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cqsuanla · 2 months ago

Text

fuzzy pink handcuffs

ship: agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader

summary/request: you and rio poke the bear.

word count: 2k

notes: reader has a vagina, referred to with gender neutral pronouns

warnings: smut (18+), roleplaying, dom!agatha, switch!rio (but mainly sub here), sub!reader, also brat!reader and rio, manhandling, magic as bondage, spanking, fingering (R receiving), voyeurism (rio likes to watch :3), orgasm denial

masterlist | ao3 link

“No.”

“But, Agatha--”

“Absolutely not. And don’t even start giving me those sad, puppy eyes,” Agatha points a finger accusingly at you. You resist the urge to nip her finger, instead ignoring her order completely and giving her those aforementioned puppy eyes. “You’re such a spoiled brat, you know that?”

“Whose fault is that?” You grin knowingly.

Agatha whips around to face Rio, who’s watching this argument with great amusement plastered on her face. The other woman is nestled back into her favorite chair, enjoying the show as Agatha gets more and more flustered.

“This is all your fault.”

Rio raises her hands up, chuckling at her lover’s anger. “Hey, I’m not the one who was having Criminal Minds fantasies.”

“You’re the one who told them about it!” Agatha throws her hands up in defeat, flopping back on the couch and pouting.

She wasn’t wrong about that fact. After Agatha had successfully escaped the Westview Hex and reunited with you and Rio, Rio so kindly recalled the little roleplay that you missed. The thought of your lover as a gruff, brooding detective immediately had your mind racing with possibilities.

Unfortunately, Agatha was being rather resistant to all the ideas you had.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Rio stood up from her seat, crossing the room to cup Agatha’s face. Agatha sneers at her, but doesn’t pull away. “Don’t you think it would be fun?”

You decide to join Rio’s new method of persuasion, getting up from your own seat and kneeling in front of Agatha. Rio sits beside Agatha to give you more room, while she watches as you rest your chin on her knee, looking up at her through your lashes.

“Just this once, then I’ll shut up about it forever!” You plead.

“Why do you even want this so bad?” Agatha questions, but you can tell by the way she’s analyzing your face that she’s letting her guard down. “Even for you, this begging is pretty pathetic.”

“I just think the idea sounds hot,” you mumble, pressing your lips against her leg softly. “Seeing you in a cute flannel, all rugged and tough looking for clues. Interrogating a very stubborn suspect who just won’t talk. Figuring out a way to make them talk.”

“You talk plenty,” Agatha scoffs, but her breath is unsteady.

“Not when I’m hiding information, Detective Harkness.”

“Might as well quit pretending you’re not into this, Agatha,” Rio kisses her cheek, earning a glare. She ignores it and trails kisses down Agatha’s jawline, enjoying the way her breath hitches. “If your head were clearer, you would’ve fucked me right there in that office. Wouldn’t you have?”

“No, I have a semblance of self-control, unlike you two.”

“Liar,” Rio and you say in unison.

Agatha scoffs, turning her face away from us both. The flush on her cheeks stands out on her pale skin, betraying her feigned indifference. “One of you is already on your knees for me. Think I’m still winning that fight.”

You pout up at her, deciding to risk it all by kissing up Agatha’s clothed thighs. Even with the barrier of fabric, the contact is enough to make Agatha spread her legs for you. Exactly the leverage you needed. Inching closer and closer to her center, her eyes finally daring to look at you. Rio’s hand comes to the back of your head, and you know that you’re both thinking the same thing.

Right as you plant a kiss over Agatha’s clothed cunt, Rio tugs your head back.

“Fuck. You.” Agatha grits her teeth, hand darting out to pull your head back against her, but you move swiftly out of her grasp. “You are both such brats.”

“We’re just ‘poking the bear,’ honey.”

“Consider the bear throroughly poked,” Agatha’s voice deepens, eyes dark as she considers her two troublemakers. “We’re going to do this my way, got it?”

“So, that’s a yes?” You climb up to kiss her, but she catches you with a hand on your throat, not choking but firm enough to push you back from her face.

“You don’t touch a decorated detective without permission, kid. Watch yourself.”

Eyes darting from Agatha’s steely glare to Rio’s excited grin, you swallow, telling yourself this is exactly what you asked for.

“Yes, Detective Harkness.”

---

The metal chair is cold against your bare thighs, your dress riding up as you squirm. Agatha’s office serves as your interrogation room - a folding table dug up from her storage in front of you, purple magic encircling your wrists and pinning them down against it.

(Agatha did not want to use your suggestion of fuzzy pink handcuffs that Jen gave you as a gag gift. She practically seemed offended that you even suggested it.)

“How long is she going to take?”

Your eyes dart over to Rio, sitting on the antique chaise, hands similarly bound by Agatha’s magic, resting in her lap. She’s dressed in a smart looking white button down, and tailored black dress pants. Agatha was serious about doing things her way - and the two of you were completely at her mercy.

Heavy boots stomp through the hallway, and you hold your breath as the woman of the hour enters. Dressed in that flannel that makes her icey blue eyes pop even more, sleeves rolled up halfway to show off her arms, she knows exactly what you want.

“So, you got anything to say for yourself?” Agatha raises an eyebrow, dropping a folder on the table. The expression on her face is cold and stern, but the exaggeration of her deepened voice makes you smirk a bit. For as much fuss she made over not wanting to roleplay, Agatha would never miss the opportunity to be dramatic.

