#very very brief mention of knifeplay

[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.

[uunromanticized]

random yuuya headcanons

i am so fascinated by yuuya kizami. i am one of his biggest fans. headcanons under the cut!

cw: hospice, death, very brief knifeplay mention, very brief taxidermy mention

- i am a firm believer that if heavenly host didn’t happen he’d be a (semi-insane/corrupt) hospice care doctor. he would be able to see death. more specifically the stage of people going from life to death.

- outside of heavenly host he also hides his more aggressive tendencies even more as he gets older.

sexuality/romance aside (bcs i know some people see him as asexual or aromantic) even if he didn’t get pleasure from it, he’d still derive some other sort of satisfaction from it. he just wants to hurt someone tbh. better in the long run if that hurt is consentual

- in the real world he definitely has to constantly battle his wildly intrusive thoughts that try to jeopardize the nice guy façade he’s worked so hard to achieve. regularly thinks about how it would feel to murder someone in various different ways

- he also partakes in taxidermy i think.

- antisocial personality disorder king

[ao3feed-ateez]

Pretty Little Mistakes

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/1b7VAOJ by WommyMommy “Wooyoung, please,” he begs, pressing his chin down on the barrel as hard as he can. “Please, do something. Mark me, fuck me, kill me; I don’t care, just do something. Please.” Wooyoung likes when he’s desperate, San knows that, and by using it to his advantage, he’s securing what he wants for the night. A bloody reminder of who his heart and body belongs to at all times. or San comes home to a possessive Wooyoung and gets punished for kissing Wooyoung’s ex while Hongjoong helps. Words: 4913, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 6 of All the PolyTeez Fandoms: ATEEZ (Band) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: M/M, Multi Characters: Jung Wooyoung (ATEEZ), Choi San (ATEEZ), Kim Hongjoong Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung (ATEEZ), Choi San/Kim Hongjoong, Jung Wooyoung/Kim Hongjoong, Choi San/Jung Wooyoung/Kim Hongjoong Additional Tags: Mentioned Assassin Jung Wooyoung, Other members mentioned in passing - Freeform, Cheating is mentioned, Toxic Relationship, Possessive Behavior, Borderline Abuse honestly, Gunplay, Knifeplay, Power Imbalance, Not Safe or Sane Sex, Brief anal sex, talking about death, talking about past violence, Threats of Violence, Fear Play, degradation/humiliation, Bloodplay, Painplay, wooyoung cuts san in various places and drinks some of his blood, he’s very fucked up in this, Marking, slight sir kink at the end, Dom/sub Undertones, references to fuck or die situations, Light Bondage, Gags, Blindfolds, Choking, death kink??, these three are terrible for each other and it’s obvious, this is very dark and very fucked up, Not Beta Read, they have lore that is obviously not mentioned, Death Threats, Talking about MCD, alcohol mentioned and technically wooyoung has alcohol in his system read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/1b7VAOJ

[our-flag-means-death-ao3feed]

jasmine on my tongue

by error_in_progress

"He never let himself want for more than survival. No matter how loud the noise in his head nor the bone deep ache in his chest got, he never let himself dream for more."

In which Edward Teach and Israel Hands have no problem learning to love, but a whole host of problems learning to trust each other.

Words: 16033, Chapters: 3/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Israel Hands

Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Israel Hands

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Cowboys AU, Wild West, Pre-Canon, Young Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Young Israel Hands, Strangers to Lovers, Period-Typical Racism, brief and in line with canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Trans Male Character, Trans Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Trans Israel Hands, Canonical Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Gunshot Wounds, Non-Graphic Description of Injury and Wound Care, Sharing a Bed, Trust Issues, Learning to Trust Again, Dom/sub Undertones, but it is EdIzzy so their undertones are overtones, BDSM, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Knifeplay, Dom Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Sadist Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Masochist Israel Hands, Sub Israel Hands, Israel Hands' Love Language is Acts of Service, Israel Hands' Face Tattoo, homoerotic tattooing, Unplanned coming out, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Coming Untouched, Past Underage, very brief mention

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/42752409

[gossamer-sky]

Heya, Abby! 💕 I'm new to your blog and OML I'VE BEEN MISSING OUT BIG TIME! CAUSE DAYUM THOSE HCS!!!! 🔥🔥🔥😳

So, I'd like to request A, I & K for Mitsuhide, Hideyoshi & Sirius, pretty please~ 😄

Keep up the amazing work and stay healthy, love!💕😘

Venus 💖💖😭 thank you so much for your kind words, omg; hope you are staying safe as well! 💘

Mitsuhide

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Answered here 💕

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

- He loses all of his silver-tongued words the moment he slides into you

- Gaze so gentle, like he’s shocked you’re here; underneath him, surrounding him

- Tell him that you love him and he falls apart

- Spine curving into you, wanting as much skin-on-skin contact as possible

- He presses his hands tight on your body, fingerprints saying what he can’t voice out loud

- And sometimes

- When he’s too overwhelmed by the force of his own feelings for you, he has to hide his face; sting of tears pricking at the back of his eyes

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

- You perhaps push him a little too far one day, draped over him where he sits at his desk, lashes fluttering

- Teasing just enough to get him hard, and then flitting away before he can retaliate

- Well, he can’t have that

- Later, he ties your wrists just tight enough to sting, eyes dark with intent

- He doesn’t even bother untying your obi sash, simply pulling a knife out and slicing cleanly through the offending fabric

- All the breath rushes out of your lungs, why is that so hot

- He bares you to his gaze, wicked smirk on his face, saying, “Do try to keep quiet, little one.”

