#heed the tw

[quinnyundertow]

The Cult Leader’s Quarry

Chapter 5

Beautiful Bitchy Face

You should have known that something was going to go terribly wrong when you were enjoying yourself a little too much on your date. After his first glass of whiskey Nanami seemed to unwind a little bit and let down his guard. His fingers moving to roll up the sleeves of his navy dress shirt. The corded muscle of his forearms distracting you from whatever it was he was saying. The two of you are enjoying the time alone at the table discussing novels now as Gojo and Zoe move with the crowd on the packed dance floor.

Nanami’s deep honeyed voice calls your name again to get your attention. You feel yourself flush as you look up quickly. “I’m sorry, what was that?” You use your distraction as an excuse to get a little closer as if you are having trouble hearing. Your hand lightly rests on his bicep as you lean towards him.

He glances down to where your smaller hand gently lays on his arm. Butterflies of giddiness he isn’t used to feeling flutter inside him. The tips of his ears and high cheekbones are tinted red from a pleasurable mix of excitement and embarrassment. He can’t remember the last time he felt his heart race like this for a positive reason. Maybe it never has. You have a lot in common so far and that was the last thing he was expecting from a date Gojo had set up.

Taking your movement into his space as a good sign he leans a little closer. Nanami’s always been so busy chasing curses that he hasn’t ever taken the time to chase skirts. His sensual lips are moving by your ear. “I asked if I could buy you another mojito?”

A happy shiver rolls down your spine as you nod, “I’d like that.” He’s close enough to you now that you can smell his heavenly mixture of man, sandalwood, spice and whiskey. He looks reluctant to move away as he gestures for another round from a nearby waitress.

You leave your hand on his arm lightly. You’re relishing in the difference in textures; the crisp dress shirt, his light masculine blonde arm hair and the warmth of his pale skin beneath your fingers.

From the corner of your eye you see someone casually slip into the empty seat across from Nanami. The new voice being smooth and sensual with a hint of warning as they address your date, “Well, isn’t this nice? When Satoru claimed he had found a replacement for me this evening I didn’t imagine it would be the ever stoic Nanami, Kento.”

You can sense something is wrong long before your vision can see it. Nanami’s relaxed posture tightens up and exudes hostility immediately in response to the uninvited guest. You’re turning in confusion, your gaze landing on a man with closed eyes and a Cheshire smile. It’s only when he opens his eyes and you see the dangerous glint within that you register this isn’t just a random stranger. It’s him. He's so staggeringly beautiful it’s hard to look at him. His features, so prettily crafted, make him appear like a fallen angel. His raven hair is pulled into a messy bun with only a small bit of bangs resting to cradle his face. He’s wearing the same gauges as the last two times you ran into one another. The only difference now is several more piercings on both ears and onyx metal snakebite piercings that pull your gaze down to his lips.

If it wasn’t for his, better than you posture and tone of voice, you might have thought it was a different person entirely. The iconic monk robes are gone. His black button up dress shirt is worn casually. The fabric pulls tauntingly over his muscular chest and arms. The top two buttons undone so a bit of his chest is exposed. He isn’t looking at you. In fact he is refusing to acknowledge your existence to the point where he’s actively ignoring you.

The silence around the table drags as Nanami’s jaw flexes in agitation, “Suguru Geto.” He spits the name out like it’s a curse.

Geto raises a wry brow in response, “How formal.”

The waitress comes by the table carrying the two fresh drinks for you and Nanami. She misses the hostile atmosphere and greets your newest party member happily, “Good evening, can I get you anything from the bar?”

Before Geto can respond Nanami is frowning deeply, “No, he was just leaving.”

Tilting his head with a hum, Geto asserts, “Actually, I think I’ll stay for a while. Let me get what he’s having.”

“Right away.” The young lady chirps with a flirty wink before disappearing back into the throng of bodies.

Geto’s lip curls in disgust at her retreating form. “I don’t know how you can stand to be surrounded by all this monkey stench.” His eyes roam the room with disdain.

Your stomach dropped in panic when the man you now know is named Suguru Geto states his intention to stay. You try to rein in your fear, pulse pounding in your ears. Your fingers are turning white and tightening on Nanami’s arm. It’s only now that Nanami seems to notice your fearful expression. His hand moves to hold the back of the stool you are seated in. An effortless tug of the metal frame moves you so you're pulled slightly behind his own seated form.

The gesture makes you feel a little safer but Geto just laughs in response. “You don’t have to be so cold, Nanami. I have no problem with you.”

You can hear Nanami’s teeth practically grinding in irritation, “I can’t say I feel the same.” His tone is short and to the point. Your vision tracks around the crowded room. No Zoe or Gojo present. Nanami continues, “There are orders to bring you into custody, if encountered, dead or alive.”

Geto doesn’t look particularly surprised or even interested at this news. “Is that so? Do you think you can manage it?”

“No, I’m not an idiot.” The tone Nanami uses sounds bitter and resigned. You had no clue what they are talking about. Is Nanami a police officer? You wouldn’t be surprised if this Suguru Geto is a wanted criminal.

Geto stretches nonchalantly, several silver rings inlaid with black diamonds flash in the low lighting. The waitress brings Geto’s drink over, her posture excited to have an excuse to interact with the handsome man once more, “So what brings-.”

The girl barely gets three words out when without so much as a glance Geto does a rude shooing motion with his hand. The woman draws back in surprise at the attitude but rolls her eyes before turning away.

“Thank you!” You call after her retreating form, the placating words coming out of your mouth before you consider if they should.

Only at that do Geto’s eyes lazily move from Nanami’s gaze to your own. He scrutinizes you for a moment. His gaze is so intense that it feels like he’s pulling you into his coal shaded orbs. There’s something strange in his expression. The emotion shown is so brief that you would later think you had only imagined it; a sliver of wistfulness, longing, maybe even regret. But as soon as it came the vulnerability was gone. His eyes return to Nanami and he gives that closed eye grin. His hand disappears into his pants pocket only to emerge with some sort of small bottle of disinfecting spray. He sprays himself a few times as Nanami stares at him in confusion.

“It’s the only thing that helps with the monkey stench.” Geto replies nonchalantly as Nanami’s face shows incredulity.

The muscle in Nanami’s jaw ticks, “I thought it was an exaggeration, but you really did go insane.”

“No, I simply began to understand my worth. You’d do well to learn your own as well.” He cuts a glance at you, his lip curling in genuine revulsion, “Then you won’t lower yourself to dating something so beneath you.”

You have had enough. This crazy ass cult leader didn’t even know the first thing about you and he’s just smiling away as he insults you to your face. Your fingers tighten against the drink in your hand. The glass perspiring and wetting your fingers in the warm room. It almost feels like time is moving in slow motion as you jerk your arm forward and watch with satisfaction as the alcohol inside it sloshes over the rim and across the table. The action was so unexpected, so outside of any response you’ve had thus far, that he didn’t see it coming until it splattered across his beautiful bitchy face. The table is absolutely silent as the liquid drips down his nose and mouth. One or two ice cubes slide into his shirt as they fall to the floor.

Your aim was uncharacteristically spot on. Nanami has a look of horror on his face as he moves to stand between you and the now drenched curse user. Geto’s eyes are still closed when the deathly quiet is shattered by hysterical laughter from none other than Satoru Gojo. Of course he and Zoe chose now of all moments to emerge from the dance floor.

You’re tempted to make a break for it but find yourself frozen in place as the man you just soaked turns to meet your eyes. Finding your courage you stand and lean around Nanami to address this Suguru Geto, “I don’t know who the hell you think you are but I’m done taking shit from some pretty boy with a God complex! Get over yourself, you're not better than anyone else in here. If anything you’re worse because you survive by leeching off of the same people you look down on. What a pathetic existence that is.”

You expect rage, for him to stand up and try to strike you. Instead he’s staring at you with a mix of malice and amusement. His smile is stretched into almost a grimace, his cheek twitching. Geto’s tone is clipped when he finally speaks, “Are you quite finished?” You don’t respond but your hand lowering to place the glass back on the table is answer enough for him. He sounds mocking and condescending as he answers his own query, “That’s what I thought.” He pauses briefly, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. It reminds you of the way a snake watches its prey before it strikes. “You’re feeling very brave today. Hiding behind a sorcerer's back.”

Your brow furrows in confusion at him calling Nanami a sorcerer. This guy really is crazy. You step to the side, moving closer to Zoe and Gojo. Your intent, more importantly, is to move out from behind Nanami’s protective shadow. Your visage is challenging as you tilt your head up in defiance.

At some point Gojo had stopped laughing. The sounds of the club are interrupted by a different laugh this time. Geto barks out a singular sharp “Ha!” He’s starting to look manic now. His pupils dilating as he fixes you with a crooked grin. “You’ll do well to remember this moment when you are sobbing for mercy later.”

He says the threat so casually that you can’t help but question if you heard him correctly. The response of those around you lets you know you did. Gojo is stepping forward to speak to Geto as Nanami ushers both you and Zoe into the crowd and towards the nearest exit.

Zoe looks panicked when you meet her eyes. She’s peering around Nanami and cycling between Geto and Gojo at the table. Her vision finally landing on you as the three of you quickly leave. Her free hand grabs on to your own. Not to pull you back or make you stop but to give reassurance. She’s leaning forward, her voice an urgent whisper, “What the hell is going on? Are you okay?”

You glance at her quickly before talking over your shoulder. “I am so fucked.”

Zoe looks confused, glancing back one last time at the two gorgeous men they left behind. She can’t help but feel a shiver go down her spine at the way the alternative looking guy is staring you down. “I’m assuming this is not a good fuck?”

“This is really not the time.” You whine. Your breath catches in your throat as Nanami’s hand rests on your lower back and pulls you closer to his side as you pass a particularly rowdy group of drunks. Zoe trails close behind, essentially walking in the wake of people Nanami leaves. Her eyebrows wiggle with a barely concealed snicker seeing you flush so hard up against the man’s massive pectorals.

A rush of cool air and the muffling of music lets you know the moment you appear outside the club. Your group moves over to the side so you don’t obstruct the entrance as you look up at Nanami a little guiltily. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have reacted like- “.

You’re momentarily stunned when the stoic man starts laughing. He raises a hand and clears his throat to try and mask the sudden outburst. “You really shouldn’t have.” His tone is chiding but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “That said, I was about to reach over the table and make a bigger scene than you did.” He’s looking down at Zoe, an apology ready, “I’m sorry I whisked you out of there so fast as well.”