“Just that you’ve got the wrong person.”

“Oh, yeah?” Agatha crosses her arms over her chest, propping her foot up on the other folding chair at the table. “My source over there tells me you were clearly at the mall where the jewelry store was robbed, on that same night. After closing time. Care to explain another reason for trespassing?”

The “source” chuckles from the couch. Agatha shoots Rio a glare, then turns back to you expectantly.

“Well?”

“I’m not talking. Not without a lawyer present.”

As Agatha stalks around the table towards you, you feel your breath hitch as she watches you with a predatory gaze. She places one hand on the table and one on the back of your chair, caging you in with her arms. Your eyes dart to her lips as she leans in close. It takes everything in your power to not just tug her in for a kiss right there.

“You seem to be under the impression that I play by the book. Well I’ve got bad news, hun. Nothin’s gonna stop me from cracking this case. And that includes a stubborn brat.” She grips your face roughly, barely hiding the way her breath hitches as you gasp under her manhandling. “We’re not leaving this room until you fess up. I don’t care if it takes all night, all week, all fuckin’ month.”

“C’mon, Detective,” you pout, words sounding jumbled as she squeezes your face. “I know you don’t want to do that.”

“You don’t have any idea what I want.”

“I know what you need,” you purr. “So damn pent up, it’s practically radiating off of you.”

“You’re a bigger fuckin’ brat than I thought. Just because you're such a slut, doesn’t mean I’m pent up,” she pushes away from you, knocking you off balance. With your wrists bound to the table, you manage to catch yourself as the chair goes crashing to the ground.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Rio chimes in with a grin. With a flick of her hands, Agatha casts a quick spell, conjuring a magic gag for Rio.

“I didn’t ask your opinion, Agent. I can handle this brat just fine on my own.” Rio rolls her eyes.

The angle at which you’re stuck to the table leaves you hunching over as you stand, bent over in a way that you’re sure gives Agatha a view up your dress. You shuffle awkwardly, trying to adjust to your new position.

“Maybe I’d be more convinced that you aren’t just itching for some release if you didn’t keep staring down my dress.”

“Shut up,” Agatha growls, pacing behind you like she’s circling her prey. You can feel her heated gaze on your bent over form and shake your ass a bit to entice her even more. A grunt escapes from her, clearly muffling a more obvious moan.

“Make me.”

The jolt of pain hits you before you even realize what happened. Agatha’s practically slammed you forward, face smushed against the table. Lucky for your limbs, she releases the magical binds temporarily. Her hand comes up to tug at your hair, her body pressed against your back.

Your ass is left vulnerable in this position, and the denim of her jeans rubs against it roughly. Her scent engulfs you completely as she leans down to whisper in your ear. “This what you want, brat? Wanted to see what would happen if you poked the bear?”

A chuckle escapes you. You can’t help it, you and Rio haven’t let that go for a single second.

Unfortunately for you, you’re in the most compromising position possible. Sharp pain rips through you as Agatha’s hand meets your ass, the sting accompanied by a yelp that’s ripped from your throat. Her hands grip you roughly, not allowing you any time to recover.

“Pathetic,” she practically spits at you. “This can end right now if you fess up.”

The roleplay efforts had almost completely left your mind at this point, but as always, Agatha was committed to the bit. Words bounce around your brain, but none of them seem right so you just let out a strangled whine. Thankfully, Agatha takes pity on you.

“Not gonna talk huh? I see how it is. Maybe I can offer a little…” Agatha’s hand cups your cunt, fingers sliding against the wet fabric of your underwear. “...motivation. Fuckin’ soaked already.”

Rio groans through her gag, and you feel Agatha smirk against the back of your neck. Using your hair as leverage, she moves you to face Rio. You moan as you see her, now even more bound as Agatha’s magic is keeping her legs spread, giving her no chance at even rubbing her thighs together for release. Her eyes are hazy as she watches Agatha slip her fingers past your underwear and through your slick folds, and you know that she’s desperate for a chance to touch, to taste.

“Looks like Agent Vidal’s enjoying the interrogation as well,” Agatha hums, kissing along your neck. You push your hips back against Agatha’s fingers as she pushes two into your wet heat, the sound of your soaked cunt echoing through the room as she thrusts. “Not nearly as much as you though, huh sweetheart?”

“Yes, Detective. I mean no, not as much as me, I mean…”

“Poor baby, broke your brain already?” Agatha laughs, curling her fingers in a way that she knows will drive you crazy. Your legs shake, your body tumbling toward climax faster and faster with every curl of Agatha’s fingers. “I can feel you clenching around me, bet you wanna cum so bad, hm?”

“Y-yes.”

“Oh, so that question was clear enough! Well, since you’re willing to answer things now…”

You could practically scream when Agatha pulls her hand away. She wipes her wet fingers on your ass and tugs you up to a standing position again. “Now, let’s try this again. Why were you at the scene of the crime?”

“Agatha--”

“That’s Detective to you. I told you we were gonna do this my way.” It occurs to you that the sentence is both in and out of character, and you realize that you fully got yourself into this situation, arousal dripping down your thighs with no sign of relief soon.