- He holds your hips down and proceeds to tongue-fuck you into the stratosphere; until your whole body is electrified, and you’re soaking his face and the futon beneath you

Hideyoshi

A = Aftercare 

- He’s attentive x1000, way more intense than he is in every day life

- He’ll get you whatever your heart desires, a snack, a drink, a blanket, he’ll pick you up and carry you to the bath if you need-

- You practically have to tie him down to keep him still, grabbing his head and looking into his eyes as you tell him you just need him

- He draws you into his arms, one hand rubbing your shoulders and the other in your hair

- Kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids, your shoulders with fluttering kisses as he tells you how much he loves you

- Then he kisses your mouth, overwhelmingly gentle

I = Intimacy 

- There’s always an undercurrent of affection to his touches, even if you’re in a rush

- He’ll lace your fingers together, squeezing when he thrusts in

- Or bend to press a kiss to your knee when he’s spreading your legs

- And his smile, oh god, it should be illegal

- Even if he’s being rougher than usual, he’ll tell you how much he loves this, how precious you are to him

- When he’s going down on you, he’ll leave one hand resting on your lower stomach, thumb rubbing in small circles that make you shiver

- Wants to be close to you at all times, even if you aren’t doing anything sexual

K = Kink 

- He doesn’t really broadcast it unless he has to

- But he’s strong

- Strong enough that he can pin both of your wrists above your head with one hand; halting any movement with just a flex of his biceps

- It’s so fucking hot

- Probably wouldn’t have went down this path on his own, but when your eyes light up and mouth drops open on a moan at his show of strength, well

- He gets really into manhandling you after that; throwing you up against walls and railing you

- Often trains where he knows you’ll see it, shoulders bunching as he swings his sword

- Slides his very solid thigh between yours, and you nearly start dripping at the feel of it

- His hands on you, putting you where he wants you it just really gets to you okay

Sirius

A = Aftercare 

- It takes him a little bit to wind down after sex, not slipping immediately back into his responsible persona

- You love that he’s more selfish like this

- Holding you tight against him, gravely voice whispering for you to stay this way, just for a little while longer

- And really, there’s no possible way you could say no when he says your name like that

- More possessive than he usually is, fingers stroking through your hair, down your back

- He likes to listen to your voice, sometimes asks for you to ramble about something just so he can bask in your presence

I = Intimacy 

- He can be one romantic man, that’s for sure

- But what you really like is when he’s commanding

- It seems that he knows your body better than you do, and he plays you like an instrument

- He’ll rub the pads of his fingers so lighting between your legs, barely even touching you

- “Is this where you want me, hmm? Right here?”

- Fucking hell he’s just too much

- When he slides in, he’ll squeeze your hips between his palms, letting out a long, slow breath

- Then he’ll tell you how well you’re taking him, as he pounds in on short, hard thrusts

K = Kink 

- There’s a masquerade ball that the two of you go to, arriving separately

- Of course he recognizes you instantly; glow of the lights reflecting off your hair, the sweet smile when you see him, the way your eyes brighten

- But when he goes to you, you play coy

- It settles low in his gut, the mystery; two strangers with an instant attraction, unable to contain themselves

- The tension heightens throughout the night, dancing together just a touch too close

- Until eventually you find yourselves in a forgotten garden and he can’t help himself anymore

- He skims his fingers beneath your clothes and you gasp; the tension breaks then, a frenzy to get as close as possible, his hands shaking in an effort not to rip your pretty outfit right off you

- You fuck like that, still fully clothed, masks on; trying so desperately hard to stay quiet

- You both return to the party significantly more disheveled than when you left

ABC list/rules here

Already requested character/letters here

Requests Temporarily Closed

[dialovers-lover-xoxo]

Warning: THIS POST CONTAINS EXPLICIT SEXUAL NSFW CONTENT! If you are underage or these types of posts make you uncomfortable, you may not want to read under the cut!

All S T and M brothers linked at the end

Azusa’s NSFW Alphabet

TW: Brief mention of Azusa hurting himself

——————————————————————

A = Aftercare

If there’s any knifeplay on you or him, then aftercare will be needed and he’ll be amazing at it, if there’s no knifeplay then no after care is needed because sex with Azusa is very sweet gentle and loving, you won’t have bruises or soreness

B = Body Parts (Their favorites)

Azusa loves your breasts, he loves feeling how soft they are and the texture of your nipples, and traveling his hands down your chest and stomach, feeling them rub over your breasts. He also loves sucking on them

C = Cum

Azusa has a bit of a breeding kink so he loves filling you up with his cum and pushing it in when it inevitably drips out

D = Dirty Secrets

Azusa has no shame and just does not get embarrassed. He’ll tell you his desires.