The corner of Zoe’s mouth twitches as she tries to hold back giggles. Hand fluttering, she waves him off while stepping away from you two, “Don’t mind me. I’m just a fly on the wall. A cigarette butt on a street corner.” She was definitely still buzzed despite the excitement earlier. As she steps further away and out of Nanami’s line of sight she flashes you a giddy thumbs up that has you hold back a fit of laughter. You are definitely not sober either.

Nanami’s glancing behind him at the club his face pinched in concern, “I’m not worried about Gojo’s well being but I should get back in there for damage control.” He frowns at you for a moment before asking, “How were you ladies planning on getting home?”

You glance in the general direction of the metro station, “We’re just taking the train.”

“Home?!” Zoe’s loud interruption is followed by the sound of her hand slapping her mouth shut. “Ignore me, I’m just a leaf on a tree. A-a cricket on a- shit..” She mumbling out some other crackpot analogies as Nanami turns back towards you.

“I’m really not a fan of not walking a date home after. Can I call you a car?”

It’s your turn to wave him away. Despite the chaos of the evening your blind date had been an unexpectedly pleasant experience. “No, we’re fine. We take the train home from this station after work everyday.”

Zoe leans forward talking to no one in particular, “A ride home would be nice.” You’re giving her a reproachful look as she turns her face away so as not to see it.

Nanami already has the phone to his ear by the time you turn back to insist you’re fine. “Yes, I’m sending my location. I need a driver to take two ladies home.” The person on the other line must have asked something uncomfortable as Nanami’s cheeks turn crimson. His fingers fiddling with his tie awkwardly, “You’ll have to take it up with Gojo. He’s the one who- right. Thank you.” Nanami hangs up the phone without further comment. His warm hazel eyes meet yours for a moment as he clears his throat, “I need to get back in there. Do you- Can we exchange numbers?”

You can’t help the giddy feeling that races through you at the thought of a prospective second date. You’re smiling from ear to ear as you fish your phone out of your purse. “Sure, I’d like that.”

He nods, opening his contacts and passing the phone over while you do the same. He clears his throat again as he finishes typing and holds your phone back to you. “If anything unusual or strange happens, you shouldn’t hesitate to reach out.”

Your stomach drops, the giddiness extinguishing. “Oh, right. Okay then.” What was with these guys and referencing something strange. What even qualifies as something strange?

All hope for a second date flies out the window as the man bows his head to you and Zoe before going back inside the club.

Zoe walks up to stand beside you. “Sooo, you wanna tell me what that was all about?”

~~

Heart racing, blood pumping, nerves alight and senses tingling. His erection is straining against his suit pants; his thigh tacky with precum. It’s a little past two am. The parking lot is dark and full of vehicles. His own exorbitantly expensive sports car looks out of place in this middle class area. He doesn’t bother to lock it. One of his curses lazes in front of it, its directive to kill anyone who tries to tamper with the luxury vehicle.

Suguru’s footsteps echo off the pavement as he approaches your apartment complex. Even after going into the mens room at the club and washing his face off, he still feels that stickiness on him from where your drink had landed. His shirt, no longer damp, still reeks of booze and lime. His cock twitches painfully in his pants just thinking about the way you attempted to bare your fangs at him. You reminded him of a feral kitten; simply adorable and harmless as you tried to draw blood.

If Satoru hadn’t been there tonight he might have lost control at the bar. He had found you almost immediately in the crowd when he entered. His eyes drawn to your presence. You had your hands all over a man. It hadn’t even registered immediately to him that it was Nanami leaning into you; speaking in your ear as you laughed gaily. Of course Satoru would drag another sorcerer into this. It was all just one big game to his white haired foolish friend.

Fucking Satoru and his medlsome nature. If he hadn’t interfered Suguru would have bent you over the table in front of everyone. Taken his belt to your ass right there until you viscerally understood that your bratty attitude would not be tolerated. No, he should thank Satoru. He would have had to kill everyone in that club after they saw you exposed and writhing beneath him. Satoru’s presence had forced his rage into a simmer, turning the heat down from that roiling boil you left inside him.

Your apartment door stands only feet in front of him now. He resists the urge to break the hinges with a powerful kick. The curse he summons simply turns the lock from the inside. The door slowly creaks open to invite him in. It’s dark. If not for the artificial city lights outside your window it would be pitch black inside. Suguru reaches out a hand with black painted nails to shut the door after him. The bolt lock slowly clicking into place. He doesn’t want to be interrupted tonight.

The front door opens up to your kitchen. He considers leaving your present on the counter like he originally intended. But you didn't really deserve it right now. Maybe he’d change his mind after he was done with you. Right now he needs you to understand your position on his modified food chain.

Suguru’s breath is picking up as he passes through your kitchen and makes his way down the hall to your bedroom. He’s excited, ecstatic, aroused. He likes the unexpected fight you showed him this evening. He wants to take his time breaking it out of you. His fingers levitate over your bedroom door knob for a moment before he goes to swing it open.

~~

Satoru Gojo and Nanami Kento stand outside on top of an apartment complex adjacent to the one you’re asleep in. The night is chilly but neither man seems to notice as they wait to see if Suguru Geto will show himself. Nanami is more than a little irritated at his snowy haired colleague and Gojo is aware and simply doesn’t care right now. The mood is tense and only after several hours have passed and the lights inside turn off does Nanami finally speak. “Why haven’t you put him down yet?”

Gojo turns to look at Nanami, the blindfold not impairing his vision at all. “Put him down? He’s not a damn dog.” Gojo tries to mask the irritation in his tone but knows he’s unsuccessful. He comes across as sarcastic and agitated.

Nanami turns to meet his gaze head on. He’s never been one to shy away from confrontation. Especially when he feels like it concerns something ethical. “You’re right. A dog would do a hell of a lot less damage.”

Gojo turns away without comment. It’s not until Nanami starts to think he’s going to be ignored that Gojo finally breaks the stalemate. “You went to school with him too. Even if you didn’t like him. How can you just say something like that?”

Crossing his arms, Nanami's lips turn down into a deep frown. “Gojo, he’s a murderer.”

Gojo spins on the slightly shorter man, his canines glittering as he bites out, “So am I and so are you!” His tone is vicious.

Nanami’s response is firm. “It’s not the same thing and you know it. We’ve killed curse users or people turned into curses. We don’t kill innocent people.”

A sarcastic laugh leaves Gojo’s throat, “We don’t know if the people Suguru is killing are innocent.”

“He killed everyone in a village, surely they were all not guilty of crimes deserving death. Gojo, he killed his parents.”

Gojo doesn’t want to hear this. He can’t ignore the atrocities Suguru has committed when Nanami keeps shoving them in his face. The next line he speaks is under his breath like he doesn’t even believe what he’s saying, “Someone else can do it.”

Nanami feels his temper explode, “Like hell they can!” He’s grabbing Gojo by the shoulders and shaking him violently. The fact that Gojo is allowing it is lost on Nanami in the moment. “You know damn well you’re the only one capable of beating him in a fight! It’s your responsibility as the strongest to-.”

Gojo gives a sarcastic chuckle that catches Nanami off guard, “Yeah, well you know what Nanami? I never asked to be the strongest! I never asked to be seen as a weapon; to be used at society’s whim. I’m a human fucking being with feelings of my own. So you wanna know when am I going to “put down” my best and only friend? When I fucking feel like it!”

Gojo activates his infinity and Nanami feels his grip on the man in front of him release. Without another word Gojo sits down facing the apartment complex’s parking lot. A long gap of time passes in silence. Both men rehashing in their heads the words they said. Eventually, Nanami lets out a deep breath. He’s not about to apologize for anything he’s said and neither is Gojo but at least they know where each other is coming from whether it’s right, wrong, or somewhere in between.

Nanami sinks down to sit next to Gojo. His posture is less aggressive as he genuinely tries to understand this evening, “At least tell me why all this.” He gestures around him at the apartment complex, his implication clearly the involvement of the two non-sorcerer girls. “You dragged me into this and I at least deserve the answer to that.”

A long moment goes by before Gojo finally speaks. His tone defeated, “That mask he wears. That smile. The only time I’ve seen it slip since he left was when it involved the girl you went out with.”

Chapter 4

[cocoabats]

Deer Hunting Season better known as that one comic that made all our readers yell at us! I had the absolute pleasure of collabing on this comic with @theminecraftbee (writing), @otselotus (art) and @definitelynotshouting (editing) (with a gorgeous cover by @ingapotejtoo and some additional help from @kunehokki). And of course if youd like to know where HG and CG end up after this check out @hotguycomiczine!

Had a blast working on this comic, this whole team was absolutely lovely and I was super happy I could jump in to help out :DD

[ START | PREVIOUS | NEXT]

[ MERCH | MISC ]

[timmydraker]

CW: drugs

When Tim is seventeen, Bruce gets a call from his principal asking for a private meeting to discuss Tim’s education. It’s not abnormal, but the parent teacher meetings weren’t due for another month and something about the tone of Professor Wilcot’s voice leaves Bruce concerned.

He organises it for the next afternoon and politely tells the timid looking man to please get to the point.

Wilcot answers with a tight lipped frown, “I recently discovered that Tim has a few nicknames. Now, that in itself isn’t a probably but the names themself are… concerning.”

Bruce immediately thinks of Red Robin and worries his son has been caught, but that makes little sense when Tim has shown to be the best at contingencies and secret keeping.

“Such as?”

With a deep sigh the man continues, “Well, there’s ‘Benzo’ and ‘Opi’. As well as ‘27’, which is recently learned references a so called ‘club’ of celebrities who die at that age for-for drug abuse.”

Even if he wasn’t a detective, Bruce could easily put it all together. Benzodiazepines and opioids, both drugs and a number well tied to such a thing all regarding a famed person.

It’s like he’s just gotten inside from being drenched in snow and had hot water dunked on him as dozens of different moments come to mind. He remembers Tim going from being down and low, tired and drained to suddenly being extra alert and chatty. He assumed it was coffee, but Tim often had a red nose and sniffled like mad.

He also got shakes, was made fun of by his brothers for being a sweaty person, and irritable at the best of times. He was jumpy and easily spooked, which everyone connected to him growing up safe and getting no sleep.

Tim also had forgotten basic case information a few times but usually managed to cover it up.

Bruce had noticed and responded by trying to lessen his work load, only for Tim to scream at him, storm off and come back looking drowsy a couple of hours later.

Wilcot doesn’t speak for a while, seemingly giving Bruce the chance to process his words but when he does it’s just to put forward the last bit of evidence Bruce needs.

