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peachyteabuck · 5 years ago

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dust to dust (peggy carter x reader)

summary: as peggy carter’s pet, your day includes a litany of chores that must be done to perfection. anything less than that leads to, well, some unfortunate circumstances.

(a commission for @caroldantops)

pairing: modern! peggy carter x reader

words: 1607

trigger warnings: heavy dom/sub dynamics, allusions to pet play, heavy punishment

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Your heart races as you stand parallel to the walls, head down and eyes trained on the floor.

Peggy’s daily inspections have always terrified you, made you want to crawl in a hole and hide there for the rest of eternity. Even when everything went well (which it often did – you are nothing if not detail oriented), the very thought of the woman finding a vase out of place or a painting crooked or an unfluffed pillow made your legs tremble.

Unable to see her, you pray your peripheral vision and hearing can pick up on the cues you need to feel safe. A small sigh of happiness, smooth movements from key points of interest to another – all signs that she would reward you with sleeping at her feet instead of in the cage, eating from her hand instead of the bowl she had your name engraved into, letting you pick what toy she used to fuck you with.

But those dreams were crushed when you heard the disapproving mmm that always signals your downfall. Without looking at her, you can picture one of Peggy’s perfectly sculpted brows raised, eyes unamused and dark, painted lips pulled into a tight line.

“What is this?” Peggy snaps, grabbing your chin with one hand and wrenching your face upwards. There, millimeters from your eyes, is the pad of the forefinger on the hand not digging into the soft skin of your face. There, in the center of said pad of the forefinger not digging into the soft skin of your face, is a gathering of dust.

You immediately go to apologize for your mistake. “M-ma’am I’m so-“

“Stop,” Peggy’s words are plain and sharp – a surefire sign of trouble. She holds her hand up flat and sighs as she turns away from you. “You’ve done enough.”

Your pupils go back to tracing the grooves in the wood paneling below your feet, waiting for her next move. As the rules instruct, you follow four feet behind her, waiting for further commands. When Peggy sit herself on the dark velvet couch (the one you freshly vacuumed that morning) with grace and poise, one ankle folded behind the other like always, you follow diligently.

A simple snap catches your attention, your eyes following her perfectly manicured hands as she pants her knee twice.

You do as you’re told without hesitation, laying across her knee with one arm folding behind your back to avoid digging into her stomach while the other reaches down for Peggy’s ankle.

The woman above you tuts as she raises the black skirt, bunching it up in your hand as she traces the lace of the white panties she’d purchased for you.

“Have you ever been spanked, love?” she asks absentmindedly. Goosebumps erupt over the soft skin of your ass and thighs, skin soft and ripe for punishment. “Like really spanked?”

You swallow nervously. That fear from retribution had never been something you’d had the displeasure of experiencing, something that, until now, you’d been thankful for. You’ve always been desperate (and eager) to please, doing as you were told without hesitation or complaint.

Peggy, when she met you at that job fair in your second year of college, picked up on that instantly. It’s one of the many things she loves about you, brags about when her business friends allow their eyes to linger too long when she has the over for dinner.

“She’s so cute,” Carol cooed once as you poured her a second glass of wine. She was tempted to reach up at grope at your tits, but also did not wish to face the wrath of the woman whose house she was invited to.

Natasha and Steve agreed silently, eyeing you as you returned to your spot in the corner of the room. You were in your “business dinner” attire – a small black dress with a thick black collar. You were permitted to wear nothing else but make up sans setting spray (if tears were to well up in your eyes and melt the mascara off your face, Peggy wanted to see).

“She’s as good as she looks,” Peggy smirked between sips of an expensive red – the very same Carol drank down while she eyed you like prey. “Just as perfect as I expect.”

Peggy leaves a light smack over the thin fabric, brining you back to reality. A warning.

“N-no Ma’am,” your voice is small as you speak, and you wish you could shrink to the same size as your words.

Hands rub over your ass, kneading the skin. You feel like a piece of meat, ready to be laid across a grill and devoured by a million hungry mouths. As another light hit is splayed across your backside, you assume the marks from cooking would be less painful than this. Peggy words feel not like fire, but something worse – more targeted.”

“Then this is going to hurt.”