E = Experience

A total bumbling clueless virgin before you

F = Favorite position

Positions that are intimate and romantic and he can see your face so missionary or you riding him

G = Goofy (Are they goofy or serious?)

Not goofy at all, romantic and sweet

H = Hair (How well-trimmed are they? How do they prefer you to be?)

He used to purposely cut himself a little down there whenever he trimmed (not after falling in love with you and realizing he didn’t need to harm himself) he’s always been well-trimmed and he honestly doesn’t care what you do but will admit it’s easier to access your body if it’s neat

I = Intimate (Are they intimate and romantic?)

Yes but not the text book definition of romance but he does tell you he loves you and caresses you and kisses you

J = Jerk Off (Masturbation headcanons)

When he’s hard while cuddling and you feel it he’ll apologize and move your hand down to his erection

K = Kinks

Knifeplay and breeding but infrequently

L = Location (Preferred place to have sex)

Shared bed

M = Motivation (Their turn ons)

Kissing and cuddling with you on top of him, knowing you’re home alone together, you stroking his arm or chest

N = No (Something they won’t do)

He’ll try pretty much anything if it’ll make you happy but he’s not interested in DDLG

O = Oral (Preerende of giving or receiving? How do they do it to you? How do they like it did to them?)

Azusa of course enjoys receiving oral but he LOVES giving it. He’ll lightly scrape your thighs with his fangs and he’ll run his tongue along your folds gently and slowly. He’ll typically ask before putting a finger it but he’ll put his finger in any way. He was the one who suggested you sit on his face and he loved it, being surrounded by you, your smell, your taste, it was amazing. He enjoys when you use your teeth a little and when you suck on the tip harshly with only the tip in your mouth while your hands rub up and down

P = Pace

He’s generally pretty slow

Q = Quickies (Do they like them?)

Yeah, he’s down for a quickie, even in public

R = Risks

Sex without a condom or birth control, public sex

S = Stamina (How long can they go?)

He can go for the average amount of time but when it comes to foreplay he can go for hours without getting tired

T = Toys

He’s not interested in them for himself, but he enjoys using vibrators on your clit and nipples

U = Unfair (Do they like to tease and hold back?)

No, he likes when you tell him you want more of something during sexual activity but he never holds anything back

V = Vocal (How loud are they? How loud do they like you to be?)

Azusa is fairly loud, not loud enough to be heard in another room, but still fairly loud with grunts and moans. He finds your moans and whimpers adorable

W = Wild Card (Random sex headcanon)

Excellent with his hips, he can roll them around in amazing ways to hit every spot

X = X-Ray (What’s going on under those clothes?)

Somewhat lean but still thin, very pale, scars, very bony collarbones but firm shoulders, flat and cute butt, thin thighs

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Surprisingly high and more often than not he’ll initiate it

Z = Zzz (How soon do they fall asleep after?)

Not too soon, there’s a lot of pillow talk with him

———————————————————————

[schtewpidcupid]

tw: knifeplay, mentions of murder, bloodplay if you squint very hard.

slasher whitney / fpc.....

It was foolish to be in the woods past sunset. You knew that, and usually you would’ve avoided it at all costs - the danger was too great.

But, despite being tired from a late night of studying and a busy school day, and knowing you had plans that evening, when some of your classmates suggested going to the lake you’d readily agreed. It seemed fun and, as of late, large group outings were becoming more common. There was safety in numbers, after all. You’d all stuck close together through the woods, until you got to the relative safety of the lakeside, where everyone had separated into their little cliques or grouped up to play an impromptu football match. You had elected to lounge around near a few students you recognised from your English class, laying back and basking in the late-afternoon sun while you listened to them gossiping. You swore you were only resting your eyes.

When you woke up, it was still, and quiet, and a cold breeze was drawing in from the lake. You’d fallen asleep. That, on its own, wasn’t an issue. The issue arose from the fact that everyone had apparently pissed off home and not thought to wake you to come with them, instead leaving you alone on the shore. 

Walking home through the woods in this town was dangerous at the best of times, what with all the creatures and the human creeps and the bizarre flora. Lately, however, there had been a particular fixation on not being out alone, especially at night - there was a killer on the loose. Even in this town, with its high crime rate and lack of moral decency, it was rare for anyone to be out-and-out murdered: attacks, yes; disappearances, yes; but murder? That was unusual, and the brutality of the crimes was enough to shock even the most cynical locals. The fact that your classmates had forgotten you wasn’t just rude or inconvenient; it was dangerous - more dangerous than any trip through the forest.