“I admit it isn’t exactly ethical, but I check Mister Drake-Wayne’s locker and… I thought it would be best if I let you chose how to proceed lest I harm his reputation.”

A bottle, almost empty, of Oxycodone and a half full bottle of Oxymorphone.

Bruce looks away when the last bottle lands on the table, it’s a benzodiazepines called Dalmane and there are no pills because they’ve all been crushed into a powder.

Bruce doesn’t even want to think about how those drugs interact.

Wilcot says one last thing before he leaves the room, quit clearly giving Bruce a moment as the reveal settles in his mind, “Tim is a good kid. He’s kind to everyone and I truely hope he can get help. Please, if there is anything I can do, contact me. Other than that, I will keep this quiet. Please take care of him.”

Let it be said that Bruce Wayne loves his children, he genuinely cares for them and most importantly, he likes who each of them are.

But he’s not always the best father to them, not when he’s too far in his head and his head is too far up his arse.

He tries to confront Tim calmly and with compassion at first but it becomes clear he isn’t qualified to deal with it and he should have gotten Alfred or even Dick. When Batman deals with addicts all he has to do is get them to a hospital and show he isn’t judging them, but with his own son and when he’s not being Batman…

Tim instantly locks up when Bruce shows him the bottles and his defences go straight into overdrive, “Bruce, don’t. That’s not fair! Did you go through my fucking stuff?! That’s fucked up!”

Bruce looses his composure quickly, “Don’t you dare curse at me, Timothy. You are a goddamn hero and you’re doing this? Why did you tell me?! I could have helped you! Why, Tim?! You e seen what people who abuse drugs end up like-“

Tim screams so loud Bruce can practically hear how it hurts his throat, “WHAT FUCKING DRUGGIES?! IS THAT WHAT THEY END UP LIKE?! TOO FUCKING LATE BRUCE, YOU’RE TOO LATE! I GAVE YOU EVERY FUCKING SIGN AND YOU DID NOTHING SO FUCK OFF! I. AN HANDLE IT ON MY OWN!”

“This ain’t handling it, Tim. You’re addicted. You’re erratic, you’re bouncing from mood to mood and, have you seen how skinny you are? I’m worried, Tim.”

Maybe Tim would have been able to handle it better if he hadn’t been a few hours into withdrawal, but all he does is swing. He manages to catch Bruce of guard and hit him square in the jaw, only to realise what he’s done and start hitting himself the same way.

Bruce breaks as he watches his son who is usually so calm and controlled break down in a fit of aggression and pent up energy.

When Tim manages to hit himself hard enough Bruce. An hear a crack from his hand.

As he speaks again he dooms himself to a life time of regret, forever wishing he had gotten Alfred’s advice first.

“I’m sorry son, but until you’re clean, you will no longer be Red Robin.”

There’s a silence before Tim releases a wheezing laugh of disbelief.

It’s soon followed by the most enraged, harrowing scream Bruce has ever heard. It feels as if it shakes the walls before Tim kicks at his father’s stomach and bolts.

Bruce is too stunned to follow and foolishly assumes he can track his son anywhere.

Tim, even after he manages to shakily pull out the Dalmane he had in his pocket just as he passes the gate and take a big inhale, manages to put his mind together enough to remove his watch and key.

Bruce is forced to shamefully admit what happened a few hours later when he can’t find him and realises that Tim isn’t coming back.

Alfred for the first time in Bruce’s entire life actually glares at him.

Dick shouts at Bruce about how unbelievably stupid he is.

Jason just scoffs and says the kid will come back while Damian makes a comment about Tim being weak.

Maybe they would have reacted better if Bruce told them why Tim left, but he shamefully doesn’t want to admit he didn’t notice that Tim was a dealing with addiction under his own nose.

But Bruce has never been good with honesty.

[oatmealcrisp-freak]

more phanart for more phanfic that ive recently read and enjoyed quq I Do Not Trust the World With You by @too-much-tma-stuff is a very interesting fun-to-me romp through action scenes and boundaries and ghost culture and this is one of my fave scenes from it

presenting your BF with the decapitated head of his killer is peak romance okay

author, tysm for sharing your work w/us!!!

halftone, gradient, blood spatter

Jason's flowery BG is from ibispaintx. City BG is also traced/referenced from ibispaintx bg stock :3

[softceleste]

Autumn Best in Woman of the Hour (2023, dir. Anna Kendrick)

Please do not save, repost, or edit these gifs for any reason, use the reblog button instead. Also please do not interact if you’re a celeb rp blog, a true crime blog, or if you write taboo content on your blog, thank you!

[corazondebeskar-reads]

how to break a girl in ten easy steps

dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: joel miller is a lonely old man, but he likes it that way. he has everything he needs: a nice piece of property in the woods, a cozy cabin, and plenty of cash. there is one thing missing, though. one thing he needs that he can't give himself.

author's note: this story is dark. very dark. it contains many things considered taboo and extreme. a full list of warnings is under the cut; reader discretion is advised.

y'all know those jokes about how sadists often have to rein in their subs' fantasies? this is a masochistic wet dream that I would never, ever want to come true. this is the kind of thing i jerk it to and then think 'what the fuck is wrong with me?' after. this is me safely exploring the fucked up recessess of my horny mind through the medium of joel miller fanfiction. do not attempt these acts in real life. practice risk aware consensual kink. disclaimer over.

please heed the following warnings. if any of them make you uncomfortable, please do not read. if you have any questions, my DMs and inbox are always open.

tags/warnings: NON-CON, kidnapping, captivity, slavery, torture porn, no outbreak AU, character deaths mentioned (sarah & tommy), sadist!Joel Miller, Joel Miller is a bad bad man, abuse, neglect, starvation, rape, forced oral, forced everything, graphic depictions of assault, predator/prey, hopelessness, conditioning, beatings, broken bones, piss play, piss drinking, vomiting, consumption of vomit & piss & other bodily fluids, cutting, burns, shock collar, obedience training, kicking, brute force, non-linear storytelling, i will add more if anything changes.

for the last time: do not read this if any of the content is potentially upsetting. this is dark, disturbing, and disgusting.

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

part seven

part eight

part nine

part ten

[monsoonsummer]

for mozz !!

based loosely on the best part of waking up, et cetera (i say loosely because i drew it a fourth into the story because I had to!!!)

[themarginalthinker]

*sits and stares into space a little*

Holy moly, YEAH, I CAN FUCKIN' SEE HOW DAVID ENDED UP THE WAY HE DID. Cripes almighty.

But gaaaaaa this is so good! It's terrible, and unfortunate, and I just wanna give his mother and David himself a giant fucking hug, but. This is just. A life. A set of circumstances that lead the person into what will define them for the rest of their existence.

Do any of the other boys (Marko in particular, seeing as in your canon he's the next oldest) know any of this at all? Not that you have to reveal any of that, of course, but now I'm curious. This DEFINITELY seems like something David would be hesitant to talk about, not just because it's from his human life and thus 'doesn't matter' but because it's also deeply personal and would be...a very vulnerable thing to share with someone.

@themarginalthinker some of this may appear in fic content but nevertheless I will not pass up an opportunity to ramble about my OCs

though now that I have written it all down this family is far more dysfunctional than I originally realised good lord

(Cw for discussion of csa, sex work, loss of pregnancy, infant death, alcoholism, domestic violence and other 19th century unpleasantness)

DAVID’S PARENTS

David’s mother:

Constance ‘Connie’ Flynn (née Doyle) was born in 1851 to Irish immigrants who had fled from County Cork during the early years of the Potato Famine. She originally worked in domestic service at a lower middle-class household in San Francisco as a 14-15 year old but was dismissed when she became pregnant because the man of the house took liberties with her. He’s not David’s father though; that baby was a stillborn girl. But at this point she had pretty much been branded as a prostitute and found it difficult to get reputable work. Though she did take in laundry and do cleaning jobs when she could get them her income was supplemented by sex work if needed.

David was born in 1873. Connie’s relationship with his father was rather rocky. She had been his wife since 1868 but both of them had a drink problem, and he had both a major jealousy problem and a wandering eye. They would separate and get back together again repeatedly, with Connie taking David off with her sometimes for months at a time to other lodgings but eventually she would go back.

Until David was about 6 years old and he left her for another woman (despite still being legally married to her). During the time she had been with him she had miscarried twice.

After this she went back to her old trade from time to time. David was often turfed out of their rooms while she had ‘gentleman callers’ and left to fend for himself. Occasionally his mother would get herself a new man (because two sources of income [and a half if you count David’s childhood artful dodger ways - hilariously I hc’d him as a pickpocket before I ever read the prequel script] are better than one) and he would have a stepfather for a while but it never seemed to last long.

Unfortunately his mother died when David was 13, due to complications with yet another pregnancy. This kid was a girl named Catherine who ‘failed to thrive’ and died when she was two weeks old.

David’s father:

Jonathon Flynn. His family also came to America as a result of the great famine, but from Dublin. He was a dockworker with a fondness for playing cards, gin, and pretty ladies. That last part led to a lot of heated disputes between him and Constance. She would accuse him of being a faithless, pox-ridden lech and he would in turn, call her a whore and express doubts that David was his. As mentioned they had periods of separation but she would always come back because as John would boastfully say, “She just likes me too much to stay away.”

During arguments she would get angry and start throwing things at him - while he would hit her, of the two of them she was much more likely to get physically violent.

After one argument he went to give her a make up kiss and she bit off the end of his tongue.

So err, yes. You can kind of understand why he left her.

Nobody was innocent here except David. And that didn’t last too long. As he grew older he generally made his bread by stealing stuff, usually pickpocketing but occasionally robbery, and - if he was very desperate, mugging people at knifepoint.

Which is how he met Max in straight on till nightfall lol

[thinkingabout-girls]

ok so i might have made an mml pmv.

you should watch it i worked really hard on it… i think it turned out really well. heart

[pfhwrittes]

oh god here we go. alright read the fucking warnings. 

TW: noncon, somnophilia, male masturbation, spit, facial, alcohol mention.

pairing: john “soap” mactavish x female reader

word count: 966 words of smut.