She does not ask if it will hurt, does not inquire if you want to be hurt, does not wonder whether the heated skin will teach you a lesson. Peggy does not ask you a question, therefore you say nothing in return. You just grit your teeth and ball your hands into fists and wait.

It’s a long while before she says another word. Whether the pause was for dramatics or for her to think of how to properly penalize you, you can’t hope to know.

“Take them off,” Peggy snaps the elastic of the underwear against your sensitive skin, causing you to yelp. It takes a long while – given one arm reminds pinned - but eventually you get the flimsy material past your knees. “Good pet.”

You exhale just a little. “T-thank you, Ma’am.”

Another long pause. Had you given her something to consider? Was she weighing your deserving of being laid across her knee in such a manner? Would your slip up go unmentioned in lieu of positive reinforcement?

SMACK!

You yelp as searing pain spreads throughout your muscles.

Apparently not.

“What are you supposed to do?” Peggy nearly yells, voice bellowing.

SMACK!

Your face remains scrunched as you answer. “Anything you ask, Ma’am.”

“And what do I ask?” Her voice is the same volume as before – just as forced and chesty and mean.

You swallow what little spit remains on your tongue. In the back of your mouth, you can taste salty snot as you begin to cry. “You ask that I clean the house, Ma’am.”

Another hit, this time on the opposite cheek.

You can feel her breathing heavily above you, part of her enjoying the rare experience of beating you. “And is that too much for you to handle?”

Images of your training – of being locked in cuffs at your wrists and ankles, of being chained to the bed, of cleaning on your hands and knees. All of it done naked save a collar with long, sharp spikes. If it were assumed you were unable to perform the tasks Peggy expected of you, flashbacks they no longer would be.

Instead, you would be reverted to another reality, one you wish to forget.

“N-no Ma’am! Cleaning the house is not too much for me to handle!” You nearly choke on your own speech, hands clutching to Peggy’s ankle and your skirt for dear life.

All you can hear is her tutting, laying a long serious of hits to your ass as you do your best to remain still. If you fought or struggled, she’d restart the number only she knew, making your chastisement that much longer and harsher.

You expect to feel another hit as silence washes over you – you brace for the impact as her hand pulls back once more. Instead, feather-light fingertips spread over your center, dipping into you just enough to gather the wetness that had formed there.

“You’re soaking my favorite skirt, little pet,” Peggy tsks. She brings the same finger that had barely been inside you to your lips. You clean them without hesitation. The woman above you sighs, disappointed. “If only you could do that to the mantel above my fireplace.”

For a second you want to defend yourself, plead your case to the judge, jury, and executioner who was drawing random patterns into the skin of your thighs. With no request for confession, though, you bite your lip and hope for compassion.

“You know,” Peggy says finally. You can hear the exasperation in her voice, the tiredness you can’t pin down. “I’ve had a simply terrible day at work. I wanted to come home, to a clean home, and use my Pet to relieve some stress. This,” she pats your ass – the light touch making you twitch. “Does not relieve my stress. So, you’re going to put that pretty little mouth on my pussy and eat me out until I tell you to stop. Understood?”

You gulp, whole body sagging nearly instantly. “Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Ma’am, I understand.”

Without further prompting, you push yourself to the ground, pulling Peggy’s shoes, pantyhose, skirt, underwear from her soft skin. Her cunt, just like yours, is nearly dripping.

Both of Peggy’s hands easily find purchase in your hair as you kiss up her folds, tongue dipping into her as two fingers find their way inside of her. It’s not long before she’s fucking her hips against your face, moaning loudly as you wrap your lips around her clit.

“Fuck!” she moans as she comes, pulling you away after the pleasure becomes overwhelming.

You smile as you watch Peggy pant, makeup still immaculate. “Good, Ma’am?”

She smiles blissfully, moving to cradle your chin with one hand. “Yes, Pet. Very good.”

#peggy carter x reader #peggy carter/reader #peggy carter smut #peggy carter lemons #lukis writes stuff #lukis does commissions

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cupidmarwani-archive · 5 years ago

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Come Into the Water (12/15)

The rest of Hanukkah passes much the same, save for Friday, when they all go to the dunes with a few other families- which fills Sarah with the stress of Ava being hurt- to eat and light the menorah and then some different candles she doesn’t understand. But come the final night of the holiday afterward, Ava was alright and said she understood and thought the lights were pretty, although she missed spending time with them.