Agatha smirks at your betrayed expression. Your eyes dart over to Rio for help, but she just shakes her head as if she knew Agatha would pull something like this.

It’s gonna be a long night.

#so this is what u guys meant by fuck cops #hello lovers #e-eiffel tower?🥹👉👈#breaking bad meme my daddy and my mommy and my daddy and m

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cqsuanla · 2 months ago

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more likely to cook up original work than reader fics rn🙏 I have a trans masc baby butch forced into housewifery by a bigger badder butch in my notes app :) i love u trans masc dykes

#BUT IM STILL THINKING ABT ROBIN HOOD NAT OK. I HAVENT GIVEN UP ITS JUST SLOW GOING AFFFF #I fear that it won’t hit as hard bc I haven’t updated it in so long it’s prob not gonna reach ur expectations😭😭😭#like. ok. she lowk abandons ur ass for years and there’s sad forced het marriage for r #but I rly wanted r to save herself a bit bc it’s in her bones it’s deep inside her sad lesbian personality

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cqsuanla · 2 months ago

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Do you plan to write for Nat ever again?🙏😭

no in the sense that I only write when I feel like it and I haven’t written fr in like over a year due to circumstance but I do rly want to finish breaking out the pound I just can’t estimate when that’ll happen💀

#I lowk left fandom completely over the past year and a half and im like GAHHGHRHRHGH abt it #writers block also #is so real #I used to think it was a skill issue

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cqsuanla · 2 months ago

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say smth nice to me honey // i love you please i-

pairing: (dark?)nat/f!reader

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and you blink your eyes open, staring down at her blearily. “I just want to hurt you so bad, baby.”

notes: legit don't remember writing this or if i posted this before. posting it the way i found it in my notes app (except added bullets for non-prose sections)

If you hadn’t already known Nat’s certifiably insane then her idea of what constitutes a reward would have done a good job of convincing you. It’s really quite twisted but everything is, with her. All you’d done was offer to make dinner—and a mediocre one at that—and she’d taken it to mean you were finally accepting your circumstance, so here you are: sweaty, panting, naked, of course. And denied. Four times denied. Some fucking reward.

Your nails dig into the back of her hand, fingers interlocked with hers. She doesn’t even wince. “Please,” you say sounding suitably wrecked. “Nat, please, please, please-”

She groans into your cunt, her breath hot and moist, and— gone because she pulls away just as you’re toeing the edge. Tears spring to your eyes. Maybe you scream; you’re not sure, awareness shot as it is.

“Why?” you ask, and you keep asking, crying, begging.

She shushes and coos at you, stroking your sweat-damp forehead. “It’ll feel good in the end,” she keeps telling you.

And you believe her. It’s always all right in the end; one way or another, Nat always makes you like it by the end, but before then, it feels so very-

“Bad. It feels bad,” you moan out.

You wish you could just shove her face back down but she’s got both your hands linked with her vice grip. You think she must have known you’d get frustrated enough to entertain taking charge, known that you might even have had the gall to try it if she didn’t have you restrained. When she’d demanded to hold your hands before she went down on you, you’d actually been quite endeared by her. Oh, how quickly that particular emotion fled from you.

“Last one, then. Just one. You’re such a good girl for me. My pretty baby.” Nat crawls up your body and cradles your head in her hands. Your shared body heat is nearly unbearable right now, but she makes it better. Always makes it better. She kisses you, pets you, and combs your hair. Lets you whimper into her shoulder, teeth scraping at her skin with every pant you huff out. “You can take one more, sweetheart. I know you can, obedient little thing. My good fucking girl,” she rasps into your neck.

Fuck if that doesn’t do it for you. Still: “I’m too sensitive.”

She traces a tear track with the back of her finger, licks up the streak on the other side of your face. So sadistic, your Nat. “I know.”

For the next few moments: silence aside from your persisting hiccups and her ragged breathing. Her excitement, her morbid fascination with the limits of your boundaries, is palpable. Infectious in a way. You do want to be good for her. For her. Your lover, keeper, owner, mommy.

She always takes care of you.

Slowly, you calm. Then, you grip the back of her shirt and, in a small voice: “Just one? Promise?”

She hums, hands reaching out once again to lace with yours. “Just one, sweet girl.”

You’re not sure if you trust her. Regardless, you have no real say in the matter.

“Okay.”

On her way down, she lays kisses down your chest, your navel, the height of your pubic bone. She tuts and you make a pathetic keening sound.

“Down, baby.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and, when her thumbs keep pushing insistently into the bones of your hips, you slump fully into the mattress with a soft groan. You receive punishment for that in the form of a nip to your inner thigh. Your skin, tender and bruised already from her previous attention, sinks under the points of her teeth and you yelp.

But then her mouth moves up and the slick heat of her mouth meets the one between your legs, forging a brain-melting fire in your center. You’re overstimulated to the point that you can’t tell if you’re really experiencing those aching, throbbing sensations or if it’s some sort of phantom feeling your overshot nerves are expecting. After all, Nat’s just ghosting her lips over your cunt, tip of her tongue teasing up the curve of your labia. Mewling in the way she likes, tensing and squirming your legs around her shoulders, does nothing to encourage her. She just keeps fucking with you, not enough literal fucking you.