AN: this is @kaadaaan's fault. also i wrote this all in one go with minimal editing because my brain was being rotted and i needed to get it out. poor grammar and typos are likely, for that i apologise.

johnny is your friend, he’s been your friend for a long long time and as such he has a key to the door to your house to use and your blessing that he can just drop in whatever time he likes when he’s on leave. it’s not uncommon for you to come downstairs in the morning to find him sprawled out on your sofa wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, one foot planted on the rug under the sofa and the other hanging off the armrest. 

he’s larger than life, your johnny. the other half to your brain sometimes. jokingly referred to as your brother from another mother. you love him, but only as a friend. despite that, he’s got a key to your house and a piece of your heart because you know he’ll never do anything to hurt you.

johnny on the other hand doesn’t love you like a sister. he loves you with a capital L and something feral behind his eyes. his smile always goes a little too sharp whenever you crack that “joke” that you love him like a brother because he knows if you knew the way he’d been thinking about you for years you’d have locked up your heart and house tight instead of inviting the wolf to stay. 

-

that obsession is how he ends up in this position, just like he has countless times before, standing like a sentinel at your bedside. the only light to see your gorgeous face is the streetlight that curls probing fingers through the thin curtains of your bedroom window. you’re beautiful like this. he honestly doesn’t know how his gaze hasn’t woken you yet, surely you can feel the way he traces every shadow and highlight on your face. surely you can feel the way he stares at your open mouth, driven to madness by the slight spit at the corners of your mouth. fuck it’s almost too much for him. but still he stands frozen, just watching. never touching. not until tonight.

you’d both been drinking. johnny had switched to water part way through the night, you hadn’t and so with johnny’s help you’d stumbled up the stairs to your room and passed out flat on your back. not terribly unusual, he’s seen you do it before when you’ve been drinking. he’s heard your snoring through the walls before. but tonight is different. 

later, when he creeps down the stairs to slump onto the sofa, he’ll blame the lingering buzz of alcohol in his blood for daring to do what he’s thought about for so long. but right now, he’s staring at your open mouth watching a faint glimmer of light hit your wet pink tongue and fisting his cock over your sleeping face. grateful for the fact that you always sleep like the dead when you’re drunk and nothing except the world ending could possibly wake you. 

despite the reassurance that you won’t wake - can’t wake - the sound of his hand moving over his cock is loud in his ears. he’s sure the slick noises are drowning out even the gentle open mouth snores you offer into the air. he positive that in mere moments your eyelids will flicker open and you’ll look up at him, your corrupted sentinel, to see the way he’s gripping his cock desperately. his hips jerking in aborted thrusts as he thrusts into the tight fist he’s made around himself.

a groan slips through johnny’s gritted teeth as his thumb swipes another bead of precum over the flushed head of his cock. 

fuck. 

if he doesn’t slow down he knows without a shadow of a doubt he’ll end up coming on your sleeping face. a spurt of precum dribbles from his cock at the thought. oh fuck. he wants that. he wants to come on your face. he wants to let the thick white ropes coat your cheeks and chin. maybe even cover your open mouth with some of his come so you wake up with the taste of him on your tongue. 

johnny’s hips jerk forward as his orgasm blindsides him completely. his eyes roll back into his head and he whines desperately through his nose, teeth sinking into his lower lip to trap the moan that's burning his throat. 

moments or maybe aeons later, his vision clears and he looks down at you. 

“fuckin’ hell” it’s whispered, part reverence for the sight that greets him, part fear of waking you prematurely. 

your face is covered. johnny’s come drips from your cheeks. it slides down the curve of your jaw onto your neck where it pools, glimmering in the low light, before dribbling onto your pillow. a pearlescent string clings to your top lip and then - and johnny swears he feels his cock twitch out another dribble at the sight - you lick it off.

johnny takes a step backwards from you on shaky legs. he needs to leave, now. if he doesn’t, christ he doesn’t know what he’d do to you. he doesn’t want to find out how far the depths of his depravity go. he doesn’t want to know if he could get away with scooping some of his come off your chin and pushing it into your mouth. he doesn’t want to know if that would be enough for the taste to linger in the morning when you wake up.

with one last lingering look at your face he tucks himself back into his boxers and leaves you. covered, marked, his. 

-

in the morning you wake with blurry eyes and a thick head. god you’d really had too much to drink last night. you smack your lips together and frown at the taste in your mouth. it’s sour and slightly musky. 

oh well, you must’ve fallen asleep with your mouth open again.

[scooterpengie]

I have an AU where Miss Heed and G-Lo end up working together that I can't really be bothered to explain right now but I thought this suited them - the dialogue is from Sylvanian drama (who you should definitely be following if you're not already)

Anyway I've never drawn G-Lo before so I thought I'd try. Unpopular opinion (??) I actually don't really care for her. I think she's an overrated character

[verdantwyrm]

Managed to get a clip of Curly's screaming when you cut his leg off, because I wanted to. Warning for.. screaming, of course. I wanted to see If I could try and pinpoint his voice a bit, since Wrongorgan said in a Q.A That he was going to be british, and that you could probably still hear some of it. I wanted to study this, and I'm going to be studying every little thing about this game from now on it seems.

Its very hard to hear a lot of the noise Curly makes due to his condition or the game purposefully submerging it in other noises.Anyways, you can faintly hear him sobbing, and the more I listened to it the more i think about how difficult it would have been for him to make any noise at all, and yet all he could do was cry and scream, there were no words, only guttural noises. I'm going to think about this for a long time.

[pusangkambing]

DEATH THREAT WARNING ⚠️

I have not finished the stream BUT HOLY SHIT NOTHING COULDVE PREPARED ME FOR JUST HOW FUCKING RAW THAT "KYS" THAT JAIDEN SHOUTED OHMYFUCKIMG GOD

[orchurisarts]

‘YOU COULD NOT USE YOUR EYES TO THEIR POTENTIAL. WE WILL FIX THAT’

me when funny horror game… i love grace . may be minorly fixated on religious-themed fictions (between Grace and Good Omens..)

specifically slight and heed . read on the wiki that the way they block your vision implies thatthey REPLACE YOUR EYES is so fucking cool oh my god

[torchflies]

*Little blurb about Jake’s terrible childhood and the five siblings he raised on his own. It might become a series 😉*

“Ness Seresin is born on Caddo Lake, split between Texas and Louisiana.

He comes a month too early.

(Or, a brief look into the childhood of Jake Seresin, who wasn't always Jake, and the five kids he raised).”

[corazondebeskar-reads]

the art of breaking (dark!joel miller x f!reader; dead dove do not eat)

the art of breaking part one | part two

very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 10k

Summary: Your meeting is happenstance, but everything that follows? Well, that’s all Joel. He just knows you’re going to be his perfect little toy. He just has to show you how.

written for the #deaddovedecember2023 event hosted by @romana-after-dark | also on ao3 | dedicating this to @kewwrites, who is a master and icon of unsettling-but-still-romantic dark fic & whose incredible vibes made me feel brave enough to write this. love you ty 🖤

dividers by @saradika-graphics

NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

Seriously, I am saying this as clearly as I can: read the warnings carefully. If anything listed is something you don’t want to read, don’t. The working title for this was “the darkest joel” for a reason (and I actually tamed it down/cut out some of the intense scenes). It’s modern-day/no outbreak, but Joel still lost Sarah and went off the deep end. He was probably a good dom at some point, but now he’s just fucked up.

If you're worried it'll be too dark, it probably will be.

Warnings under the cut:

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, non-con, dub-con, very dark!Joel, BAD bdsm etiquette, not SSC/RACK compliant, sadist!Joel x masochist!reader, coercion, corruption, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, semi-permanent damage (a bone is broken, I’m not fucking around), whipping, spanking, face slapping, tit slapping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, anal, vaginal, degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, edging, denial, dacryphilia, bastinado (mentioned), restraints, very brief knifeplay, tiny drop of blood play, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare 

Again, I cannot say this enough. This is a dark fantasy and should not be taken as representative of a good d/s relationship—it’s abuse masquerading. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I’m condoning it. 

Please read responsibly. 

I. in media res

     -the fracture

There’s one comfort Joel almost never denies you.

Well, never denies himself.

Unless you’ve been real bad, you always take your place in bed with him at the end of the day. You think it’s so he has easy access to you if he wakes up horny, but honestly, that happens a lot less than expected. He works hard all day; he needs his sleep.

No, he likes the comfort of your warm body next to his. The way you curl up and press kisses to him, no matter how bad he hurt you during the day. His sweet little pet, desperate for every bit of his affection you can earn. He’s always gentle with you here.

It’s part of what makes The Pit so effective.

It fucks with your brain on so many levels, exposes you to so many fears, and then you have to reconcile that you were bad enough for Joel to deny himself the comfort of you in his arms at night. That you’re so undeserving of his love.

Of all of the ways he punishes you, this will be the worst. You can take the humiliation, the pain—not easily, but you can, and there’s usually immediate care after.

But a night in The Pit will tear you down completely.

You hadn’t known what to expect when he said you’d have to spend the night alone, but it wasn’t this.

“No, please,” you scream, stumbling to keep up as Joel pulls you by your hair.

“Shut up,” he snarls.

The soil is loose, clinging to your sweat as you try to right yourself. It’s a futile effort. When you reach The Pit, he holds you down with his boot on your chest while he unlocks and opens the bars.

“Get in,” he says.

You’re sobbing and shaking, skin already gone cold. Somehow, you manage to obey.

The Pit is exactly what it sounds like. It has an open wooden frame with mesh on the side walls to keep the dirt in place. The bottom is bare soil. Mounted to the top of the beams is a grate of bars that sit flush with the ground.

It’s big enough for you to curl up at the bottom—which is what you do now.

“I’m sorry,” you cry.

He shuts and locks the gate.

II. from the start

     -intact

It was kismet, really, that he was there that night. He didn’t usually go out for drinks with the guys, not wanting to be the boss who was always cramping their style. But Tommy had dragged him out tonight, and so he was witness (with the rest of the pub) to your relationship falling apart.

And okay, maybe he went outside for a smoke after you moved the fight to the alley so he could eavesdrop. But it wasn’t his fault. How could he not?

You had said, “Maybe you’re just not man enough for me,” to the brawny but pathetic prick across from you in the booth. “Wanting you to be rough doesn’t make me a freak.”

“That’s not rough; that’s fuckin’ abuse. You’re sick,” your boyfriend had practically shouted.

The discussion evolved into a screaming match in the alley, where Joel had been pleased to be right. It was about more than just a little rough sex or spanking.

At the end of it, your boyfriend stormed off, and you went back in the pub. Joel found you at the bar, throwing back another shot and wiping your tears away.

“You did good back there,” he says.

You startle and look at the stranger. The very handsome stranger. Rugged, with a salt and pepper beard and a scar across his nose.

“What do you mean?”

“Standin’ up for yourself. Not a lot of people woulda been confident enough. ‘Specially not a girl lookin’ for that.”

You glare at the bar counter. “M’not a weirdo.”