As the snow still clings to things and falls in a crisp blanket, Sarah keeps going down to the ocean in spite of how cold it makes her every time. She shivers every day in the on and off snow, but comes down to the tidepools because Ava is there and always has a smile, often has a kiss. Winter blisters her cheeks as she arrives the day after Hanukkah ends, without Maggie or Olivia or Noah, and observes how rough the ocean has become with the weight of the storm. Ava is there, in the shallows with her coat. Sarah comes and joins her, although her bare feet feel frozen in the icy water made colder by a light dusting of snow, less oppressive than it’s been over the last week or so.

“Last night was the last night,” Ava says, not looking at Sarah directly. “I don’t want it to be.”

Sarah looks at her and she seems more lively than she had before. She’s always been a ray of light, something vibrant and real, but today her skin seems more golden and her eyes brighter and her cheeks pinker. She seems like she’s happier. And it could be because of her managing to reconnect to family instead of living in virtual isolation. She can’t talk to the pod, and she didn’t talk to other humans. Now it’s them, together, looking happier and with their hands laced together under the water.

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can’t keep seeing them,” Sarah replies.

But Ava shakes her head and doesn’t answer her. They stay in the shallows, taste salty air. Sarah watches Ava’s tail slowly move around in the water, restless, swept by the currents and the muscles which must be more powerful than they seem at first glance, and Sarah wants to reach out and touch. But she doesn’t. She waits for something else to be said, or for Ava to reach out and carry her in her arms to deeper waters where the fish swim and the sharks let their fins break the surface. She’s missed the deep. It felt more like a home than anything else she’s ever experienced. And being in the water again reminds her of that.

“Does the pod hurt you often?” she asks tactlessly.

Ava glances at her. “Only when they’re angry.”

“How often are they angry?”

She doesn’t get an answer for that, but it’s alright, she thinks. They’re together with the memories of last night, of the flames flickering in the wind and Ava teaching Sarah how to properly spin her dreidel so it goes around more than a couple times. There’s an art to it, she discovers, which Maggie and Ava have perfected but herself, Olivia and Noah still often struggle through. Like cooking, like painting, like breathing. She’ll learn over time, she thinks, just like she learned how to make dough with Olivia.

Over time. Over time means she would be staying here, even after she regains her sanity. Her therapy sessions are once a week now instead of twice, and she rarely calls her old one. She is doing better, really and truly, but that could mean it’s time for her to try for school again, and Sarah doesn’t entirely want to. She kind of wants to stay here with Ava and Olivia and Maggie and Noah and the way the ocean hits her face and the freedom she feels every time she breathes unpolluted air. It would be nice. She gets her monthly allowance which is more than enough for everything she needs, but she could always get a job in town if that changes. She doesn’t want to go.

“Olivia said she’ll bring dinner down here on friday night,” she offers. “We can all eat together.”

“I don’t need you to fix this,” Ava bites out.

She suddenly turns around and with a large splash of freezing water, she disappears, leaving Sarah sitting there with her toenails tinted purple under the foaming wash of the sea. Abandonment. Slowly, she stands up properly and wades back to where the water turns to snow and she can go back home to bundle up in warm clothes. Alone. Ava is upset with her, and there will be no sunset on the beach with fried apples and chocolate coins and family brought together, and Sarah gets this feeling that she may not be welcome to dinner tonight with Olivia and Maggie, although on some level she knows that she’s always welcome.

Dejected, she returns to her home and it feels too empty. She’s spent a good amount of her time during Hanukkah with a family, and now it feels too strange to be in a mirrored floor pattern, without any voices in the kitchen or warm lights in the living room or the smell of fresh baked bread wafting through the air. It would be easy to get back, she thinks, but not the same as it was before. It had felt like truly being a part of something. Doing the same things, but without the intention behind it that the holiday gave, it wouldn’t be special anymore and would simply feel like an imitation.