You squeeze her hands until you can’t anymore. She makes a contemplative noise which sends a tiny shiver through you when you think you feel the sound vibrate near your clit. Then, she abruptly dives in, a guttural sound clawing out of her throat into your cunt. The flat of her tongue drags roughly from your leaking hole to your clit, and you can’t think anymore. She keeps groaning with your desperate begging, pleading, and it keeps going directly into your clit when her tongue passes over it.

The world—it’s just Nat. It’s just Nat and you, and the bits of sheets and mattress and corner of pillow that you’re lying on. The damp air where your bodies can’t meet and the sweaty, sticky skin from where you meet. She’s everything; the endless white of a foggy horizon. Something that can swallow you whole. Something you wish would swallow you whole-

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and you blink your eyes open, staring down at her blearily. “I just want to hurt you so bad, baby.”

It takes you a moment to process that. To process that she is no longer sucking and licking at your cunt like her life depends on it.

Tears prick at your eyes again. Your lip wobbles.

She doesn’t even pretend to comfort you this time. “Oh, you’re pitiful.”

“You promised!” You try to twist away from her, furious and betrayed. Her hands clamp down, bruising. Your stubborn leg kicks at the bed. “Mommy, you promised me. You said-”

“I know what I said,” she cuts you off, an edge to her voice.

You go limp instinctively, yielding, even if you’re still in emotional turmoil. You always end up letting her do what she wants. Even so: “It’s unfair.”

“Nothing’s ever fair,” she mutters into the feverish skin of your thigh, nosing at a bruise she’d left in the beginning. “It’s fun if it isn’t fair. You’re so easy to look at like this, baby. So beautiful this way: used up and crying. Pathetic for me. Good for me.”

“Why?” You stare down at her through a film of tears. In that moment, she cranes her neck so she can rest her cheek on the top of your leg and her eyes catch the glint of the bathroom lights. “Why hurt me? Why me?”

“It feels good. You feel good.” The corner of her lips sharpen into a smile against your leg. “Don’t think too hard. I can make it hurt more.”

You shake your head. How can you even reply to that?

Her smile widens. “Say something nice to me, honey.”

This one is easy. “I love you,” you murmur. Defeat.

“Again,” she rasps, spurred into action again. To the victor goes the spoils. Her tongue covers your entrance, dips in briefly.

“I love you,” you choke out. It’s too much. You wish she’d get this over with. You wish she would keep you here forever.

Her lips wrap around your clit, tongue probing harshly at it, and her hands tug at yours.

You take the hint. “I love you.”

She laves at your clit again, your pained whimpers falling on deaf ears. A tug on your arms.

Again. Again and again and again until you can’t speak anymore. Something inside of you stiffens, then it’s splintering into pieces, and it hurts intensely but it’s nice to let it all go, but you’d never want to go through this again. When you come back to yourself, Nat’s still licking at you but this time, your sound of discontent prompts her to pull back.

“Worth it?” At your head shake, she snorts. “What do you say?”

You take a moment to make sure you’re capable of movement, inhaling sharply and watching the rise of your own chest. Then: “Thank you, mommy.”

“Any time, sweet baby.”

later run ur fingers over the indents in your thigh, mark of her bites

imagery of ambulance driving by outside w the sirens and the blue-red-blue-red of nats skin

it’s like letting the dog socialize with other dogs at the park. but i prefer to keep mine at my feet (kicks u over) …clearly

come along hound

“It’s been a week,” you say quietly, meekly. Your hand tenses on the door knob, searching for something sturdy to hold onto.

“It has,” Nat notes evenly.

She stares and moments pass, her blinking just slow enough to unsettle you.

You shift, mustering the courage to release the handle and shuffle forward a few steps. “Please? You said- it’s been a week. You said you’d take it off in one week.”

“Did I?” Nat raises an eyebrow. “I don’t recall.”

“Mistress, please. Please.”

All of a sudden, her expression sours. She stands. You shrink back, your heel hitting the door loudly and making your heart drop even more.

“Sorry,” you say in a rush.

Contrary to what you expect, she doesn’t round the desk to seize you. Instead, she leans on her desk and pins you with that searing scowl of hers. “Dumb slut. I’ll forgive you when you learn your goddamn lesson, mutt.”

You open your mouth to apologize again but she glares harder and you snap your jaw shut with an audible clack.

“Now get out.”

You do so with haste even if you ache to stay.

leave her alone for a bit obedient af she fucks ur cunt like it’s her job and gives u aftercare and ur like that’s good. duh—nat always knows, that’s why she makes the decisions, she’s in charge always

she shows u a big dildo and is like ur taking it dry and ur like ok and she thinks u finally learned the lesson and tells u to get on ur hands and knees

“Do you get it now?” Nat asks, voice rough, chest heaving. She drapes herself over your back, can’t get enough of you. Her hands roam over your body, grasping at flesh, leaving behind bruises. Runs so hot, you begin to feel sticky from perspiration, uncomfortable but in a kind of familiar way that you immediately embrace in an instinctive response. She’s all around you, cocooning you, possessing you. Squeezes tight. “Do you get it?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“What do you get?”

Your arms shake from your combined weight. She bears down and smoothly maneuvers you onto your shoulders, arms bent up on the bed in surrender. Her hands tighten around your wrists, demanding your attention.

You soak in the feel of her on top of you. “You know best,” you answer into the duvet. A hand in your hair guides your head to the side. “I just listen.”