“Nah, you’re not. Shit like that is perfectly normal. He’s just pathetic.”

You look back up at him, and he sticks one hand in his pocket, trying to adjust himself discreetly. The tear streaks on your cheeks are getting to him.

“I don’t know. He’s probably right. It’s not your garden variety shit,” you say. The tequila and his gentle eyes have loosened your tongue.

“I doubt that. Try me,” he says.

“What?”

“Try me. Tell me what he freaked out over, and I’ll tell ya if it’s weird. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.”

You hesitate, but he looks genuine and kind. “I asked him to hit me. Like, in the face. And to, y’know, pin me down and—” you trail off.

“And make ya take it?” he guesses.

You nod. “He thought I like, I dunno, actually wanted to be raped,” you whisper the last word, eyes darting to the people around you.

Joel laughs. “Honey, that’s so normal, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve helped ladies out with that little roleplay more times than I can count. If that’s your deepest, darkest fantasy, and he couldn’t take it, then you’re better off without him.”

“It’s not,” you mumble.

“Speak up, honey.”

“It’s not my deepest, darkest fantasy. It’s probably one of the least of them.”

He grins. “Then you’re definitely better off. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with likin’ things on the darker side, sweetheart.”

You’re feeling hot all over and are about to ask him more when your phone rings. It’s your idiot boyfriend, who’s realized you have the car keys.

“I better go. Thank you,” you say, standing and offering him your hand.

He gives it a firm shake, tipping his head. “I’m Joel. And if you’re ever so inclined, I’d like to take you out sometime.”

You laugh. “Let me break up with my boyfriend first, Joel.” But you dig a pen out of your purse and write your number on one of the tiny bar napkins.

Your first date was so normal. You’re not sure what you expected. To jump right to hardcore sex?

But no, he turns up at your door in a neatly pressed green button-up, black slacks, and an ostentatious belt buckle. He greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a bouquet of wildflowers, lavender stalks nestled between pink honeysuckle and red salvia. Not a traditional arrangement, but it reminds you of a summer sunset.

“From my garden,” he says a little sheepishly, but you like them a lot better than some generic store display. You tell him as much and his cheeks flush a little.

You return the kiss and pop the flowers in a vase of water before he sweeps you off in his pickup. You aren’t surprised, really, but it’s more charming than some of the other men and their gaudy trucks.

Joel’s is older but well-kept, with minimal rusting around the wheel wells. The bed is open, and you can see streaks of grease and paint spills. A silver tool chest is mounted against the back of the cab. Everything inside and out has a light coating of sawdust.

He isn’t some insecure man with a truck big enough to make up for what isn’t in his britches, that’s for certain. You’d hazard a guess that the corded muscle of his forearms and the breadth of his shoulders are well-earned.

He holds the door open for you, which you tease him for as you slide onto the truck’s bench seat.

“Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause you’re incapable,” he drawls. “Or because you’re a lady,” he adds when he sees the glint in your eye.

“Oh yeah, cowboy?”

His grin is lopsided, a little dark. “Nah. I just think you deserve to be taken care of, s’all.”

You flush, the back of your neck burning, but you don’t fight the smile that threatens to break out. “Thank you, Joel.”

He shakes his head. He’s pretty sure, now, that if he plays his cards right, he’s found somethin’ special.

He waits three whole dates to take you to bed, and even then, it doesn’t start dirty.

“Let me get to know your body first, baby,” he urges when you ask him to fuck you rough. Instead, he takes you apart piece by piece. First with his tongue, and then his fingers. He brings you to the edge over and over, but never lets you fall.

After a while, you’re a broken record, pleas and sobs spilling from you.

“That’s music to my ears, darlin’,” he says, pulling his fingers out abruptly to see how your cunt throbs for him. He spits on your clit and watches it drip down to join the mess between your thighs.

“Please, please, Joel,” you beg.

“Please who now?”

“Please, sir,” you try, and are rewarded with his sharp grin. But not with an orgasm.

He slaps your cunt. “That’s more like it, baby. You remember who you’re talkin’ to, alright?”

You nod. “Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”

He shakes his head, sucking on your clit for a moment before pulling back to get a good look at you. “You do like a little pain, huh?”

“Would like more,” you say.

“Oh yeah? What would you let me do to you?”

“Anything, please, sir.”

He clicks his tongue at you. “Don’t go sayin’ that to someone you barely know. It’s okay to mean it when you trust somebody, but you’re gonna end up in more trouble than you bargain for if you pass that out like candy.”

“I do mean it.”

“Yeah? You’ll let me do this?” His open palm smacks across your face, leaving a sting tingling on your cheek and a lightness to your brain.

Tears spring to your eyes, but you nod frantically.

“What about this?” he grabs a nipple in his calloused fingers and yanks, twisting.

You yelp, but it trails off to a moan, and you nod.

“Goddamn, baby. S’good. But what about this?” He flicks open the switchblade he keeps in his pocket.

You jerk and whine, eyes wide and wet as he brings it to your breast. Your breathing falls shallow as you try to hold still, the point scraping the delicate skin as he circles it. But the look you’re giving him almost has him cumming in his pants like he were twenty years younger.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding. I mean, you’ve gotta have limits; everyone does. But you just want me to hurt you, huh?” He digs the tip of the blade in a little on the side of your breast, cock throbbing as you gasp, and you both watch a tiny drop of blood bead and trickle down the blade.

He puts it away. “No,” he says when you whimper. “Not today. I ain’t prepared for all that.”

Joel doesn’t like to break his toys. Not permanently. Just enough that he can put them back together how he likes and then do it all over again.

“Don’t need to be prepared; just do it,” you whine.

He slaps you again and wrenches your head up with a hand in your hair. “First of all, I fuckin’ told you no. Second, I know you want to be a stupid little cunt for me, but I’m not about to cut you open without any goddamn first aid shit.”

He leans back and smacks the breast he had cut. He hits you over and over, alternating sides, until your chest burns, and you’re sobbing.

He looks you over briefly and then shoves his hand between your thighs. “You’re wetter than a slip ‘n slide, baby.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, and wipes the tears from your cheek with his thumb. He feels your cunt twitch when he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean.

It’s the last straw for him. He’s not opened you enough, but he has a feeling you’ll like it better this way anyway.

You cry out, back arching when he shoves into you. He meant to go slow, he really did, if only to drag out the anticipation. But you’re so warm. So wet. So he just stuffs himself inside.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe you love the pain; it’s just that he can’t resist feeling the evidence for himself. He slaps you across the face while you’re still processing his cock, and the resulting clench and jerk of your body drag a moan from him.

He holds back, regulates his urge to pull each whimper and scream from you, but it’s still so fucking good. It’s been a long time since he’s doled out real cruelty to a slut like you who loves to suffer.

When he finally lets you cum, it’s when he’s about to. He pulls out and spanks your cunt, granting his permission. As your pussy flutters desperately around nothing, he cums on it, watching the way it gets prettier as he paints it.

You black out for a minute. When you come to, he’s wiping you down gently with a warm washcloth, wicking the sweat off your face and chest before cleaning his cum from your curls. You whimper, and he grins, leaning over to steal a kiss.

Even after that first night, he goes slow. He can’t scare ya, not while you still have someplace to run. Plus, it’s so much easier if he starts planting the seeds for your training now.

He knows you’ll beg for it, anyway. He’s been getting the nastiest text messages from you. Part of it is the dopamine; he’s not stupid. But part of you really wants this shit. And the rest? Well. You’ll get there.

It’s the little things. He orders you a black decaf at the drive-thru when you ask for a latte. You start to correct him, like you think he’s made a mistake, but he gives you a look, and you shut your mouth immediately.

When he pulls away from the speaker, you look over at him again. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry…?”

You squirm a little, heart pounding, unsure if he’s really doing this at the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Sorry, sir.”

He smiles and rubs his hand on your thigh where it peeks out from your skirt. “Thanks, baby.”

And that’s all it takes. You take the cup when he hands it to you and you’re quick to say, “Thank you, sir,” even though the kid at the window is still passing things through to Joel and can clearly hear you.

     -fissured

It goes on like that for a couple of months, but it doesn’t all go so smoothly. One night, he picks you up from work and takes you to a restaurant, saying he wants to treat you. Halfway through the meal, he asks for your panties.

“What?” you say, shocked at his vulgar language in the dining room.

“Take ‘em off and hand ‘em to me.”

You go to stand, probably thinking you can go to the bathroom to obey.

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Right here, right now, baby.”

“Joel,” you hiss, sitting back down, “I can’t do that.”

He fixes you with a calm smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, raising one finger in the air. “I’ll give ya three choices. The first one, the one I’m going to advise you pick, is that you do it right now, and I’ll only punish ya for talkin’ back.”

“The second one,” he holds up another finger for emphasis, “is you can go to the bathroom to take ‘em off, but you’re gonna pay for it when we get home. The third one is where you don’t listen, we leave right now, and you learn to fuckin’ regret it.”

Your breathing is shallow, and your pretty eyes are shining. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now.

“I-I can’t,” you whimper. “Please, sir.”

“You got about thirty seconds to make up your mind.” The softness is gone—from his voice, from his face, from the set of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and you stand up. You’re only in the bathroom for a minute, and when you sit back down, you try to hand them to him under the table.

“Nah, that was only a choice if you were good,” he says, smirking and laying his expectant hand on the white linens.

Mortified, you ball them up tight in your fist and press them into his hand. He slides them into his pants pocket.

He doesn’t say anything else about it for the rest of dinner, asking instead about your projects at work and your visit with your parents over the holidays. You feel sick, barely eating a thing, and biting your lip to stave off the tears.

As soon as you’re in the truck, you start to cry. “I’m sorry, I was just scared and—”

“Shut up. You made your choice. You’re not sorry. You’re just afraid of the consequences.”

“N-no, I am sorry, I mean it.”

“You’re gonna have to prove it.” He doesn’t look at you on the drive home, doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t even turn the radio on; just listens to you sniffle.

When he parks, he sets his hand on your thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I know you can be my good girl. All you gotta do is take your punishment and learn from it, okay?”

You sniffle again and nod, blinking through tear-laden lashes at him.

“So pretty when you cry for me,” he murmurs. He gets out and comes around to open your door, offering a hand to help you step down from the tall truck. You take it, and he holds on, leading you inside his house.

He sits sprawled on the couch, thighs parted wide to make room and waits until you’re comfortably kneeling between his legs. You’re sat in silence, head bowed, arms folded behind your back.

“Tell me what you did wrong today.”