So she stays alone, staring at the boxes left in her living room. She’s been pulling clothes out of the boxes to wear, washing them every few days, and then putting them back in the box for the next time she goes fishing for clothes. And of course, there’s the box of her personal items, covered in a thickening layer of dust that cakes the cellophane tape sealing it. For most people, they would have been able to unpack so little within a week, if not a day. But she’s been here since the turn of the season and remains unable. Although she’s made progress, she is still broken. Being with family, being with Ava, being with the ocean has helped tame the memories, but still they linger.

She glances around this house that isn’t a home and recognizes that she leaves the curtains open more often now. Too open. In a flurry she rushes to draw every single one closed, fingers digging into the sleeve of her puffy jacket between windows, her lungs shrinking with every passing second. She’s let her guard down, and for it, she’s been hurt by someone who’s supposed to love her all over again. He had said he loved her. He loved her while she looked at the picture of his daughter and she cried and she wondered how bad it would be to just die then and there.

“No,” she whispers to herself. “No, Olivia and Maggie and Noah love me. And Ava’s my… my…” she chokes on the word and has to change it. “She’s my friend. They love me.”

Sarah wipes her cheeks of stray tears she doesn’t remember falling, and decides to go to her real home next door. In the fresh air she can easily smell something delicious cooking and sighs. Comfort food always helps.

#ciwfic #fic #mine

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deuildenoms · 4 years ago

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Right the first time - an open letter

To be fair, even as it is addressed to you, this open letter is not for you, simply because I have all the reasons to believe further communication with you would be utterly futile.

Let's begin this properly by saying I always admired you a lot; you were to me one of the most erudite people I knew. Unbeatable when it came to political and societal analysis, straight as an arrow when it came to your values. We are both artists. One painting of yours hangs on my wall still, several of mine used to sit in your flat - pardon me for assuming they are long gone. Pardon me as well for the length of this letter, as some things must be expressed in ways I cannot shrink.

I used to joke about how you were the pillar of my social life. You were as extroverted as I am introverted, and were the crossroad between me and many people. I indeed met the man who abused me through you.

I don't want to go into the details here. I couldn't even tell I was being abused - not the first time, not the following times, not actually until you picked up the phone that fateful day months later, and dragged me out of the pit of denial I was in, when suddenly I could no longer turn away from the fact something was wrong in my life.

I was thankful, at first.

So there goes, on one side: him, twenty-six, his boyfriend, twenty-seven, you, twenty-nine. On the other side, me, twenty-two, my two long-term romantic partners, both of them twenty-three, with who I am exclusive. We all started hanging out together like we all belonged in the same world, linked by the many values and hobbies we had in common and by what I thought were our mental conditions, as well. They were familiar with my anxiety medication. We all referred to ourselves as neuroatypical, you had ADHD, his boyfriend is autistic, and he is neurodivergent for sure. Formerly hypersexual.

You introduced me to them, but I had no idea they were non-monogamous, or even that you and his boyfriend were fucking on the regular. That I learned when he came to me and told me he liked me.

You didn't believe me when I kept saying on the phone, I didn't know they were poly, like it was impossible for me not to know-

I turned him down at first. But something greater awoke in me as he touched an ancient wound that had only begun to heal and suddenly nothing was more important than to keep the man who had shown interest in me. To hell with my own will and interests, and I understood that only later. He therefore had to be my boyfriend, although platonic, since neither of my partners would allow something sexual, and neither did I want it- to hell with my own will.

So, we met with my partners around a table one night. We defined boundaries together, to seal this new, atypical relationship. It was healthy, it had to be. As clouded as I already felt, it could only be something healthy; as used as I was to atypical relationships, as confident as I was.

The first thing he expressed was that he regretted we weren't allowed to kiss, as for himself it didn't have to mean something sexual.

It didn't keep him from kissing me. Or dry-humping me. Or push my boundaries and making a game out of it. I pushed him away at first. Before the white noise set. Before -

-to hell with my own will-

And then it was white noise, that culminated into horrid acts I can't think about without feeling like throwing up. Simple facts am sure of: I did not want it at first. He did not attract me in the slightest. I had no intention of cheating on my partners by experimenting anything with someone else.