Nat hums. You think she sounds pleased. You hope she is. Anyway, by now your over sensitive cunt has produced enough slick around Nat’s cock for this to be somewhat enjoyable no matter how rough she plans to get. Its heavy presence inside you makes you want to squirm, delights you and scares you. You’ll take anything she gives. It’s what you’re for.

“I’m yours,” you say.

And she thrusts suddenly, humping her front into your ass so the head probes farther into your cunt.

You gasp and your fingers stretch out before clawing into the sheets. Yes, you’re wet enough. It hurts, the girth, the length, but you’ll bare it because it’s enough.

“Yes,” Nat hisses on the next thrust. “Your pleasure, pain, all mine.”

You nod, jaw fallen wide as you moan and mewl beneath her. As she forces her way in, stuffing you full, and tears her way out, leaving you empty. Not once does she let up off your back, and you love the feeling of your bodies sliding together, sticking against the friction of your movements.

“I fuck you when I feel like it, baby, in whatever way and for however long I want it. When I tell you to come, you do. When I tell you to sit pretty, you do. When I tell you to shut the fuck up,” she growls into your ear, the front of her body slapping particularly loudly and obscenely into yours on every syllable of those last four words.“You fucking do.”

“Yes.” Your voice sounds foreign, strangled. Your nods are frantic, runny nose rubbing against the sheets. “Yes, yes, yes.”

It’s meant as a response to her words and as encouragement for her to keep going, not that she has any intention to stop.

“Say something nice,” she pants into you. She sounds different too; demanding and harsh, of course, but there’s something desperate about it.

Not that you really register it anyway, since you’re shrieking, “I love you,” before you can even think about it. It’s not something you need to think about. Loving Nat is a fact of life, a part of life. As natural a thing as breathing. As being short of breath. Life is hard and easy, and loving her is the same. It’s being in sweltering heat and frigid cold. It’s too much, way too fucking much, and then, all at once, in the next moment, not enough.

Her teeth close around your shoulder, though not hard enough to break your skin. You’ll bruise, though. She bites deeper on every inward movement. Her mouth is wonderfully moist and warm on your skin.

God.

“I love you,” you cry out feverishly, “I love you, I love you, I love you!”

Indents of her canines remain in your sweat damp skin. Her breath is laboured, adjacent to pained, and it fans across one side of your face. Humid near your ear.

“I’m sorry. Thank you. I love you,” you babble. “I’m yours.”

“I love you,” she says back, over the wet sounds of your fucking. She’s relentless. “My girl. My baby. Come with me, okay? My good girl.”

It hurts. You’re numb. You’re burning up. She pants hotly into your ear, and you pant into your own spittle, face as leaky as your cunt.

Nat lurches in again, your bodies jolting forward, and you slam your eyes shut, seeing nothing but the dark and, briefly, a pang of colours from how hard you’re squeezing them shut. You cum, maybe. The sensation isn’t entirely new, painful and pleasurable at once. You’re pliant in her arms, twitching sometimes, not really feeling anything. And when you come back to life, she’s still going. The world is just this: the feel of her body on yours, the smell of arousal and sweat and spit, and her voice. A voice like tinnitus. A desperate, animalistic mine, mine, mine rings in your ears.

#damn. 2 years ago.#mw #natasha x reader #i feel like i had a plot attached to this. i had one where nats ur toxic prof gf who comes over to fuck and has no emotional attachment to #cant find it... it may be lost to time #anyway this is for u anon #ill keep looking thru my notes another time bc i SWEAR i had 3 paragraphs written for the toxic college prof gf thing

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cqsuanla · 2 months ago

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genres are gore and violence and harm, sprinkled with hater behaviour, and i cap it off with some non descriptive fingering. idk i rly like these guys. this is unedited.

"i love u bc i get to hurt u:)" x "i hate u and die forever"

It begins as a buzzing in your ear. As a divine creation, you typically do not suffer such things as tinnitus. But there it is—that persistent whine. You glance suspiciously at the mattress above you, fingers reaching out to trace the line of your iron wired roof. You wonder if she’s turned some sort of device on to emit such a noise, but then her voice flows over it, drowns it slightly: “Morning, mailman.”

Her head pops down from above and she smiles like nothing is wrong. Maybe she’d be right.

You shake your head at the thought, trying to fling the noise out of your ears along with it. She blinks at that and you hastily mutter back a greeting, hands having fallen back to your body to squeeze your kneecaps.

“Well,” she says with the click of the lock. “Up you get.”

You start your achy breaky crawl out. The ringing seems to get louder, like she’s opened a floodgate. “Do you hear that?”

There’s a pause as she cocks her head, eyelids slipped low. Then, she sticks a finger in her ear as if to clear it. “Nope.” With a pop to the end of the word. A pop that echoes inside your skull. “What are you hearing?”

“Nothing.“ It subsides abruptly and your train of thought stumbles. “Nothing? A- Um, a ringing? Like-“ You stop and it returns.

Her knife sharp smile widens. “Like I gave you brain damage?”

Mutely, you nod. Your eyes stay pinned to her midsection, where it’s safe from the cutting angles of her face. She has never punished you for acknowledging your torture. There’s a sense of shared goal by having it be a sort of neutral topic of conversation; it’s a simple fact that you are here to be punished and she is here to dole it out, and as it’s a mandate from someone higher up, it’s not like you can blame her.