This is a first, but not a last. Even on days when nothing egregious has happened, you will follow this ritual. He’ll ask for your sins, and you’ll confess. There will always be something you’ll owe him for.

“I argued when you gave me orders. I was disobedient.”

“Anything else I need to know about, baby?”

“No, sir.”

“Why’d you argue?”

“I was afraid. I’m sorry.”

“Save your grovelin’ for after, baby. Why were you afraid?”

“I didn’t want people to see. I didn’t want to get kicked out or arrested.”

“You think I’d let anything happen to you? You think I would have given you an order that put either of us at any kinda risk?”

Your face burns. “I—”

“I thought you trusted me.” He sounds hurt, and you’re a little nauseous when you look up to see his eyes wide and sad, lips turned into a wounded scowl.

Your shoulders slump. “I didn’t think. I panicked.”

“Hmm. Okay, I can work with that.”

You look up at him, brow scrunched and lips pouting as you try to parse his words.

He smiles. It’s cold, and his eyes are steel.

You swallow hard, and his grin widens, quirking into a smirk.

“Alright, baby. I got just the thing.”

He leads you into the ensuite. You kneel on the little rug by the tub while he fills it. You’re too afraid to ask what’s happening, so you just sit quietly. He leaves the room and doesn’t come back until the tub is nearly full, and you’re starting to worry that you were supposed to be monitoring it.

He comes back in, and once it’s nearing the lip of the tub, he turns off the faucet. He has you kneel on the top of the three steps leading up to the edge. It’s the most luxurious thing in this house, and you suspect he installed it custom so he could soak his aching muscles.

He bends you over the edge so you’re leaning close to the water and crouches down behind you. It’s a pleasant surprise when he spreads you wide and licks from your clit to your asshole.

He stays there for a few minutes, indulging in your wet cunt and the cries it draws from your lips. After he’s had his fill, he stands up and lubes up his cock before pushing his way into your ass. He’s generous with the lube but rarely preps you, since you both like it better when it hurts.

You’re writhing a little beneath him, wriggling your hips to try to ease the passage. Once he’s fully seated inside you, he grabs the back of your head and shoves it under the water before fucking hard into you.

You thrash, displacing water from the tub, until he yanks you back up.

You gasp for air and scrabble to get a grip on the wet tile, but he pushes you back down and groans at how tight you get while you’re struggling.

He pulls you roughly back up. “Gonna keep going until you stop makin’ a fuss.”

You go to protest, to panic, and he pushes you back down.

The next time he pulls you out, he spanks you until your skin is burning. “Fuckin’ trust me. You think I’m gonna let you drown?”

“No, sir,” you cry, but it’s garbled as he pushes you back down. You’re still fighting him each time.

He pulls you back out and repeats the beating. “Relax, or we’re gonna be here all night.”

He continues the process a few more times and then gives you a reprieve, letting go of your hair so you can rest your cheek against the cold edge of the tub while he pounds into you. He reaches and rubs featherlight circles around your clit until you’re softly moaning.

“You gonna trust me?”

“I’m trying, my body panics,” you pant.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya. You hear me? You know you’re panicking, so focus on me instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

It shouldn’t make sense, but you think he’s long warped your brain anyway. The next time he pushes you underwater, you clench your fists tight and focus on what oxygen you do have, even if he knocks a little out with each thrust.

His hand in your hair is your anchor and buoy. You tense when you feel your body start to jerk, trying so hard to control it.

He pulls you up. “Just like that, baby. Again.”

It gets just a little easier each time. He leaves you under longer, until your lungs are burning, and you’re on the edge of gasping in water, but he pulls you out in time.

“Fuck, you’re doing so well.” He’s a little fascinated. He hadn’t really been sure it could be done or if your survival instincts would go into a frenzy. But here you are, letting him almost fucking drown you.

Not that he would.

Despite being balls deep in your tight little asshole, he isn’t trying to reach his orgasm. Not yet, staving off his pleasure so he can keep a clear head.

He keeps it up just a little longer. You’re getting tired and tolerating less and less time underwater. The last time he pulls you up, he pinches your clit and tells you to cum while he fills you.

He dunks you again while you cum, and you clamp down on him tighter than you have before, convulsing on his cock. When he pulls you back up, you’re gasping and sobbing. He pulls out and wraps you in a towel, easing you to the wet floor while he cleans up.

When he comes back to you, he helps you stand and dry off, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“So?”

Your brow furrows. It’s not what he usually asks after a punishment, but you think you know what he means. “I’m sorry. I trust you, I promise.”

“I know. M’so proud of you for taking that. You’re turning out so nicely, sweet thing.”

In the morning, you’re almost late to work after sucking him off when you should have been getting dressed. He’s about to walk out the door to head to the site when he hears your frustrated voice from the bedroom.

“Joel, where are my underwear? I need to fuckin’ leave.”

“I told you, baby. There was a price to pay when you picked the bathroom. Y’ain’t wearing ‘em anymore.”

“What?”

He doesn’t need to see you to smirk at the shocked expression he knows is on your face. “We’ll talk about it more tonight; I gotta run.”

     -avulsed

“Y’know, baby,” Joel says, leaning forward to rub your shoulder. “They just don’t fuckin’ appreciate you.”

You’re bent over, elbows on your knees, crying with your face buried in your hands. You sit up and sniffle, wiping the tears. “It’s fine; it’s not like I need to be coddled at work.”

All the stress of the PR world is getting to you, and you hate it, you fucking hate it, but you dropped 50k on a degree, so now you’re stuck.

“But they make you work all this overtime, cut your team in half, and then berate you when you can’t meet the client’s deadline? You do not deserve that, baby.”

You let him coax you into his lap, facing him so you can bury your face in his soft, worn tee. He rubs your back and holds your head to his chest.

“You’re too good to me,” you mumble.

“Nah, darlin’, I’ve told ya a thousand times. You deserve to be taken care of.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I, well. I was thinkin’...”

You wait, but when he doesn’t pick back up, you sit up and look at him.

“I dunno. It’s nothin’,” he says.

“Please tell me?”

“Alright, fine. Now, I don’t want ya to feel any pressure. It’s just a thought. But maybe you should just quit and stay with me a while, ‘till you can find something better?”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. He must see something on your face, because he tips your chin up so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I know it’s sudden, but I mean it. Let me take care of ya while you figure shit out. We don’t gotta treat it like living together if y’ain’t ready. But I’d be open to that conversation, too.”

It doesn’t take much more than that. The first couple weeks, he lets you give it a try—searching for new degree programs, applying for jobs you know you’re overqualified for just to try something different.

After nothing pans out, he suggests you both take a week off. Him from work and you from the burden of trying to escape unemployment. Just relax, like a little staycation.

It’s bliss. You go on dates, eat pizza and marathon the “Jurassic Park” movies, and fuck like crazy.

On the third night, he sits you down. On his cock, of course. While you’re bouncing and brainless, he cups your cheek. “Baby, you’ve been too damn stressed still. What if we… well, what if we tried out a day or two like we’ve been talking about?”

Sometimes, you whisper to him in the darkness, usually while he’s balls deep, how you wish you could be his all the time. His good girl. His pet. And he whispers back, lures you right in with promises of taking care of everything, of you not having a worry or care in the world. Just him.

Now, he fondles your tits while he murmurs to you. “We can just wake up together, and I can take care of ya. Everything you need, baby. All you’d have to do is be good for me, yeah?”

You moan and grind down harder on his cock. “Please, sir. I want it more than anything. Just to be yours.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

Joel had no patience for brats, so he usually broke his toys in sooner into the training process. He liked ‘em nice and obedient—scared, if that’s what it took, but devoted. But you had been from the start—you wanted to be good in all the ways you could never seem to be to other people. Your family, your job, the world seemed to just demand more and more.

Joel was the first person to make you feel like you had actually, really, truly pleased him. There wasn’t a higher mark you should have made. There wasn’t any expectation for you to give more and more.

His orders were complete, always. You learned that very quickly. Attempts to go above and beyond were rebuked.

“If I wanted that, I woulda said so,” he told you. And like everything else, you committed his words to memory.

It helped that he gave praise freely. You didn’t have to wonder if he was satisfied, if you should have licked him differently, if you should have made prettier faces while you came. He reassured you until you believed him, and then kept going anyway.

It made it easier for him to slowly peel you away from the ungrateful world.

“You don’t have to take that,” he’d say after watching your face fall further and further while on the phone with your mom. “Family ain’t supposed to make you feel like shit.”

They made it too easy, really, and your relationship with them would have likely just fizzled out. But in the end, he had to step in and snap it off.

You asked him to come with you to dinner at their house. He was hesitant. He wasn’t really the boyfriend type. He wasn’t really even your boyfriend. That was too weird a word for either of you, not when he owned you.

But he knows you didn’t want to go alone, and he has a feeling he’ll be cleaning up the mess anyway.

You want to give them a chance. Things have been so tense, and they said they missed you. But they didn’t even make it through the entrée without ridiculing you.

When your father asks how work is going, you quietly confess to quitting, hastily reassuring them that you are looking for a new position. Though, and you keep this part to yourself, you maybe haven’t been trying that hard.

“What do you mean you quit? How are you paying your bills? You better not have come here to ask for money,” your father says, setting down his fork to glare at you.

“Well, I’ve been living with Joel,” you mumble to the tablecloth.

“I didn’t raise you to be a gold digger,” your mother chides.

Joel tries to bite his tongue and let them dig their own graves. But your father calls you a “fucking whore,” and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand the way you’re cowering in your chair, fighting back tears.

“You watch your mouth,” Joel snaps at your father.

You look up, mouth agape, eyes darting from Joel to your parents.

“Mind your business,” your dad tells him.

Joel stands up and throws his napkin on the table. “She is my fuckin’ business. I wouldn’t stand by and let anyone talk to her like that. You’re not an exception just because you managed to get it up long enough to cum in your wife.”

“Joel,” you whisper, tugging at his sleeve. You’re burning, melting on the spot, from the vulgar way he’s talking to them. For him, someone who’s always strict about manners and proper hospitality, to talk back like this? God, you think, he must really love you.

He puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds firmly as you lean into it. He rounds back on your parents. “You treat her like fuckin’ dirt beneath your feet, and I’m tired of it. You don’t deserve the fuckin’ dirt beneath her feet.”

He shoves his chair back and grabs your hand. “C’mon, baby; we’re leaving.”

You take it and stand up, letting him pull you along. Your father follows you into the foyer, and you try not to look at him while you shove your shoes on.