Then here comes the inevitable dissection of why I committed the acts I did with him. I learned many words in therapy that I keep denying as they are utterly absurd and as much as they apply to many victims of rape and sexual assault, I know they couldn't possibly apply to me, couldn't they.

Under the influence.

Lack of informed consent.

My therapist used the word remote-controlled.

I'd rather the story be one of adultery caused by passion, getting carried away, being unable to resist. Though as much as I try to convince myself, there is always something tarnishing the picture; starting with the simple fact I did not want it at first. That I said no several times. Until I couldn't, he would lead and I would follow, he would tell me it was okay and I would blindly nod, hiding it from my family and the world and myself because your brain finds extraordinary ways to cope and tell you it's justified, it's the right thing, it happens for a reason.

To hell with my own will, he had interest in my body, I needed to be a body at his disposal and I committed to be just that.

When he stepped out of line, at first, I was the one to comfort him and tell him it was okay. He was formerly hypersexual; it was normal and realistic he didn't know how to restrain himself with a girl he was not allowed to fuck.

He was neurodivergent to a much higher degree than me. I was the one with a fancy degree, a higher degree of normalcy even, and a much lesser mental condition. I was the strong one and most responsible. He was just an intense dog, his words.

It was my job to keep him on a leash and my fault if I failed at doing so.

He would either tell me it was okay because in his terms it was a cuddle. Or, sometimes, that it was indeed an honest mistake, but it was okay to make mistakes, especially in an intimate setting, and he wouldn't tell anybody, it was not to be known.

Sometimes he told me I couldn't keep my pheromones in check.

I told you the first time he trampled boundaries and kissed me. You said he'd better be careful, as it was not acceptable; yet you understood him, being impulsive yourself.

But now, in hindsight: no matter what I did, who I was even, there was someone on the other side with his fangs out, ready to feast. I didn't mean for this letter to be about my own psyche or the reasons that pushed me to react a certain way faced with this. That is my psychiatrist's job. I was under the influence of someone who very visibly took advantage of me.

-with whom you sided-

I had the gut feeling something was wrong between us. From a friend of yours -not even your own mouth- I finally got word that you were taking your distances with me, because I quote, had apparently said something diminishing our friendship a lot in your eyes. What the hell.

So then, here comes that fateful phone call and here comes the seek for answers.

Turns out I had apparently told his boyfriend you were just a drawing buddy who I wasn't feeling this close to, which deeply hurt you. I apologized profusely for this is not what I had meant at any point. I believe I told him I wanted to maintain a certain level of privacy, which I still believe I'm entitled to, and I didn't want my friends, no matter who they are, to know every detail of my private romantic life, at any point. Of course, this is what I meant, but then, it turns out there's what the boyfriend understood and faithfully repeated to you.

The boyfriend also told you something else, though, didn't he. He told you that, in our relationship, with him, between his spouse and myself, everything was going perfectly fine to the point where we had sex.

You had heard, from my mouth, previously, in front of my partners, that we hadn't had sex. So, knowing everyone in the equations including my partners, you decided to step away, because you deduced that I didn't share the same moral values as you did; the principle of radical honesty, which makes this whole relationship anarchy thing possible in the first place.

Radical honesty: everyone tells everyone else everything right the first time.

Surely, I didn't respect those principles; tell this to the two friends I came to be familiar with in therapy: denial and repression.

My version was that we hadn't had sex because I couldn't accept the truth, for the sake of my partners, yes, but especially for myself.

Avoid digging too deep into this, because you'll find your lack of informed consent among all the other ugly things you convinced yourself were righteous and safe. Your brain finds a way.

He said it was either just a cuddle, or an honest mistake. If it was a mistake, his mistake, it was not to matter, and it was not to be known.

And yet, as I found out through you, he didn't exactly make the same speech to his boyfriend. We had stepped the relationship up, he told his boyfriend as a duty to make sure he was alright with it… and he was clear then, everything on my side was up to me.

No matter what I felt or had discussed with my partners, it was up to me. Too bad if I couldn't do it.

As you condescendingly explained me, you were all neuroatypical, telling each other everything right, the first time, no barrier possible per your psyche. You gave me an ultimatum in all but name; so, I told my partners the very evening. It is actually when the truth, in the form of words, poured out of my mouth, that I saw it for what it was for the first time. Also, my loved ones telling me I had been abused.