You were about fifteen minutes through your journey, alternating between short bursts of jogging and carefully picking your way through the foliage in an attempt to remain undetected, when you felt that you were being watched. That was the issue with sticking to the more well-worn trails, you supposed - there was always some pervert, lurking, waiting to catch someone unawares and take advantage. With a sigh, far too used to this kind of shit, you ducked off the trail and back into the trees, trying to make your way through and relying on the dying embers of late-evening light to guide you. 

It was less than a minute later, already far off the trail, when you were startled by a noise. A dull, heavy thump from behind you. 

Your breath quickened and your jaw set, a meagre attempt to calm yourself, before you took a look over your shoulder and almost immediately started sprinting away, before you could even fully register the figure you saw. Tall and somewhat broad, clad in all black, red horns rising out from beneath a hood, face obscured in shadow - a cricket bat, held loosely in one hand, tapping against the trunk of a tree. 

You run for so long that you can feel your lungs start to burn, heart hammering so hard in your chest that you swear it's going to break through your sternum, your legs aching as you run despite the way you are trembling. You're no closer to town and, in your panic, you realise you must have gotten lost, may even be running deeper into the woods, further away from whatever semblance of safety the dimly lit streets offer. Then, before you realise what is happening, your foot catches on something and you're tumbling, falling, arms out to lessen the impact, thorns and branches cutting into your palms. You try to scramble to your feet but whatever spell had been keeping you going has broken, and you just fall forward again, stumbling, no longer able to get yourself upright. Half-crawling, you try to get behind a tree - despite the dense forest, the thick foliage and the gloom, you've never felt so exposed as you do right now, crouched in your little hiding spot. 'At least,' you think 'I can't hear anything chasing me.'

Then the figure steps out from behind the tree, and-- you've been on your knees enough times to recognise the scuffed, steel-toed workmans boots that Whitney seems to always wear. You feel a flood of relief as you stare at the black leather and maroon stitching, and it must be plain on your face; Whitney huffs out a laugh. 

"Hello, sweetheart," you look up in time to see him throw his hood back and raise his red demon mask, and he grins down at you. "Funny seeing you here."

The cricket bat clatters to the ground, both of his hands grabbing your arms and hauling you back on to your feet before backing you roughly up against the tree. 

"Whitney," you whine. He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing over your pulse. His mask is still perched atop his head, the hard plastic line of its sculpted lips brush against your jaw. "Whitney, you scared me."

You can feel him laugh as much as you can hear him; the shake of his shoulders, the exhale of his breath against your throat. 

"Sorry, slut," His voice almost sounds genuinely plaintive, "Wasn't expecting to see you so soon. Thought I'd mess with you a bit. Didn't expect you to bolt like that, though. You almost got away," his gloved hands trail down to your waist, the thick leather heavy against your skin through your school shirt, "but I caught you in the end."

Your trembling legs finally give out and you slump back against the tree, arms winding around Whitney's neck to keep yourself upright. He raises his head, fixing you with a predatory grin; he runs his tongue over his teeth and you can see his tongue stud glinting even in the half-light. 

"What am I going to do with you, eh?" One hand draws away from your waist and you whine in protest. The other hand shoves you up against the tree again, with enough force that your arms unlink from around his neck; he takes a half-step back and your hands come to rest pathetically on his shoulders while he regards you with a smirk. You think that this is the longest you've ever been fully clothed when alone with him, yet you feel just as exposed as you would if you were naked. 

It's only when his hand leaves his pocket that you realise it had even been there, that he'd been looking for something in there after he drew his hand away from you. And, evidently, from the object clutched in his hand, he found it. 

A knife. 

He must have seen the brief flash of panic in your widened eyes because he barks out a laugh as he brings the blade to the soft flesh of your thigh, cold metal tracing its way under the hem of your school skirt. 

"Maybe I should start letting you wear underwear again," he says absently, the tip of the knife creeping higher and higher up your inner thigh, "I'd love to cut them off you. Bet it'd be really hot." Your breath hitches at the thought, fingers gripping the epaulettes of his black leather jacket. 

When you feel the knife trace over the slit of your cunt, light as a feather but still cold and sharp enough to make you jolt, you moan out his name, whining with each subsequent pass of the metal against your slick core. He hums in response, eyes flicking up from where he was staring at his hand under your skirt. With a laugh, he brings his free hand up to your face, pushing two gloved fingers into your whimpering mouth. You can taste a tang of iron on the rough leather as you eagerly suck on them, your eyes slipping closed. 

"I've trained you well, haven't I? You're so desperate for me to fuck your mouth," His own mouth is parted and he stares at you almost reverently, watching you moan around his fingers in response. The hand between your legs pulls back, and though the knife had barely touched you, you immediately miss the thrill of the cold metal against your sensitive pussy. He brings the knife up so you can see it, your arousal coating the blade as it glints in the fading light - you aren't sure if your hazy eyes deceive you, but you swear you can see something red pooled around the hilt. Whitney stares into your eyes with a lustful intensity as he brings the blade to his mouth, the flat of his tongue slowly licking your slick from the metal. Your legs buckle, empty cunt clenching around nothing. It's too much, all the teasing and the adrenaline. You're aching for him to fuck you. 