Joel holds your coat out while you slip into it, and you tune out whatever your dad is yelling now. You don’t want to hear it; you know it’s nasty, and your whole world has narrowed to Joel anyway.

He holds out the key. “Go wait in the truck, baby.”

And you do.

He comes out about five minutes later, red-faced and huffing with fury. He doesn’t say a word when he gets in; just throws the truck into reverse and pulls away. You both ignore the blood on his knuckles.

Once you’re on the road, he looks over at you and sighs. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You unbuckle and slide over to the middle seat, tucking your hand between his warm body to curl around his arm. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Whaddya sorry for? None of that was your fault.” He kisses the top of your head and cups your cheek at the stoplight. “It was gonna happen eventually, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

The rest of the ride home is silent while you breathe in his comforting musk and try to relax. But the tension is unrelenting, the horrible rotting feeling eating away at your spine.

He knows. Knows what you need, knows what he can do to seal this moment forever. He waits until he’s unzipping the pretty little cocktail dress you’d stressed over.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, breaking away from where he was sucking his claim down your neck to swap out your delicate necklace with his collar.

He unhooks the bra and kisses the marks he left behind with the cane, your penance for being allowed to wear it. It leaves you bare to him, and his hands turn greedy. He presses biting kisses against your lips while digging fingers into your bruises, swallowing your whimpers.

He grabs you by the neck and squeezes the sides of your throat, holding you to him while your vision blurs. When he lets go, you stumble, but his arm around your back holds you upright. He slaps your face with quick, sharp blows in rapid succession to keep you unsteady.

“Knees, hands behind your head,” he says, and lets go.

You fall but are quick to right yourself and take the position. He wastes no time, giving you another harsh smack before grabbing your hair and shoving his cock into your throat.

You choke and gag but keep your hands in place even as your head spins. You feel limp and grateful that he doesn’t seem to require any effort from you as he uses you without mercy.

“Look at you. You’ve got my whole cock down your throat. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

Your eyes are already glazed over, and you moan your appreciation around him.

He pulls out and hauls you to your feet. “I know what you need, sweetheart. Get your ass downstairs.”

He fucks you, beats you, uses you wherever he wants. But the basement is where he keeps the heavy equipment and where you know you’re about to have your mind and body pushed to the absolute limit.

You’re ready, he thinks, when he gets down and finds you waiting perfectly in place for him, eyes wide like he’s descended from on high. He jerks a thumb to the wooden post, and you meet him there.

“Forget about what they want you to be,” he murmurs as he closes the steel cuffs around your ankles. “You know what you want, baby. Right?”

“Mhm,” you nod, already slipping away into that safe place only Joel can get you to.

“What do you want to be?” he asks, binding your arms up over your head to the eye bolt at the top of the post.

“Yours.” It’s half-whisper, half-whine.

“Yeah? You just wanna be mine? You don’t want to get a new job?”

“No,” you finally confess. “But—”

“But what, baby? If you say somethin’ about money or bills, I’m gonna be mighty unhappy.”

You bite your lip. “I’m scared one day, you’ll wake up and not want me anymore.”

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, sweetheart. You think I put all this work into helpin’ you, into teaching you how to be mine, just to toss ya out? You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically.

He slides a silicone cock into the bracket lined right up with your mouth. It’s a fairly standard size, since he knows you’re going to thrash around and doesn’t want you gagging too much and throwing up.

Your torso gets tied to the post by your tits, the wood nestled between them and rope woven around. Securing you there forces your head onto the toy, but he doesn’t make you take it all the way. You keep your mouth open and don’t move closer or further, waiting for his command.

“Suck on it whenever you’d like. You’re going to need it.”

Your eyes roll back a little at his promise. If he thinks you’re going to need something in your mouth to self-soothe, you’re in for an absolutely amazing time.

“Focus on me. That’s all you’ll need to do from now on, baby. No more worries in that pretty little head, okay?”

The first strike is a warm-up. When you feel the lash of his favorite whip lick your ass, you moan. It’s a moderately short signal whip that he wields like a fucking pro. His warmups are quick but thorough, and you’re squirming when he moves on to your thighs and shoulders.

“Already?” he says, laughing when you whine around the silicone cock.

You’re absentmindedly sucking on it when he starts a harsher assault. A particularly sharp strike stings at the valley where your ass meets your thighs, and you yelp, jerking a little and gagging yourself on the dildo.

His smirk burns into your back as the cry melts into a moan, and you writhe a little, trying to get friction where you need it most. What you get, though, is the tip of the whip against your cunt.

By the time he moves around to your tits, they’re covered in spit, heaving with the effort of holding back your orgasm. He comes up to you first, and pinches at your nipples.

“Aw, does my dumb little cunt want to cum?” He croons, tugging and twisting until you moan. He laughs when all you can get out is a muffled “mhm.”

“Tell ya what. You can cum all you want while I hurt you tonight, okay?”

He punctuates it with a particularly cruel pinch, and that, combined with his permission, is all you need to let the pleasure shudder through you.

“Yeah? You gonna get off to being my little toy? Gonna let me do whatever I want?”

You moan around the fake cock, easing it further into your throat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He doesn’t give a warm-up on your tits, figuring you’re already so far gone it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.

He’s right. The first lash is harsh, a welt blooming across the top of your breast in its wake, but you groan, trying to press your cunt up against the post for any relief.

You don’t need it, though. He brings you to your peak again with the skilled flick of his wrist, landing blows across the fat of your breasts. He waits until you’re mid-orgasm to bring the whip hard across your nipples.

The resulting wail almost makes him cum in his pants. He does it only twice more, relishing in your agony, but restraining himself from just letting loose. Not with the whip, as much as he’d like to. Maybe later with a flogger.

Once he’s taken it as far as he’s willing to risk, he moves back around to give the rest of you the same treatment. The hardest hits push you over the edge, and by the time his arm is getting tired, you’re sobbing and writhing in your restraints, overstimulated in every way.

He unlatches your ankles first, helping you find steady footing before untying your wrists and torso. You drop to your knees and open your mouth, throat aching for his cock after the tease of the toy.

He doesn’t have the willpower to torment you by denying it tonight. Instead, he nearly pops the button off his jeans in his urgency to pull his cock out and shove it as far down your throat as he can.

Your arms find their place behind your back, and you just take it. He fucks into you without restraint. It’s filthy, from the mess you’re making to the wet choking sounds he pushes out of you with each thrust.

You’re shaking, and he pulls out abruptly.

“I said while I’m hurting you. You don’t get to just cum from getting facefucked.”

“Then hurt me, please,” you sob. It’s right there; you’re so close.

He slaps you across the face and laughs as you cum, shoving back into your throat while you’re still riding out the aftershocks.

He pulls back out, and you whine until he yanks you up by the bicep and pushes you over to the padded bench, bending you over it and shoving into your sopping cunt.

“Still disappointed?” he teases.

“N-no,” you pant. “Please hurt me.”

“Beg me properly, greedy little cunt.”

You clench around him just at the words, but obey. “Please, sir, please hurt me so I can cum. Please.”

“I’ve been hurtin’ you all night, baby,” he says, voice thick with false pity. “Don’t you want me to be gentle with you now?” He can feel how hard you’re trying not to cum as he mocks you.

“No,” you sob. “No, love me, hurt me, please.”

It’s got an edge of desperation and heartbreak to it that he just loves.

He smacks your already bruising ass until you sob harder, shaking uncontrollably as you cum. He wraps his hands around your throat and fucks you through it until he cums, hips stuttering, and filling your cunt with his spend.

He lets himself collapse a little on top of you, pinning you with his weight against the bench with his softening cock still buried in you. “Feel loved now?”

You’re still crying, and when he folds his arms around your chest, elbows resting on the table, you cling to him. “Love you,” you murmur over and over, pressing kisses up and down his forearms.

He nuzzles his face into your neck, kissing and sucking at you. “I know, baby. You know I love ya.” He’s half-hard—not something that happens a lot anymore at his age, so he’s not gonna waste it. He pulls out just to manhandle you up onto the bench on your back, climbing up between your legs and shoving back in.

It’s a little sloppy until he’s fully hard again; your combined cream making things a little too slippery. Once he’s erect, though, he sets a punishing pace, folding you in half with your legs up by your ears. He works your clit with his hand, relishing in the way you’re fucking exhausted and overstimulated, but your poor clit’s been neglected. It means he can twist and pull on it, tugging until you give him more and more, until you’re sobbing for mercy that you know you’ll never get.

He doesn’t ease up until he pulls out to cum over your tits and face.

“Mine,” he snarls, shoving his fingers into your swollen cunt and feeding you what’s left of his first orgasm and your… well, he’s not really sure how many. A fuckin’ lot. “You’re all mine. Little fuckin’ toy to do whatever I want, right?”

You’re still gasping for breath, having been half-suffocated in that position, but when you look at him, it’s like he’s a fucking god. “Yes, sir.”

     -broken

The day had started out fine.

He’d laid out a dress for you to wear. Sometimes, he made you go around bare for a while, just to fuck with your head a little, but he prefers to unwrap you like a present.

Plus, the sight of you crawling around in nothing but a slutty, barely-there dress is picture-fuckin’-perfect. He’d know; he’s got a bunch of ‘em on his phone.

And crawl, you do. You haven’t been allowed to walk further than a couple of feet in a long time. There’s penance to be paid if you can’t avoid it.

Joel collects your penance whenever possible, gathering what’s owed for your sins and dealing out forgiveness when it's settled. It’s how he shows his love.

And he does love you. How could he not? Such a perfect little toy. He’s spent so much time training you right to be his prized possession.

He knew it’d happen eventually, so when you commit one of the worst offenses, he has to make it count. You were testing your limits, of course; he had expected it. He had expected it months ago. It was worse now, after you’d been so good and earned so much trust. But now that you’d been nothing but his for two months, you had finally fucked up.

Your punishments were never painful. Okay, they weren’t pain-focused. Sometimes, he had to put you over his knee to let his frustration out before he could give you a proper punishment. But the pain wasn’t the point—you both liked it too damn much. No matter how much farther he took it than a regular session, and no matter how sick you were with guilt, you were always a soaking wet mess after a beating.

This time would have to be different, though.

It was time to finally break you.

He knew as soon as he got home. Not the particulars, but that you’d made a huge mistake.

On the surface, nothing was amiss. You were knelt by the door in your pretty little dress, a short number in navy blue. You had your head down and arms folded behind your back in perfect posture.

But something was off. It didn’t feel like you were happy he was home. And he was pretty sure there would only be one reason for that.

