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corazondebeskar-reads · 9 months

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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.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #dddne #tw noncon #non con #dark fic #tw abuse #seriously heed the warnings #don't like don't read #deaddovedecember2023

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pfhwrittes · 8 months

Text

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

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

pairing: john “soap” mactavish x female reader

word count: 966 words of smut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#pfh darkfics #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x you #john soap mactavish x female reader #tw noncon #tw somnophilia #tw spit #tw alcohol mention #heed the tags/warnings #this is all vi's fault btw #everyone say thank you to vi #jm

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pusangkambing · 11 months

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DEATH THREAT WARNING ⚠️

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

#I BURST OUT FUCKING LAUGHING IT FUCKING HURTS OHYMGOSBSJSJEHSJ #Death threat tw #ik the tag is here but also i just wanted to put one up on top anyway jic #she full on says it btw so heed the warning #paimon!speaks!#qsmp #jaiden animations #suicide joke #tagged this too even tho it doesnt fit but jic #EDIT: I DIDNT NOTICE THE FUCKING GARBAGE QUALITY IM SO SORRYVBSUSJWJSA

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pearl-blue-musings · 9 months

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snow angel

This is purely self indulgent and healing in a way

Pairing: Alhaitham x fem!reader x Kaveh

Warnings: 18+, mental health issues, depression, slight blood, angst, comfort, feelings of worthlessness, thoughts of unalive, attempted unalive, can be seen as platonic or romantic, based on a song

Word count: ~2.3K

Reblogs and feedback appreciated!

Alhaitham never had to worry too much about you. And that worried him.

Kaveh never had to worry too much about you. And that worried him.

The two of them invited you, along with some other scholars and explorers on their investigation into Dragonspire. Never having traveled to Mondstadt but hearing of the wintery beauty that is the mountain top, you were excited to leave the contrasting humidity and arid-ness of Sumeru. You made sure that the bickering roommates had the appropriate outerwear for dealing with the frosty chill and thin air. You had happily helped them pack as you were packing your own things and getting your affairs in order before your expedition.

Hssss

The voice at the back of your head sends a chill down your spine and threatens to overflow. Your heart feels heavy from hiding and masking your feelings to push on further. Two pairs of eyes have now stopped on your visage as you seem to be frozen. You lick your lips in hopes of keeping the lump in your throat down. Their voices are barely legible as your shallow breaths fill your ears.

“Are you alright?”

You meet concerned red eyes as a hand on your shoulder shakes you from your stupor. You give Kaveh a knowing smile after a second of silence. The smile doesn’t quite meet your eyes and that doesn’t go unnoticed by both men. You say your rehearsed lines of “oh sorry, I’m fine! I didn’t mean to worry you,” with the added, “let’s get a move on” to keep them close but not too close.

Keeping your heart guarded, the expedition to the base campground went without a hitch. Despite the two arguing every now and then, it was an enjoyable adventure. You never understood why scholars thought Alhaitham as stoic and rude, he had the magic to make you laugh and feel competent. While Kaveh, that man made your aspirations seem attainable and your feelings validated. Well, the ones he knew about. You were thankful for having your own tent so they wouldn’t hear your soft crying or how your racing thoughts kept you awake. You thought they would never question why you would make the whole team breakfast before heading further in.

The weather started to change, alerting you and the team of your closeness to the base camp. Since you were a quasi leader, you venture ahead to find the adventurers to guide you through the snowy trail. Alhaitham watches you carefully and with a tight lipped breath he pulls Kaveh back. The blond immediately scoffs and is about to retort until he sees the expression in his friend's eyes. “What’s with the serious look?”

The man in question crosses his arms with a far off look. “I assume you’ve heard her crying? She thinks she’s hiding it but I hear it. And your tent has been closer.” Kaveh turns his head to see you looking through the map excitedly with the adventurer, your eyes widening over the mountainous terrain ahead of you. He didn’t want to admit it, but it broke him to hear you cry. What is going on in your precious brain? Why are you suffering alone? He doesn’t believe the lies you’ve been shoveling the two of them. “I’m just home sick,” you’d say. Or “I miss the warmth of Sumeru.” Kaveh knew that last one wasn’t true, considering you were in awe of Liyue’s weather and land. He knows he can’t ask you outright, but he’s worried more than ever. And so is Alhaitham.