"Good girl," he says, pulling the knife from his mouth and tucking it away in his pocket. He removes his fingers from your mouth, tracing them down your chin and leaving a trail of saliva. You probably look like a complete mess right now. 

"I'll give you a five minute head-start," he says, and you nod.

"Don't make it so easy for me this time, okay slut?"

He steps back and, through the haze of your arousal, you try and run.

[petitprincess1]

Good Evening Ch13 (Soft and Fragile)

AO3 Link Summary: Before the incident, Alastor has a bit more of a reflection on his "lovers" and it's quite interesting on what he wishes to do to his dolls. Words: 1,738 I AM SO SORRYYYYYY!!! I got super stressed lately and my brain just froze. I really hope this chapter is worth the wait. Once again, very sorry. Warning: Obsessive and possessive thoughts and..."knifeplay" thoughts...kinda. ~~~ Hours earlier before the “oopsie” that happened at Pentious’ house, Alastor made up an excuse to go to the kitchen just so he didn’t end up strangling Vaggie, slice her throat, or say some very mean words. The intense hatred only increased when she mentioned him bringing in gumbo that had Valentino’s body in it. He was going to bury the guy to use as manure, but he was a bit pressed for time and it was rather difficult to stuff the body with aromatic herbs to keep any stench out. Plus, he didn’t feel like draining Val’s blood. Either way, he had to take a moment to breathe before walking into the kitchen.

Al tried to calm down by taking out the tongue that he took from that dead guard. Either no one has gone into the fridge yet or no one questioned the tongue. It wasn’t like it was impossible for him to have bought a cow tongue of sorts from the store. Thankfully, idiots would do anything to justify something that’s so simple.

He meant to chop this up for breakfast in the morning, but no one said that you couldn’t have an omelette in the afternoon. Besides, he still needed to make a small meal for Charlie. Alastor realized that he was going more and more towards Charlie everyday. It was surprising that the girl intrigued him, almost as much as Anthony did. Although, he was interested in them for completely different reasons. Anthony felt the closest to what could be romantic, even if it was a bit more perverse. 

All Alastor wanted to do with Anthony was make him his and only his. Majority of the people that he came into contact with were incorrigible and absolute morons, especially that Pentious. The man had no patience with any of that and wouldn’t miss them the slightest bit if they were dead...possibly not Husker. The much older man was much more hilarious to have alive, especially whenever he was angry. It was so much fun to watch his lip curl into a snarl.

However, unless it was making him pouty, Alastor never wanted to see his ethel angry at him nor did he wish to hurt him that badly. Just the very thought sent a chill up his spine as he listened to the tongue’s muscles and ligaments making a slight squishing sound as the knife sliced through them, making him feel a nice calm about him. All he wanted to do was keep Anthony all locked up for no one else to see him. Yes, the man clearly could help himself, judging the bruising on his knuckles, but he still could have died. Keeping the little minx all tied up would clearly only benefit him.

Plus, Alastor could also easily lure those mongrels to his home and he could serve up some wonderful meat pies or casseroles to his favorite toy that he will keep all snug and cozy in his basement. Oh! That reminded him that he really needed to renovate that place back at his home. Well, temporary home in Eden. Al should also warn Anthony about the constant traveling. Alastor knew that his angel may have slight worry about his proposition, but he knew that the boy would be the one to stay.  Meanwhile with Charlie….the man longed for her struggle.

As annoying as it was to try and get the doll alone, it was also thrilling to actually have someone fight. Not that Anthony didn’t fight with Alastor occasionally, it was different with Charlie. She seemed to wish to deny all attraction towards, but he could easily tell when one has hidden desire. He has felt her heartbeat quicken on her wrist, seen the hidden passion in her eyes lying beneath the disgust, and, most importantly, he can sense the morbid curiosity in her. It won’t be too long til he finally caught her in his grasp.

Alastor scrapped the tongue off of the cutting board into a frying pan that had oil, minced garlic, and chopped onion in it. He breathed in the smell and sighed happily, “Patience is a virtue.”

Niffty came into the kitchen, carrying groceries, and gasped at seeing Alastor, “OH! You didn’t tell me you would be in the kitchen! Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude. I just went to get some extra food and-”

“Don’t worry, my dear! It’s perfectly fine. After all, this is your kitchen and I’m merely intruding in on your space,” Alastor spoke charmingly and humbly. Niffty gasped even more as she placed the groceries on the counter, using a step stool, and quickly replied, “No no no! My kitchen is your kitchen, so stay as long as you wish.”

The man smiled at her and gave a polite nod, “What a sweet lady you are. Also, do you mind helping me out? Just get some eggs and whisk them up. I’m making an omelette for Charlie~”

“Awww, you’re such a sweet man!”