Though, that isn’t true. You can and you do.

The punisher presses a finger to your temple and it computes like touching an old, staticky screen. Sounds like interrupted radio waves. “You’re fine.”

“If you say so.” You let her palm enclose your cheek in that crackly sensation. “Could be psychological? Or something in my ear?”

“I could be doing it,” she suggests. “To drive you crazy.”

“You do that anyway,” you sigh, letting her tip your head up till you meet her cold, cold gaze. “But true. Are you?”

She just smiles and withdraws.

“So, that’s a yes.”

A laugh tinkles in your head, over the ringing. “No. Come along, mailman. There’s torture to be had.”

You trod along after her, glad to have your left foot back after yesterday’s bear trap riddled maze. Often, you find yourself restored after a good night’s rest. Often, you don’t get a good night’s rest. Such is the way of things.

Today’s a game day, which is better than a “bear the pain” kind of day, like with the sword and the altar that one time. Those days are boring and painful. Game days are, at least, somewhat entertaining. You have a teeny bit of agency, kind of. Not really. But that’s the way you cope, so you’ll go with that. Agency.

Very Saw trap, honestly.

One time, she had you hide on the island—which had become overgrown the night before—and she’d spent 3 days hunting you down with as many impossibly large, leashed hound-beasts baying for you. She failed to tell you there were other dangers she’d imagined across the map. Like leaches. And landmines. You’d been caught on the third dawn; you’d spent the rest of the day providing a canine dental service with just one rag and barely any fingers left.

Today, she positions you with your back to the front door. She pats your shoulders and smiles. “Beg me to hit you.”

You’d think you’d lose any sense of shame by now. She’s had you do all sorts of disgusting things and seen all manner of your bodily fluids. But she makes sure to encourage your sense of self and pride. Precisely to have you reluctant for things like begging. It’s worse when she fucks you though.

You sigh. “Please,” you grit out. The ringing intensifies marginally as you feel your head start burning, like a persistent pressure in your skull. “Hit me.”

“Okay.” And she cracks her palm clean across the face. You tumble to the side with a stifled groan. “Back up now.”

Still, you refuse to make eye contact.

“Beg better.”

It’s screeching now. A banshee’s cry. “Can I get on my knees?”

“Sure.”

You drop down instantly. You wish you didn’t have legs anymore with the way they’re constantly bruised, cut open, and severed off. “Please hit me again.”

She brings her clasped fists down on your head, but you quickly push back up. You’re swaying as you do it.

“This isn’t so bad,” you tell her waist. Better than the day you got fucked for 24 hours. And most of the other days. A battering really isn’t so bad—the thought comes clearly, like blowing a whistle. “Yeah. Yeah, please, beat the ever living shit out of me for the whole entire day forever.”

The punisher laughs. “If you shit yourself, you’re cleaning it up.” Not fun. “But if you insist, my darling.”

“No.” You grip the hand she lifts, your other balling up the stiff fabric of her great coat. “Please, fuck, hit me, you sadistic piece of shit.”

So it continues. By the time you’re bleeding out the orifices in your face, the ringing in your head gets to be the worst part of it. It smothers everything but the pain. But her voice.

“Do you get the rule yet?” She sounds bored. You want to kill her for it.

You gargle a bit. Then, you spit the blood out on her shoes and: “No. Just tell me.”

“What will you do for me in return?”

“Fuck if I know. You get anything you want here,” you say with no small amount of bitterness. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Wanna have sex?”

You stare at the buttons lining the front of her. “Not particularly.”

Oh, the sound’s subsided. Maybe she’s healing your internal bleeding right now. If only you could be so lucky.

“Well, okay,” you say as you sort out your thoughts a little. “If you stop the brain haemorrhaging, I guess I’ll be more in the mood.”

“Look at me.” She taps you on the head. When you do, your brain is lanced by the pain of that godawful ringing. “The rule?”

You squeeze your eyelids shut and it subsides. “Fuuuuuck you,” you gasp out. “Don’t do what you say.”

“Mhm, it’s Opposite Day today!” A girlish little giggle bubbles out above you. “But, of course, if you don’t do what I say, I’ll be very annoyed and I’ll have to start a tally.”

“How many spanks?” you say sardonically.

“You’d like that.”

“True.” It is. The buzzing returns as a reward for your honesty.

She sounds farther away when she says, “Come along.”

Like hell you will. Your silence is answer enough, because she simply smiles at you—the eye contact laces that pain back through your head—and takes you by the hair. The bitch is going for the stairs. Downstairs. To her corny, 50 Shades of Grey-ass dungeon. Ugh.

“This is an uninventive game,” you inform her, and then she hurls you down and you’re pretty sure you’re hitting every step on your descent like a fucking cartoon character.

“It’s a Sunday, babe,” she calls down over the click-clack of her boots. “I’m allowed a break every now and then.”

“Kill yourself,” you mutter into a coppery puddle. “But fix my head first.”

She does just that, twisting none too gently at your body until your spine straightens out again. Out of the kindness of her nonexistent heart, she resets your shoulder too.

“What’s the tally for?”