He hung up his keys but didn’t bother to take off his shoes, coming to stand in front of you. “What’d you do?”

You flinch and have to re-tense to hold the position as a sob escapes you. Your hands are balled into fists to fight the urge to cover your face. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked what you did.”

If it were still the early days, when this shit usually happened, he might have been just a little softer. At least until he coaxed the confession from you, anyway. But you were in too deep, now, too entangled in this life that he had little patience for your reticence.

“I—”

“I recommend you spit it out. You’ll tell me in the end, anyway.”

You start to cry. “I can’t say it.”

“You better figure it out pretty fuckin’ fast, little girl.”

“I had an orgasm,” you blurt, whimpers escalating to sobs.

He pauses. It’s worse than he thought. The rush of disappointment and anger sends his heart racing, and his fingers flex in longing for a cane.

“Did you enjoy it?” he says.

It catches you off guard. “No, I promise.”

“That’s too bad, ‘cause it’s the last one you’re gonna have for a while.”

You aren’t surprised; you’re actually relieved. Of course, of course he’ll fix you.

He finally takes his shoes off and sets his phone on the counter, beckoning you to follow him to the living room. Taking his seat on the couch, he waits until you’re settled at his feet.

“Why’d you do that, baby?”

“I-I didn’t mean to. I was edging for the last time today, and I don’t know what happened. It was just there, and I knew it, I knew it was coming, and I—” You choke on the guilt, the grief.

“You what?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t convince myself to stop. I kept thinking ‘no, you stupid cunt,’ but I couldn’t pull my hand away.”

He regards you for a moment. He’s burning inside, but trying to calculate the most effective approach.

“Thank you for telling me right away,” he says, but even though he means it, the words are cold and clipped. “Which hand?”

You look at him, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What?”

“Which hand did you use? Give it to me.”

You lift up your right hand, and he cradles it in his.

“Listen close.” He waits until he’s sure you’re focused on him, on his words.

This is where things have fallen apart in the past. No amount of training and manipulation can get someone across this hurdle; they have to mean it. The last thing he wants is someone running to the police because they don’t fucking understand how serious he is.

“This is going to be your last chance to back out. I will stop right now and let you pack your shit and leave. But if you stay, you’re agreeing to anything I do to you past this point.”

You bite your lip, stomach churning. “You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

“Good. You should be scared. What you’ve done is one of the worst things you could have. That’s got some serious consequences, baby.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I gotta hurt you. Bad. Y’ain’t going to like this; I can promise you that. I can’t punish your cunt because you’re such a stupid pain slut; anything short of permanent damage is gonna make you wet. And I’m not lookin’ to do permanent damage.”

Your lip trembles, heart pounding. You’ve never been so afraid, but you’re also enthralled. Lured in by the timbre of his voice and the salvation it’s promising.

He squeezes your hand where he’s still holding onto you. “I’m going to break one of your fingers.”

Your heart falters, blood rushing. “Oh god,” you whisper, shaking your head. Instinctively, you tug back on your hand, but he grasps it tight, tight enough that you feel the bones grind under his large fingers.

“It’s up to you. That’s half the price for forgiveness. The rest is gonna be spending the night alone.”

Somehow, that sounds worse. You can’t breathe.

“Gotta choose, baby. You wanna go? I’ll pay for a cab. You can walk away, but you can’t ever come back.”

You think you might be drowning. Leave? How could you leave? There’s no debate in your head; you have nothing without Joel. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. And the idea of losing him feels catastrophic.

You’re crying again, and you’re vaguely aware of his soothing voice trying to coach you through breathing. When you focus on him, just like he’s taught you, you start to calm down.

It’s Joel, you think. He’ll take care of you. And he said he didn’t want permanent damage. You just have to suffer for your betrayal and he’ll forgive you.

“I think I might throw up,” you warn him.

He sighs, the fear of losing you flooding away, taking some of his anger with it. “We’ll do it in the bathroom.”

He stands up, and you follow, albeit slowly, as the wave of nausea rises. You do throw up as soon as you get in the bathroom, thankfully making it to the toilet. He holds your hair and rubs his hand across your shoulder blades.

“It’s okay, baby, get it out of your system. You’re being so brave for me,” he croons. He helps you up to sit on the edge of the tub and gets you a little cup of mouthwash.

“I’ll help you brush your teeth after,” he promises. “I’d do it now, but, well. You’re probably going to puke again.”

When you’re done swishing the mouthwash, when it’s all turned to foam and you’ve spit it back in the cup, he swaps you for water. You rinse and spit that, too.

He’s laid a few things out on the counter. You feel dizzy all over again. Something tells you the comfort you feel is wrong, but he’s prepared an ice pack and medical tape, and has four little ibuprofen out next to another cup of water.

The other, louder part of you is whispering, see? He’ll take care of you. The act of wondering what’s wrong with you feels like a farce. You’re thinking it because you think you should, just going through the motions.

He takes off his belt and brings it to your mouth. You clench it between your teeth, letting a shaky breath through. His hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the warmth.

“I knew you were somethin’ special,” he whispers. You’re not sure he meant to.

Your whole body is shaking uncontrollably. He watches you for a moment, worried you’re going to faint, and then sits on the floor with his back against the tub, pulling you into his lap. He lays you back against his chest, caging you in with his arms and thighs. The ice pack sits to his right, already popped and frozen. Waiting.

Gently, he lifts your hand and brings it in front of your chest, taking it in his left. It’s a macabre mockery, the way he cradles it in his palm, fingers wrapped around the sides. In his right hand, he notches his thumb on the knuckle of your middle finger, bringing the other fingers in below it.

He doesn’t drag it out, doesn’t take pleasure in your terror. When he moves, it’s faster than a gunshot. Your scream is raw, breaking free from the spaces between your teeth and the belt. The taste of leather will remind you of this moment for the rest of your life.

He has the ice pack on it before you mentally register that it’s over. You’re sobbing. Horribly, he’s right, and you are sick again. He holds your hair in one fist, holding the ice pack to your mangled hand in the other.

When you’re done, he pulls you back against him, wrapping his limbs around you in a perverse embrace as you shake harder. With his free hand, he brings a damp, cool cloth to your face, cleaning you of the viscera of your sickness.

He’s shushing you, head bent close to your ear. “It’s alright, baby, it’s over. You did so good. I’m so proud. I love you so much.”

It’s good that he doesn’t expect an answer because he doesn’t get one. You’re too lost in the pain and shock.

When it’s time to take a break from the ice, he grabs the medical tape and wraps it around your index and middle fingers. You cry out again as he jostles the break. Once he’s splinted it, he lowers your hand gently to your lap so he can grab the medicine.

“I can’t; I’ll throw up again,” you say, voice cracking.

“Don’t have a choice, baby. Gotta keep the swelling down.”

He feeds you each pill, one by one, chasing them with sips of water.

You look so sad and precious that he almost feels bad. Unfortunately, he’s also rock fucking hard, so he shifts you a little to pull his dick out.

You don’t say anything when he lifts you to lower you on it. He’s careful, trying not to shake you around too much. He was right; you didn’t enjoy this pain. You’ve never been this dry for him before, and you whimper pathetically at the pinch and sting of his girth.

You may be worn out and in agony, but your cunt doesn’t get the message. He grins when he feels you getting wet and clenching around him. He doesn’t push it though, doesn’t torment you, just fucks up into you gently until he fills you.

You’re limp against him now, and he presses a kiss into your hair. “You may have to walk for a bit,” he muses. “But I’ll cap your penance at ten.”

You wince. Ten strokes with the cane on the soles of your feet every day until your finger heals? You usually only owe enough for two or three. It is a mercy, though, so you nod and thank him.

Joel can hardly contain the way his chest is flooding with warmth. You’re so close; he can feel it. So close to being completely his to put together just the way he likes.

He can’t wait to take you to The Pit.

     -kintsugi

You’re cold. So cold. You’re curled in on yourself, tucked into a corner in the hopes that you’d be able to keep warmer. Your whole right hand throbs.

Moonlight only cuts across the corner, but it’s a comfort still. The soil is loose and you keep shuddering, feeling the tickle of a dozen phantom insects.

Worst of all, your chest aches, like he may as well have hewn you open. Dry sobs work their way free every now and then, leaving your mouth tacky and your throat full of cotton.

The only rest you get is when you blessedly pass out. Every time you close your eyes voluntarily, you see the heartbroken look on his face when you begged him not to leave you there.

“I wish I didn’t have to. I wish you hadn’t broken my trust and I could keep you close, baby. But you’re never going to learn how to be good if I don’t show ya.”

Bad, I’m bad, he doesn’t want me anymore, you think to no end.

When the sun starts to rise, you’re limp, still in your corner. You barely turn your head when a shadow falls over The Pit, but your heart starts to pound when the lock clicks, and Joel raises the gate.

“Oh, baby,” he says, soft and sorrowful. “C’mere.” He reaches out a hand, and you scramble to him, letting him take your left arm in his grasp and pull you out. You move immediately to your knees, body bent forward as your knotted muscles protest. He scoots his boot out of the danger zone near your broken finger.

You keep whispering, a broken record of “Sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”

He picks you up and holds you to his chest, shushing until you fall quiet. It doesn’t take longer than a few seconds as your brain desperately clings to any scrap, any way you can be good for him.

He brushes the loose dirt from you before going inside and upstairs to the ensuite. He sets you on the little rug next to the full garden tub, and he tests the water with his fingers before peeling his clothes off.

You flex your left hand, balling it in and out of a fist. You’ve never been particularly ambidextrous and wonder how you’re going to wash him without falling in or hurting your hand.

Before he gets in, he feeds you four more little red pills. Once he’s settled, he reaches out and guides you carefully by the waist, pulling you into his lap in the warm water.

That’s all it takes for you to start crying again. He doesn’t try to quiet you; just holds you there against his chest and lets you sob.

By the time you’ve calmed, the water has cooled, but instead of getting out, he just drains a little and runs more hot water.

Joel tips your chin up gently with the knuckle of his index finger. “You ready to be my good girl again?”

You nod, lip trembling.

Joel does nothing you hadn’t asked for. The trouble for you was that you asked for too much. Gave him too much. And it was far too late to get any of it back.

He gave what he could, though. Couldn’t replace what he’d taken, so he pours himself in the cracks, puts you back together with a firm hand and loving care. Sure, his love doesn’t look like what you’re used to, but he knows you see it for what it is.

“I know, baby. You took that all so well. Don’t worry,” he pauses to kiss you, “I forgive you. My perfect little toy.”

pls be nice, I'm so nervous about this.