“...I know.” ~~~ Later on into the day, Al had come over to Charlie’s office and knocked on the door. Charlie called from the other side, “Who’s there?”

Alastor thought of a joke for a few seconds and replied, “Adore!”

It went silent for a few seconds before the golden-haired girl asked, “Adore who? I don’t think-”

“Adore is between you and I, so please open up!” Alastor exclaimed, cutting her off on purpose. There was another brief silence before the door suddenly opened up and revealed Charlie looking away from Alastor. She seemed to be annoyed, but the small reddish tint to her pale cheeks showed her keeping a smile back. She mumbled under her breath as she walked away, “That was a terrible joke and you know it was.”

The creole chuckled as he walked into her office and saw that her office was pretty decent and cozy looking, especially with plush carpeting. He leaned up against a bookshelf behind him as he raised an eyebrow at two norwegian dwarf goats that were sleeping within a pet bed that looked like a little house. Charlie sat down on the chair at her desk and asked, “Is there something that you need, Al? Oh! Also, thank you for the omelette, it was very sweet of you to make that for me. Although, I thought we ran out of certain cuts of beef.”

She gestured to the empty plate on her desk that had bits of onion on the surface, as well as some ketchup. Al nodded and replied, “You’re quite welcome, my dear~ Also, I have my resources. Anyway, I was just asking if it was alright if I head off early. Just want to do a bit of hunting, that’s all.”

Al’s grin subtly grew a bit at seeing Charlie’s skin become slightly paler when he mentioned hunting. He could just say that he was just going to go hunt some deer, but it was hilarious to think that the girl thought he was hunting humans. No, not today. She gulped and replied, “Uh, well, I guess if you have nothing else to do, then that’s okay. Just...you know...be back around dark, just so you can have the night shift. I-If you want to, of course!”

The man couldn’t help but reach towards Charlie, making her slightly flinch, and gently caress her cheek. He brushed his thumb against her skin and almost felt aroused at the softness of it. Alastor could only imagine how nice it would be to carve through it. He was sure that he barely needed to add extra pressure to slice the skin open. He hummed and then muttered in a low tone, “Of course, Charlie.Why would I ever say no to you?”

Charlie mumbled under her breath, feeling an odd chill up her spine, “Uh...I’m sure you have, especially when I don’t want you messing with my cheeks.” She slowly lowered Al’s hand from her cheek and moved it back to his side. She then concluded, “Uh, well, if that’s all, the you’re free to go, Al.”

Alastor stared at his hand for a few seconds and then nodded absentmindedly as he walked out of the room. He felt Charlie’s eyes on him as he left out and listened to the door gently creak close before she locked it. However, Al barely cared as he felt many tingles up his hand that Charlie touched. He never liked being touched...but he was definitely craving more from her.

He began walking down the hall and was trying to clear his mind when a woman ended up bumping him from behind. Al turned and saw the woman looked distraught, almost in a daze. Before he could question her, she asked, “I’m sorry, but have you seen Angelo? I...I really need to speak to him….regarding a man that he...worked with.”

Alastor blinked at her and wondered what she could possibly want with Anthony. It made his stomach tie into a knot, but he just said, “Well, Anth- Angelo is on medical leave. He got harmed pretty badly.”

Not even the slightest bit of worry in the woman’s eyes, if anything, Al saw a bit of frustration. She nodded and muttered, “...Right. I forgot...thank you.”

The woman then silently walked away from Alastor, making the man narrow his eyes at her. He’s going to have to follow her, isn’t he? Great! Right...well, maybe Charlie was right about the human thing. He could always buy venison from the butcher. ~~~ In present time, Baxter was helping Sir Pentious roll up Traci’s body in a rug, while Alastor was braiding Anthony’s slightly grown out hair and Cherri was trying to calm down. The spunky girl washed the blood off of her face and pretended the brain bits were just chewed up wads of gum. She pulled her head out from the sink and quickly grabbed some towels, wiping her face off.

Cherri was making very quiet sobs as she kept envisioning the woman getting shot over and over again in her head. It just wouldn’t end. Angelo looked at her and asked, “Hey, ya gonna be alright, Cherri?”

She turned to Angelo and took a deep breath before glaring at Al, “What the hell is wrong with you!? Why did you do that?”

Alastor scoffed, “What? It was just a bit of hunting.”

[akirakurusuimagines]

Kink: Knifeplay I/II

(I’m re-submitting this once again in case Mod Joker didn’t receive it the first time.

Hah? What’s this? Am I posting once again after sweating bullets over my first five posts? Why yes, yes I am, actually. You may be wondering what started my musing for this particular post. Well, I was scrolling through certain kinks anons asked Mod Joker, and one of the first ones to jump out at me was the knifeplay kink, so… That about sums it up. I ask only for your prayers because, once again, I will require a long soak in holy water and maybe confess my sins (for once.) for this one.