“Imagine if we fell in love,” she whispers as she swings your body onto a table, scattering some toys across the floor. Your bones ache. “It’s just the two of us here. We only have each other—isn’t it a bit inevitable?”

“Really? You love to ignore me. I thought it was just you and your anaemic torture sex doll.”

She pushes against your ass and you can almost physically feel the width of her grin. “Would you like some iron pills?”

“Dude,” you huff, pushing back into her. “What the fuck is the tally for?”

“Maybe how many extremities I’m ripping off? Or how many letters I’ll send to our Friend? Not sure yet.”

“Letters?” You didn’t think she even knew how to read, brute that she is. “You’ve got a prison pen pal network I could sign up for?”

The punisher pants into your neck like a crazed loser. Your pubic bone is definitely bruised to all hell. “You don’t know about the letters? I send videos and pictures to our makers as proof of your contrition.”

Any remorse you felt for attempting to sell off information had been wrung out of you a week into your stay with the punisher. It’s now a whole lot of hate. And you haven’t begun to unpack that, because if you did, you’d have to reflect on the fact that there’s no returning to your old life. It’s just her now.

But still, the thought of your old friends and family watching you get fucked in three holes on the steps of her mansion is a tad bit mortifying. Worse is the thought that they browse videos of you getting burnt and drowned and beaten and eaten and- and-

She’s slipped her hand down the front of your panties. You grunt and buck into her, trying to pull away.

“And that’s another strike,” she coos.

“Fine! Whatever! Fuck me then,” you hiss out, violently squeezing her fingers onto the table with your crotch. The table disappears beneath you, leaving you suspended in her arms. Your head rings with your obedience. God, she needs to read Pavlov’s Wikipedia page. “Don’t send the fucking letters.”

“Ah, sure, I’ll get through the backlog eventually,” she says amiably. “Maybe it’ll be the amount of days I’ll have you stay awake for?”

“Hey,” you wheeze. “What if we were in love? Won’t you treat me like a girlfriend?”

“Ha!” Bitch. “No. Maybe you’d like the sex more, though. We can do it more often.”

“I like it enough,” you mutter. Your head hurts so fucking much.

She nibbles on your sweaty shoulder, humming and licking along. “I’m glad you’re resigned to the pain; lying counts as disobedience.“

“Whatever.”

“I‘m so glad our Friend gave you to me. I’m so glad.” She’s in a mood. Her enthusiasm makes up for the lack of finesse, and it’s easy for her to stick three fingers in. You try to flail in protest, just to alleviate the ringing, but it does detract from the fucking. “I’m happy you like the sex.”

“Yeah, okay,” you rush out, “If I tell you I love you, will you stop with the fuck- oh- the fucking war crime-grade tinnitus?”

“No.” She rubs on you harder and you groan. “The day’s just started, killjoy.”

“Punisher.” An orgasm tears through you, fast and unsatisfying, and you foresee how today will go in that feeling. “Punisher, I love you-“

“…so, yeah. Brain death. Oops.”

“I… You really- Instantly?”

“Like I said. Oops.” She shrugs. “I love you too, by the way.”

“Kill yourself.”

My little fucked up OCs which started as a dark nat au LMAO here’s another. Expect me to disappear again 😘

Tw: violence, hints of stockholm syndrome, cigs

“Hi.”

You rouse, blinking up at the static your punisher calls constellations.

She leans over you like an eclipse and waves a tightly bound bundle of grapes over you. “Hungry?”

You clear your throat with a nod. “Y-Yeah. Thirsty too.”

A happy hum. She conjures up a vase of water from somewhere. “Open up, honey.”

You do so, but not without a quick glance downward to the sword wedged between your rib cage. Yep. Still there.

She feeds you with an almost adorable amount of concentration. Adorable were it not for the fact that she had impaled you on some piece of shit antique and left you to rot for a day.

“Can I-” She shoves a grape between your teeth and you dutifully chew and swallow before beginning again: “Can I go home now?”

Home being anywhere but here. The big ugly house she lives in and, you suppose, also you now. Or—a pipe dream, really—home in the distant, clouded lands of your maker. Tabletops full of power tools, blue-papered designs you can’t even fathom. The smell of life and movement, and a view of spilled light, pinpricks of stars. Oh, stars.

You glare up at the static.

She winces at that, cricking her head back in an unnatural way. “Still not right? Damn. What about now?”

The sky suddenly sharpens up as if she had clicked the Smart Sharpen button in Photoshop. “Forget it. Take the fucking sword out.”

Now, she pouts.

“Sorry,” you say automatically, clenching your eyes shut. You feel like you’re made of wax. Maybe you are. Maybe she did that while you were asleep.

A cold hand cards through your hair, nails scraping pleasantly at your scalp. “Forgiven,” she sings mildly—it is quite literally music to your ears. She thinks she’s funny for things like that. “I’ll take you home in a couple more hours. How about that?”

“Hasn’t he seen enough?” And you will freely admit you’re beginning to sound desperate. You can’t even feel the sword. You’re really just going a little stir crazy. “Isn’t this punishment enough?”

She slants you a look. The whole point of this shit is that it’s never goddamn enough. She’s said this to you countless times and you never seem to get it.

“Could I have a smoke, at least?” you finally grumble out.

A long, thin line of tobacco wrapped in delicate pink paper. Blueish smoke spirals away from the tip.

