the first time she let him do anything to her, when he'd backed her up against the wall and she'd asked him why he did this, if he'd done this before. Of course he'd done this before, and maybe it might have painted him in a more sympathetic light if he'd said that this was the first time, that he was so overwhelmed by her beauty that he was breaking his marriage vows.
But he didn't like that lie, not because it was dishonest, but because it would imply that he felt guilty, and then there would have been two of them stepping into the world of first-time adultery together and there would have been conversations about how what they were doing was wrong. As it was, she knew he was experienced in this field, and he could introduce it to her as only a man like him could, all smooth talk and kisses where his stubble burned against her mouth and cheeks and left her feeling simultaneously dirty and wanting more. And he knew that because he'd done it countless times before.
Often the ones that took the longest to fall for him were the ones that fell the hardest in the end. They denied themselves the enjoyment that they could find with him until it became too much, and then when they gave in, they fell desperately in love with him. He didn't want her love, and she didn't want to give it to him, but he would take what he could get. This was good enough. This was perfect.