Yes, knifeplay is the main kink mentioned, but I tossed in a few others as well, i.e., sensory deprivation/blindfolded, some brief mentions of orgasm denial, some dirty talk, and some light bondage. That’s it, I think. I might toss in some more as I go along, but those are the ones that first came to mind. This is something to help tide you thirsty Akira/Ren lovers over until I post the fourth part of You Need Proper Punishment. I seem to have hit a bit of a mental snag with it right now, unfortunately. I know how I want it to conclude, but getting to the end is where I’m drawing a blank.

One final note. I may post more drabbles like this, if my creative juices are flowing. I think I’ve rambled on enough for now, so I’ll do my best to quench the thirst of you lovely anons and Mod Joker once more. Again, I thank anyone who reads this in advance. I hope you all enjoy this little writing snippet as well. You thirsty dears got two and a half pages worth of spiciness for this part. I’ll post the second bit as soon as I can, which will be sometime today, hopefully. Love y’all~! <3)

When you brought up the suggestion of Akira tying you up, he laughed at you.

When you suggested he should blindfold you as well, he cocked an eyebrow, an amused smirk curling his lips.

When you said you wanted to be denied the right to orgasm unless he wanted you to, he voiced a breathy chuckle.

When you said you wanted to hear the most sinful filth whispered to you in your ears, flecks of marigold shone in his onyx eyes.

However, when you suggested introducing something new to your nocturnal rounds of rough love-making, the flecks of marigold were replaced with specks of carmine. Akira’s eyes were swallowed up by ruby red, the smirk still curling his lips as he slowly removed his rounded glasses, setting them aside on the nightstand next to your bed.

You were pinned to your bed in record time, your wrists pressed to the comforter, held in a single hand above your head as Akira pressed his lips to yours as his free hand trailed down to your collarbone, unfastening the first two buttons, tugging the collar of your night shirt down a bit to expose a teasing glimpse of skin.

His warm lips trailed open-mouthed kisses up your bare abdomen, pausing every second kiss to allow his lips to linger against your skin before slowly continuing to make his way up. The shirt and sleeping shorts you had been wearing were all but torn off of your skin within the first five minutes of his visit, mere moments after hearing your spicy suggestions. Your bra had been unclasped, soon joining the first two articles of clothing, tossed off to the side as though they were trash, pressing you to the covers of your bed as he claimed your lips in the first of many hot kisses.

You could feel a smirk tugging on the lips of the demon of a man, quite literally so, as he stopped when he reached the swell of your naked breasts. The fingers that gripped a hold of your hips lazily danced across the hem of your lacy, see-through underwear, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Despite his hands gently gripping your barely clothed hips, despite his fingers dancing across the thin, bow-tied straps that held the flimsy piece of clothing in place, Akira didn’t give away any hints of wanting to remove the lacy underwear. Yet.

Instead, a breathy chuckle whispered over the sweaty skin of the valley between your breasts, leaving a shudder in its wake as a tingling sensation shot up and down your spine. The feeling wasn’t unpleasant; far from it, actually. The difference between Akira’s warm breath and your bare skin created a brief chill that caused a small, sudden gush of moisture to gather in the crotch of your underwear. Your shudder didn’t go unnoticed by the smirking incubus, his red eyes boring into your gaze as he kissed his way up to your lips, planting a slow, sensual kiss to your mouth before leaning away.

“What a naughty girl you are… If only your family and friends knew what you were like in bed in the dead of night, nestled safely in the comfort of your dreams… If they only knew what aroused you, and sharing your desires, your bed with a demon like myself at that… They’d be shocked, wouldn’t they?” Akira hissed just inches from your blushing face, his warm breath brushing across your flushed cheeks.

“What do you think, love? Should I tease you mercilessly in front of everyone you know?” Akira’s lips practically kissed your own as he talked, peppering your rosy cheeks and jawline with kisses.

“Wouldn’t that be exciting? Your family, your friends… Your classmates, teachers, and acquaintances seeing you in this state? Or would you prefer being fucked by me instead, bare as the day you were born?”

Your blush darkened at the lewd suggestions Akira was proposing, if such a thing was possible. The mere thought of your family, friends, teachers, your acquaintances seeing you being screwed by Akira embarrassed you as much as it intrigued you. You felt a tingle of coy arousal as it lit a fire in you. A chill danced up your spine as your blush darkened at the thought; you wouldn’t know whether to feel embarrassed at being screwed senselessly, or to be too consumed by lust to care about the many eyes that would be watching you and Akira.

“…I’m kidding, of course,” Akira spoke after a brief pause, smirking at your blushing bride cheeks, his carmine irises betraying a hint of mischievous teasing as he stared into your shining doe eyes.

“Remember, love, that only I can see you in the state you’re in right now,” the ruby eyed incubus said, still smiling as his fingers resumed their languid dance across your scantily clothed hips.

