A/N: 2013. Years later, I'm editing this little story. No longer a song fic, and cleaned it up!
The Pain in My Hole
If there's anything he's not it's poised, because she's poised—she's image, she's everything about looking right and smelling good and spreading those legs so she gets her way. But if there's anything he's not it's all of thatbecause he's just there and he gets his way. Zero point effort.
He didn't attract her with his looks, oh, that's for sure, though she thinks he's rather cute in a oh-my-goodness-a-little-redhead-nerd kind of way, and a "look how much he feels!" and a "he's not like other men" kind of way. But really, he attracted her with his sort of angry way of being happy. His drive and his somewhat psychotic smile, and his "we can do this!" attitude. And that way he acted, that way where, sure, she was a woman, but he wasn't treating her like that's allshe was.
She attracted him with only her looks at first. He was pervy like that, though, and soon realized she was blindingly brilliant as well as beautiful. But still, it was her looks.
"Where should I set these files?" she inquires in a deep purr of velvet, silk, and everything clean.
"Uhhh… hold on. What? Oh! Uh, just there," he replies in a tone of breaking glass, nails, crackling fire and everything deadly. He doesn't look up, though, doesn't even point to where he wants those files, so she stands with a hand on her hip and waits. He swivels around in his chair. "Still… here?"
"Another all-nighter?" she asks soothingly, because that's who she's paid to be. Or. No. Because: The sick thing is, she's beginning to care.
"Yeah, and I wouldn't be surprised if I have to pull one again tonight. This robot is KILLIN' ME!" he says, a hint of a Southern drawl suddenly evident in his speech. He makes everything and then breaks everything and she picks up the pieces.
"I'll keep you company?" It's a question because she wouldn't want to overstep her bounds, whatever they are. Sometimes he gets very touchy and moody like he's bathed in darkness.
Tonight, though, he pats the edge of his chair and beckons her.
"I… don't have to sit," she says nervously, but now she's getting up and standing right in front of him, and he scoots just barely to make room for her.
"You—"
"Just—"
"Want?"
"Sit," he commands, so she sits, she's nearly on his lap and he laughs out loud and says plainly," This is stupid."
She clearly is hurt, and she stands up instantly, so he swings around again so that his knees are level with her legs and his face is level with her breasts.
"Come on," he urges, and grabs her hips, and without asking for an okay, without asking for an order, she instantly straddles him, her black skirt riding up her ass, her heels knocking off and falling to the floor.
Mirage is a nasty girl, Mirage is, in ways Syndrome doesn't know, can't have ever known, in a way he won't ever be. There are varying degrees of nasty and Mirage is a nasty, nasty girl.
Syndrome is nasty, but in a "I don't really give a fuck about you" type of way, but right now? He does "give a fuck".
"I think we're overstepping certain boundaries," Mirage says innocently, wrapping her legs around his chair as though she's not the one on top.
"I think—" he stops talking and Mirage laughs at the reason, his growing bulge just underneath her black lace panties. "I think…"
Mirage kisses him right then, and later they'll debate about the moment, she'll say it was him first. Him first, him first. He did it, that's what she'll tell people.
Syndrome hasn't tasted anything quite like her, and he's never had a girl in his lap, and he's never, and he's never, blah blah blah. Syndrome has been wallowing in his pathetic sorrows so long that he's never even thought about making a pass at Mirage, and now, lookie here.
If Elastigirl and Mr. Incredible could see the villains like this, they'd see kids, really, just kids messing around, but there's so much more to Syndrome and Mirage than that.
To psychoanalyze two people who have spent most of their lives psychoanalyzing the shit out of everything is an uneasy and difficult task. Sure, there's evil involved, but what's evil?
When you break evil down, it's simple. It's something to do when you feel worthless.
Mirage's nipples are hardening at the pace of Syndrome's member and neither one of them is willing to look the other in the eye as Mirage hops off his lap and he hops off his chair, and they both hop on the floor, Mirage under Syndrome.
"What did you think of the last model?" he asks, flipping up her skirt over her tan stomach.
"Too easy to beat."
"Oh yeah?"
Syndrome cuts into her like glass, nails, and fire and she moans like everything nice, like everything's just fine. His hands are pressing down in her hair and all of it hurts so damn bad but he doesn't care. When you break evil down, it's not caring. When you break Syndrome down, he doesn't care.
"Piece of—agh—Mirage—fuck—ugh—" he's shouting all kinds of things and he's just slamming her and she takes it, all the time smiling, grinning like a madwoman, because, yes, Elastigirl, there are women who like it just like this.
On the floor, with the boss, "sweetheart, sugar, candy", being treated like a piece of trash.
And on the contrary, there are men who aren't quite patronizing, but they just aren't nice, because they've felt abandoned and used, and it takes a special kind of girl to make a boy feel so angry.
And Syndrome likes to hurt. And Mirage likes to be hurt.
He's winding down and she's screaming, because it seems like the right thing to do.
He gets off of her and grabs his front and laughs, kind-of, and offers her a hand up, but she just lies there, spread-eagled with this look of complete bliss.
"Haha, look at you," he says, and they both burst into a fit of hilarity—giggles and grins, because villains do that. Maybe if she had balls, she would get up right then and leave. Maybe if he didn't have balls, he wouldn't have treated her like that. Maybe, maybe, this and that. Syndrome could go on and on about why and how and when, and Mirage isn't like that, she'll say: "Well, we fucked. What more do you want?"
There are varying degrees of nastiness and for now, Syndrome and Mirage are on the same end of the spectrum.
fin