To your group's surprise, one of the knights decided to help you out and guide you to his lab. Albedo, you learn, frequents the mountain and has his own base that is well kept and has enough provisions. With your parka and boots on, you begin the first leg of your excursion. Albedo speaks with all of you of the ruins and layout of the mountains, eager about what scholars from Sumeru will learn and take back. You get along easily with the knight, who you learned is a painter! There were a few run-ins with hillichurls but your guides and friends took care of them easily. After a grueling half day, you made it to Albedo’s corner. You were able to safely put your stuff down and set up camp. With the limited space, sharing tents and sleeping space was needed.

After you all settled in, Albedo shared a more intricate map that he created, pointing out areas of interest for your team. Strikingly, he suggested the team get acclimated to the snow and weather by walking around and playing in it. A small smile came to your face as you saw Alhaitham grimace at the idea, but you found yourself running out into the snow. You slowly trudge to a cliff side and take in a deep breath. You can see Mondstadt and parts of Liyue and the view steals all the air in your lungs. Your foot teeters on the edge, a few stray pebbles falling down the side. That voice pricks at your brain again to take a step; it’s gotten to be louder the closer you’ve gotten to the snowy terrain. A stray tear leaves your eye and you feel it almost freeze against your chilly skin. Something startled you inside and you stumble away from the edge. You felt something. How is it cold but your extremities are burning? You felt. You felt.

An almost cynical smile comes to your face as you fall back in the snow. The sky above a confusing mix of grays and blues with the sunsetting faraway. The wind blows harshly against your nose and eyelashes as you blink away snowflakes that dance across your features. You push yourself up when Kaveh calls out for you to come back to Albedo’s. When he sees the ghost of your smile his own heart leaps in hope that he’ll see you smile some more. He’s happy that you’re sitting next to him eating the goulash provided. Your head rests against his shoulder and Kaveh is secretly lucky you can’t hear his racing heart. He’s also unknowingly lucky he misses the intense glare from Alhaitham. When you finish your food, a yawn escapes your lips. You stretch out and announce to everyone you’re heading to your, now, shared tent with bicker and bickering. They wave at you and you head in for the night.

Alhaitham was intrigued by the knights knowledge and can’t wait to pick his brain about what they would find tomorrow. Kaveh on the other hand was more interested in the beauty Albedo is able to find in the icy wilderness. There’s a stillness mixed with the bustle of energy the mountains contain. The architect is excited to implement these ideas into his creations and beams at Albedo’s ability to answer all of his questions. After a couple of hours, they all breakaway for the night, noting the drop in temperature and increase in wind speed.

Kaveh rubs at his arms to warm them up, his heart sinking that you might be cold in their tent. Their tent, that mere thought has him blushing hard. He shakes his head as he brings his lantern to your tent and opens it. The two men do their best to not disturb you, and bicker, but stop when they see you’re not there. Fear quickly settles in as they notice your footprints in the snow. Alhaitham remembers what Albedo warned them about nights on the mountains, and now he’s at a loss for words.

The pair of men scramble to close the tent and follow your footsteps. The wind makes it harder to breathe so they keep their words to a minimum. With eye communication, they press on fearfully to where your footprints lead. Alhaitham is seldom scared, and when he is he hides it well. However, Kaveh can see the worry in his eyes with his eyebrows pressed together. Kaveh is about to continue on when Alhaitham stops him. The blond lifts his eyebrows until he sees Alhaitham point to the ground. There’s extra footprints. Alhaitham rushes forward as best he could in the weather as for once his feelings lead his actions. Why didn’t he speak to you about your crying? Why didn’t he speak to you about the lack of food you’ve been consuming? Why didn’t he make a comment about the bags and lines under your eyes, eyes that always sparkle for him?

******

You just wanted to feel something. Or nothing. Both? The effect of the goulash is starting to wane the farther you walk. The boars you ran into earlier calmly left you alone as you pressed further. You spotted on Albedo’s map a way to the top of the mountain without climbing onto the extremities. Maybe if you would reach the top, you’d find your reason for living. And maybe you’d feel the things you’re meant to feel. Or the cold would numb you completely and you wouldn’t feel anything at all. Both are good options. The former is happier, the latter more tempting.