“Come on,” you groan, “enough of this old timey shit.”

And you’re registering the stinging pain of it before realizing she’s slapped you across the face. Then, the agony. The searing red-white-blacking out pain of a sword jammed into your chest. You scream, sweat beading out your pores, limbs locking up in a shock.

It dies as quickly as it came and you feel a small part of you dislodge and follow that pain to the eternal nothing. You wish the whole of you could go. You wish nothing of yours would ever touch those final gates, peering up at the blank eyes above. The glassy eyes above. Something hot splashes across your cheek.

“It’s all I know,” she whispers angrily. Embarrassed. The smoke has been bent, paper jutting out smoothly and impossibly around the corner to patch it up. “It must be enough for you.”

You sigh through ragged lungs. “Okay. Just. Fuck, imagine it shorter and, like, this- this thick.” You hold apart your thumb and forefinger. “The paper is white except the filter, which is orange. No holder-thing, please.”

The cigarette transforms accordingly as you instruct it. The little piece of metal she typically uses to grip her smokes dissipates in a mist. She hands you the lit cigarette and straightens up, conjuring up her own to match.

There’s the sensation of muted horror echoing in some part of your mind as you watch her lean on the hilt of your sword. It slices further into the left side of your chest and more blood lurches out. You puff at your smoke, glaring daggers at your own predicament.

“Yum,” she says after a while. Eagerly, she produces another cigarette. “Want another?”

You give her a shaky thumbs up, spitting the butt out from the corner of your mouth.

She puts her cigarette out between your collar bones where a small, red pool has formed. You hear the sizzle, though you don’t feel it. She relights and sticks it in your mouth.

“All right, then,” she says, kissing your cheek. “I’ll see you in a bit.” And she leaves, pixels above you blurring at the edges as her mind wanders away.

#mw #ill check my notes app for crumbs of reader fics but im p sure i posted them all #ik this will flop but i dont care hehe #srsly tho this is NOT meant to be sexy smut this is just bc the parasites in my brain love writing this dynamic #they do have the range to be sexy tho i just dont feel like writing smut lol

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cqsuanla · 2 months ago

Text

Soo

TW: violence

You’re a fuck up. Mailman for a high god, overstepped, attempted some divine espionage, and was caught. You’re sent to some realm unknown to you, rare for a career messenger, and so curious too

It’s a cool, misty place. Grey, mostly, grass brittle from the cold, surrounding water’s dark and murky, and the house that sits on the hill and dominates the majority of your field of view is deeply, inexplicably unsettling to you. But it’s also just a house. Unapproachably victorian, distant in its pretentious grandiosity, and from the uppermost window, a small lofted quasi-tower, there’s a flickering light

Naturally, as a cowardly lower being, you’re going to go for the warmth. Like a moth to light. Like a foot with a compulsion to step on a rake

So you head in, because you’re immortal, right? So what could happen to you, honestly?

Well, the punisher could happen to you

And how is this punishment when the punisher is just some relatively small hot lady, like who cares? What’s she going to do? Call my manager? Please.

Except she is very much not just some random divine Karen. She certainly has the sadistic streak to be one but the powers that be also bestowed upon her the ability to make her dreams a reality. Her dreams just so happen to be very, very dystopian, nightmarish, almost

She’s normal at a first glance. She materializes at the opulent dining table, like an optical illusion that appears to you as you stare longer at it. Seated at the head of a dramatically long table, ashing a too-long, too-skinny smoke into an embossed golden tray. Glancing at you briefly as you peek your head around the door, like you don’t bother her at all. Like she anticipated this encounter with a rather pathetic intruder when she’d woken up this morning

Looks at you in a way that implies an unfathomable power. Looks at you the way the very powerful looks at a subordinate

But you’ve got an ego. You sit your ass down at the other end of the table, all pompous like. “Are you supposed to hurt me now or something?”

She doesn’t really move her facial features. Not yet, anyway. Just turns back to the big ass window she was occupied with before your intrusion. “Why the rush?”

And she sounds hot too. Your divine punishment is being trapped in a nice mansion with a nice woman. Surely, not. Surely.

“Is it just us?”

She hums, looking at you again. No, you do not like her eyes on you. Feels like worms under your skin. Or small, spidery creatures that pinch and gnash and prickle along the interiors of your limbs. “For now.”

“Is my torture just vague answers? That’s pretty torturous, if you ask me.”

Again, a noncommital sound.

Two days later, you’re hauling yourself on your arms, down the steps of the front door, blood seeping out a cut under your eye like a perverse imitation of a sob. Totally naked, you scrape yourself across the grass, legs searing with a bone deep pain. Towards the water, where you’ll surely drown. But that’s preferable.

Your hand grasps at a rock, skittering across the glossy tops of expensive leather. Boots. You groan softly, going limp.

A crunch as the boot steps closer, teasing the tip of your finger with the possibility of breakage.

“Is this torture enough for you, baby? Is this answer enough for you?” A pointy nudge to your forehead, lying prone on the ground like a total fucking idiot. She sounds like she’s smiling which, honestly, fucking sucks for you. You’ve known her for so little time and, already, you wish the worst of the worst upon her. Which is hard to conceptualize, given that she seems to be that very worst of the worst. “Maybe not, huh? I guess I should explain…”

#just a refresher. 🤗

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