diana/ingrid and 19 ❤️
'19. Dirty talk/degradation gets too real'. Ooh. I guess this one is also M? And a warning of sorts for them being really nasty to each other. 900 words. with thanks to @maybenexttime for some of these words.
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Ingrid likes to tell Diana what to do, and she likes Diana to hate it.
“You will drop to your knees,” Ingrid says, tugging her teal silk robe open just enough to expose herself, “and you will worship this cunt until your tongue is too tired to argue.”
“Why don’t you make me,” Diana hisses, naked, arms bound behind her back, spitting venom even as her own cunt is visibly slick with want. “Look at you, nothing but a suit, thinking you can order me around. Go on, make me do it.”
So with one hand tangled in Diana’s hair and the other twisting her nipple, Ingrid does.
They both come at least three times that night. It’s an arrangement that works for them: adversarial, toxic, powerfully erotic.
But the problem with pretending to hate each other is that sometimes they really do.
This is your shit, Diana, clean it up, Ingrid tells her, and Diana hears the contemptuous undertone of it, the same voice she used when she said I told you to wear white today and cut Diana’s black dress off her with a knife. It makes Diana furious to hear her; it makes her sick with lust.
"You're late," Ingrid tells her later, when Diana arrives at the flat. "I told you eight."
"I was busy talking to your wife," Diana replies, nonchalantly flinging her jacket over a chair, "telling her how much you love it when I suck your cock."
Ingrid quirks an eyebrow, confident and unflappable. “Take off your clothes,” she says.
Diana thinks to challenge her - Or? - but she knows what the response will be, and actually she's rather fond of this blouse. Her fingers work the buttons open slowly, just this side of defiance, watching Ingrid all the while.
"How much arse did you have to kiss in Washington?" she asks, shedding her blouse over her shoulders. "Did they make you feel like the minnow you are?"
Diana unzips her skirt and pushes it down. Ingrid slinks toward her as the fabric slides off her hips.
"If I'm a minnow," Ingrid says, drawing close, "I'm not sure what that makes you." She catches Diana's chin in her hand and claims her mouth in a bruising kiss. For a moment after, the air is warm between them and it feels like homecoming, like maybe they missed each other. Diana opens her eyes and looks up into Ingrid's, and Ingrid's implacable gaze devours her. "Strip your underwear, too," she adds. "I want you naked until you've earned the right to be clothed again. Until you've made up for being such a liability."
The warmth vanishes. Diana pulls back, prickling with shame and anger and need. She reaches behind herself to unclip her bra, feels the lace rasp her rock-hard nipples as she strips.
"What's the bigger liability," she wonders, "a Second Desk who's willing to take risks, or a ladder-climbing First who couldn't handle ops if she tried?"
Ingrid’s hand catches Diana’s throat while her bra is still swinging from her fingertips. “You will speak to me with respect,” she growls, eyes flashing in a way that tells Diana she’s getting under her skin.
Diana sneers. “Respect?” she asks. “You think people respect you? They’re just programmed to fawn to power. I see through you, though, see a puppet with strings pulled by committee. I think deep down you know that’s all you are.”
Ingrid tightens her grip on Diana's throat, backs her up until she hits the wall. Her fingers press, biting into Diana's skin and taking her breath. She's fierce but controlled, restricting but not crushing, reaching down and catching Diana's lace knickers on the end of her finger, twisting until Diana hears the fabric tear. "Do you think you won't fawn to my power?" she asks in a whisper, tugging the lace until it gives again, rending under the precision of her touch. "You think I don't know every single one of your weak spots? That you're hungry and desperate and never quite good enough?"
Ingrid bears down on Diana and Diana feels absolutely skewered by her gaze, feels her pulse beating in her throat and her cunt throbbing in kind. She won't give in.
"Are you calling me weak?" she challenges, voice hoarse from the hand over her throat. "Your power is just trappings to hide your crippling insecurity. A job you didn't earn, a team you don't control, a wife who'll leave you if she ever finds out who you really are. A…"
Ingrid releases Diana's throat and grips her by the shoulder. She spins her around and pushes her up against the wall, barely giving her time to catch herself with her hands.
"You," Ingrid grates, and Diana expects to have her arse paddled raw. Instead, she feels a weak grip against one of her hips, then Ingrid's hand drops away. "You," she repeats, but now her voice is ragged.
Diana pushes herself off the wall and turns. She finds Ingrid frozen with her hand outstretched, cupped as though for a blow, but shaking now, eyes shiny with tears. Unflappable confident Ingrid. Tears. It shrivels Diana’s soul.
“I didn’t mean it,” she whispers, something cold and heavy stealing into her gut, dousing the fire she’d been stoking right to ash. “I didn’t…” she tries again, but Ingrid’s dark sad eyes kill her voice.
“You did,” Ingrid whispers, sounding sick.
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