So, I thanked you, profusely, for bringing me out of denial. I cut ties with him. Actually, everything I thought I felt for him evaporated in an instant. A finger snap, and I felt like waking up. I was left with shame, incomprehension and rage.

I couldn't keep one of my partners from sending him a rage-fuelled message that sent his boyfriend whining in my DMs about how he couldn't handle this pain, that we both had made mistakes but he shouldn't have to endure all this hate. Was I responsible for the way my partner expressed his own devastation? I was not, but I am, to this day, proud he did it this way.

Then, I started telling you I had figured out something else, that I believed my consent was not respected, that it was more serious than a matter of adultery, that it was sexual assault.

And it was the last I ever heard of you.

You ghosted me, unfollowed me; gone. You were gone. Not gone from their life, though. As I later guessed, it was not about you getting away from a spicy situation because you knew everyone involved, this time.

The message was clear: you cut ties with me and didn't want to hear from me again, you sided with them.

The delivery was rather petty: no words needed because I didn't deserve to be talked to no more. I'm familiar with the technique, sadly, although I have to admit I didn't expect to see it coming from you, aka the most virulent advocate of radical honesty.

Shouldn't I have known that you wouldn't exactly apply the same rules to everyone in your vicinity? Why did you ghost me and refused to listen, even?

It is the main reason why I'm making it clear that not only I'm not expecting an answer from you, I'm pretty sure I never want any. Because, any further discussion on the reasons you left will boil down to my consent being questioned and I undoubtedly cannot accept this.

What could you believe other than I'm dishonest, lying, cheating scum who cried wolf when the tables turned-

That's fine by me, but have you ever wondered what it says about you rather than me?

A woman comes to tell you she had doubts about her consent after erratic behaviour for months. How do you decide which party is worth listening to or not?

Is it, simply and crudely, pardon my French, because you happen to be fucking his boyfriend and not me? Is it because you identify with their mental behaviour rather than mine?

Because you understand them better?

Then, of course, the truth lies in front of me now. Being an erudite activist the likes of you doesn't keep you from binding your values to fit your interests, as it has stopped no one ever in history. Being neurodivergent doesn't keep you from being a rapist. A damaged person with a fucked up past and skewed vision of sex, maybe, but a rapist no less.

An autistic female friend had come to tell me about the red flags she perceived about him during this period, how I should be wary about neurodivergent men making less efforts and using their condition as an immunity token. I couldn't hear her words, at the time.

Later, another friend confessed he had a crush on his boyfriend that vanished when he noticed certain patterns of bad faith and gaslighting. The ugly truth my naive self didn't understand slowly revealed nonetheless.

I can't say I understand them fully, but I understand myself, now, at least. I'll repeat it once more:

I was deceived, abused, put under the influence, in denial, and I couldn't say anything and I couldn't tell.

As I came to understand, the key lies within me. I am the only one who can make sense out of the situation and come to the conclusion that it was indeed rape. Whether you like it or not; you are not inside my head, and you are no one to draw conclusions.

Neither are they, neither are any of you. Neither do you share my pain and suffering today. And that’s okay. I’m healing, as shitty as it is. My partners are with me. My social life will not be the same, my sex life will not be the same, but we go forward, even if it means walking on spikes for a while.

I believe I am done here, with my story. There’s not much I expect from you, as I told you. I can no longer trust you nor can I respect you. You now belong in my eyes to this sad category of woke men who turn a blind eye when the abusers turn out to be their buddies.

There is just one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you:

If radical honesty means telling everything right the first time, what do you make of those who can't tell everything right the first time?

What do you know of those who can't tell they're being abused, who don't have your wit yet, or your experience, or your maturity, or who don't happen to have a PhD in manipulation? Who can't think or process things the exact same way you do? Who, let's dare to say it, aren't neurodivergent enough, aren't damaged enough, to be the victims in the story according to you?

If you ever come up with something to say one day that doesn’t involve questioning my consent or siding with my abuser, there is a chance my door will still be open.

There is a chance you won’t be just another sad example; otherwise, too bad.

It’s time for me to heal.

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