okay okay here’s an idea. have you seen secretary? what about a patrick sumner secretary au? like his a surgeon and everything and reader is his secretary? maybe even based on the 1800s like the tv series? maybe modern times? just giving ideaaaaaaaas
I love this idea and immediately went and watched the movie to get the gist of it. I absolutely love how scared Mr.Grey was of Lee out freaking him and I needddddd that badly for Patrick…yeah.
pulling it extra hard to see his hands grip at the collar and a small choking noise escapes his mouth. immediately dropping him back to the bedsheets and he’s heaving for air, but can’t catch it bc the next second your hand swats at his ass. it makes his eyes widen and grip onto the sheets to try and process the pain. it burns.
but he doesn’t complain of course, even when you grip at his hair and roughly pull him back to leave hickeys on the back of his neck, or when you slap him across the face, or even when you call him pathetic or a slut. he was the one who asked for this. the one who begged and begged for you to just be a little mean to him for a bit.
Prompt: drunk Tara being reckless and getting herself hurt or in trouble and Sam trying to pick up the pieces
“Betting”
with a little twist.
————————————————————————
Bloodshed felt good. It felt right. It felt like living.
It felt as natural to Tara as breathing did. When she spilled other people’s blood, tore into their skin, and got to hurt them, cry- god, did it feel fucking good.
If they wanted to keep their blood inside their bodies, maybe they should fight better. They should be quicker. They should hit harder. They should try and take Tara down before she finishes with the final blow.
What Tara did was mainly legal. It was an underground fight ring. Club. Whatever. All it meant was that Tara was allowed to sneak off when Sam worked nights and take out all her rage on willing participants. It wasn’t like they didn’t ask for it. Tara was just giving in to their wishes.
It was all generally legal. The only illegal part was how much she drank before it. She would down enough alcohol to kill a small child, and stumble her ways to the underground. They could smell the liquor on her breath and they would grin, thinking they bagged an easy fight. That they were going to come through victorious, and take her money.
They were lucky that she wasn’t allowed to kill them. That wasn’t how the betting system worked. She didn’t make any money if they were dead- only if she won the fight by knockout. And she was damn good at it. She hadn’t lost a battle in months. Even while black-out drunk, Tara could take down grown people in under ten minutes, swaying and smiling with blood running down her face.
Surprisingly it was effortless to hide this from Sam. With her sister working two jobs, Sam wasn’t there to watch Tara at all times. Plus, Tara was very good with a makeup brush and could get away with lying about being a makeup artist at Ulta. It wasn’t like Sam was looking at her employment records. All Tara had to do was ensure food was on the table and the rent was paid.
And it was all through Sam’s sweat and Tara's blood.
There was a nickname for Tara floating around the street. El vampiro de la noche . The vampire of the night. The bloodsucker, swooping in and destroying others in the still of the night. The girl who will bleed you dry before you lay a finger on her.
It wasn’t Tara’s fault that she was efficient. That she was short and quick. It was all about finding her opponent's weakness before they found hers. She danced around on the concrete ring, smiling as she broke bones and opened wounds. There wasn’t a night that she didn’t come home with dried blood pasted across her face and a cheeky smile.
To feel bones splinter under her fists and hot blood splash across her skin was to feel alive. Her medication wasn’t doing it anymore. Therapy was just an echo in her mind. She felt slow. Lethargic. She was beaten down. She needed a change and fast.
And a change where Tara got to make others pay for her pain was one that she needed—craved even. There was something so satisfying about hearing their cries, knowing nobody would save them like nobody saved her.
She would fall to her knees and kneel to their ear level, gasping at her own pain, but sucking it up unlike them. There she would whisper the words that her mother used to whisper to her; when Tara was little and wounded by the hands that were supposed to love her. The same mother would be clutching a bottle, ready to drink away her crimes.
“Esto es lo que se merece un pecador como tú,”.
This is what a sinner like you deserves.
They would whimper in pain, trying to force themselves up, and Tara would push them back down. They deserved to sit in their pools of blood and rue the day they fucked with Tara. This is what they deserved for believing that they had a chance.
Just like her mother used to say.
Tara had been brutalized enough to know that they would live on. But they would never forget the night they tried to take her down.
However, what was her fault was letting Sam catch her.
——
Grabbing a fistful of the girl’s hair, Tara screamed as she threw her into the concrete wall, pushing her face against the wall.
This one was a little tougher. She wasn't going down as easy. But Tara wasn’t worried. She would win. There were nearly two thousand dollars in this fight. She had to.
The girl was maybe a foot taller and twenty pounds heavier, but Tara held the upper hand. She could pinpoint that this woman’s weak spots were her knees and lower back. So she focused on that.
Throwing the girl down, she grinned as the girl fell to the ground like a limp sack of rocks. Tara wiped her nose, blood smearing across her cheek. She smiled, spitting out the pool of blood sitting in her mouth. This was what living felt like. She had never felt so fucking alive.
Raising a fist, Tara walked a circle around the crumpled girl, hyping the crowd up. People screamed and stomped their feet, chanting Vampiro, Vampiro, Vampiro. Closing her eyes, she basked in the attention, the audience fueling her darkest desires. It felt so good to be known, to be praised for letting the darkest parts of herself out.
It was goddamn exhilarating.
She stepped back, ready to deliver the final kick to the barely conscious, bloody opponent on the ground. But before she could, she heard the voice.
The voice. The voice of reason, of hope. The one person who made her life bearable. The one who kissed her “tripping” scars and got her ice packs after “kickboxing” class. The sister still loves her even though Tara lies all the time.
“Tara!”
Tara faltered, and her opponent saw the chance to strike. As Tara pulled back, her opponent grabbed Tara’s leg, tugging her forward. Tara slipped, throwing her arms out to break her fall.
But it never came. Instead, Tara was caught by someone and gently put down, the air only slightly knocked out of her lungs.
Her opponent was struck down by a quick kick to the jaw, her body smacking into the cold concrete.
Wiping her nose again, Tara looked up at her sister, wincing at the look in Sam’s eyes.
Betrayal. Rage.
But Tara could tell there was something else there. Something was hiding behind the anger, the hurt feelings. Something put that spark back into her big sister’s eyes.
Excitement.
A smile creeping across her face, Tara knew she had Sam wrapped around her little finger again. Good. Fighting alone isn’t as fun as it is with Sam by her side.
Life brought them pain and suffering. There were many ways to deal with that pain. The sisters’ coping mechanism was violence. Bloodlust. The thirst to strike first.
She’s not stupid. She knows Sam craves the same spilling of blood that Tara does. Her sister lusted for violence and prayed to kill.
And Tara would give it to her. Anything that Sam wanted, she would provide as long as they got into more violence together.
“Hi, Sammy,” she whispered, the grin growing bigger as Sam started to smile.