You drew in a shaky breath as his fingers inched closer, closer, closer to the thin, bow-tied straps that kept your lacy, see-through underwear secured to your hips. You swallowed as Akira’s hand slipped past the thin straps that were on your hips, his fingertips ghosting over your heated skin as his hand slowly descended to the damp crotch of your underwear. A husky chuckle left Akira, a laugh that was as smug as it was pleased, the corner of his lips curling as he caught wind of the hitched breath you took in.

“You’re so wet right now, sweetheart. So warm. So moist,” Akira crooned into your ear, eliciting both a gasp and a shudder from you as he cupped your moist womanhood in the palm of his hand, a finger teasingly prodding your entrance. The incubus’ crimson eyes bore into your shining eyes, the cornea pricking as the first hint of warm moisture gathered.

Akira voiced a few “tsk’s”, watching you squirming in the palm of his hand, quite literally so, enthralled by the erotic show you were putting on for him, and only for him. Slowly, he pushed in his forefinger, the small, very small, part of him that was a sadist enjoying the sight of seeing you blushing, on the verge of tears, unconsciously bucking your scantily clad hips, rocking to the slow, gentle, teasing rhythm of Akira’s finger as he inserted a middle finger.

“Such a lascivious woman… Allowing someone like myself to fuck you with his fingers like this. You like this… No, you love this, don’t you? You love being teased like this, don’t you? What a greedy, insatiable lover I have,” Akira hissed in your face, his warm breath fanning your cerise cheeks.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t reply. Your mouth was open, but no words left you. You were breathing in and out, shakily, drawing in one shuddering gasp after another as a whimpering moan was pulled from you. The ruby eyed incubus chuckled, his crimson eyes swimming in mirth as a breathy laugh wafted across your flushed cheeks.

“Darling,” Akira spoke calmly, his voice dropping a few octaves as a tantalizing purr clung to the edge of his words as they were uttered, his free hand raising to cup the side of your head. Akira entangled his fingers through your hair, gently tugging your head back.

“When someone asks you a question, what do you say…?”

To coax you into replying, Akira flicked his wrist while shoving his fingers further inside your dripping core, successfully pulling a noise that was between a wanton moan and a surprised squeal from you.

Gasping for breath, a pleasant shudder shook you, ceasing your shameless rutting into Akira’s hand, not having expected it all. Thanks to the smug demon cradling your head in his hand, you couldn’t look away. You could only watch as the noiret’s ruby irises shone for a few moments, but not with malicious intent. You swallowed a gulp; you recognized that look. Behind the demonic eyes that stared back at you, there was a flicker of a surprisingly human emotion: sincerity.

Akira was sincere whenever he said he’d kiss you until your lips were plump and swollen.

Akira was sincere whenever he said he’d worship your body in bed, taking special care to slowly strip your clothing away, admiring every bump, curve, and blemish you possessed, kissing and adding extra touches to whatever it was you deemed ugly about yourself.

Akira was sincere whenever he said he’d fuck you senseless, asking for a second round so long as you agreed to it. You were sure to be sore, tired, and severely lacking in energy the following day on such evenings.

Akira was sincere whenever he felt like teasing you, edging you on the precipice of pleasure, only to deny you the right to orgasm. Whether it was with his fingers, his lips and tongue, or a combination of the three, there was nothing better than listening to your pleas, your whimpers, begging him to please, please let you orgasm.

“You said you wanted to be denied the right to orgasm tonight… Unless I wanted you to, correct?”

“Yes, Akira!” You blushed; you hadn’t meant to raise your voice like that.

Akira blinked, surprised for a few moments, before he laughed.

“…Well, love… I admire your persistence, but… Are you sure? I will be utterly merciless when you voice such shameless desires…”

Swallowing thickly, you nodded your head.

Akira frowned. He didn’t appear to be convinced, picking up on your unvoiced hesitation.

“…I will ask you again. You are sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” you uttered a verbal reply, nodding your head firmly. To prove your point, to prove that you weren’t going to back out now, you raised a hand, running your fingers through the noiret’s hair before bringing him into a kiss.

Akira hummed, seemingly pleased at the action, swiping his tongue across your bottom lip, but prying away just as you opened your mouth to grant his tongue permission to delve past your lips. He smirked at the light glare you shot him, snickering at your scowl.

“Prepare yourself, Treasure. I will be sure to ravage you tonight.”

[zoe-bug]

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Post-Crooked Kingdom, sexual content, Dom/sub undertones, knifeplay, very brief bloodplay, mutual masturbation, gloves, mentions of violent revenge fantasy, porn with feels

Summary: 

But hadn’t that always been the way with his Wraith? Things were always capable of more than they should be when it was Inej who wielded them.

In her hands, a few inches of steel could bring a sudden and painful death. On her feet, a pair of rubber-soled slippers could scale six stories of sheer metal.

Beneath her knives, a twisted and terrible creature such as Kaz Brekker could be made to think of things like healing.

I finally finished it! I’ve been working on this for ages and just needed to get it done and posted because SoC has ruined my life.

So here, take this horrifically self-indulgent thing that got way longer than it was meant to be and enjoy my suffering.