You somehow managed to reach the entrance of some ruin with stone slabs. The wind is too intense for you to handle, but you’re running on pure adrenaline. You push and push until finally the wind pushes back. You gasp as you’re lifted up and thrown back into the snow, hitting your head on the way down.

There it is again, that numb feeling where you’re cold but it burns. It’s feeling but not feeling. You try to touch your head and your fingertips are coated in red. It doesn’t alert you, your heart rate doesn’t change. You lay back down, tears falling and freezing against your cold skin. “I tried,” you whisper before shutting your eyes.

******

The two men are shivering in their boots as they find where your footprints end. Kaveh is thankful Alhaitham put markers while they tracked you down, as he has no idea where they are. They see what looks to be remains of a city entombed in snow. In the distance they see enlightened stone slabs and a slightly open door with a cave to the right. He’s also finally able to see you. The man almost cried as he pushes himself to run toward you. He huffs haphazardly as his emotions start to get the better of him. You’re just laying there in the snow, with a crown of red circling your head like a halo. Kaveh starts to call your name and places his hand on your cheek. His own tears start to fall freely as he takes you in.

Alhaitham comes up behind you and puts his, well your bag down. He knew your bag had the first aid and he takes it out. He carefully lifts your head and your groan. “Thank the archons,” he whispers before starting to wrap your head. Kaveh holds your hand, trying to warm it up, his voice a soft whimper. Once you were carefully assessed for any other injuries, Alhaitham carries you to the cave where there happens to be a camp with firewood. He gently lays you down and wraps you in a blanket. Kaveh starts the fire to keep them warm and hugs you tightly. The air in the cave is more dense and less windy, giving them the chance to speak.

“How long,” Kaveh starts, “do you think she was up here?”

Alhaitham clenches his hands into fists at the thought of you being here alone. “I’m no doctor so I can’t say for certain. But I know her groaning is a good sign. She’s alive, hurt but alive.”

Kaveh sniffles from the cold and his rushing emotions. “Why did she do this?”

“…we can ask her when she wakes up.”

*****

The world seems blurry as voices mesh together. You feel warm and stuck, with a massive headache. You can’t totally move, but you feel secure. Your eyes slowly flutter open and you hiss. Your throat feels drier than the desert of Sumeru. As you take in your surroundings, you're slightly confused. And then you remember. To either side of you are your tent mates and you realize why you felt stuck.

Kaveh is holding you tightly as Alhaitham rests in your lap. Your cheeks muster some heat at the closeness. Did they come find you? Why would they do that?

“Can you stop moving? You’re making sleeping hard.”

Your eyes go wide when you hear Alhaitham’s low morning voice. You see him peer at you through a sleepy haze. You swallow a lump in your throat as you feel the dam break as you cry. Kaveh’s arms tighten around you as he nuzzles your neck.

“Don’t,” he softly breathes, “scare me like that.”

You nod against him and brokenly say, “I’m sorry.”

Alhaitham hums. “We know.”

Your tongue feels caught in a web but the need to unload your heart overcomes you. “…I try so hard to exist. And it hurts.” Kaveh squeezes you tighter. “I just wanted to feel something, anything. And the cold burned, I’ve never felt anything like that. I needed a reason to feel, to keep trying. I do so much and it all feels so meaningless. I thought if I made the top I’d find meaning…but if I died along the way, that would be fine too.”

Your heart starts to lift and feel lighter. It’s not everything you wanted to say or felt, but it captured most of it. Alhaitham tangles his fingers with yours, heart fluttering at the rush of blood under your skin. He won’t say it now as you are recovering, but he wants to be the person you lean on. He never wants you to battle and suffer on your own, and he’s sure Kaveh shares the same sentiment. He’s able to peek at the edge of the cave and sees the early rays of the morning. He hesitates moving you back to Albedo's base and starts hatching a plan of why the three of them left early. He sits up and sees the two of you with tear tracks on your cheeks and his heart swells. “Don’t worry me so much you two.”

#al haitam x reader #alhaitham x female reader #kaveh x reader #kaveh x fem!reader #alhaitham x reader x kaveh #alhaitham x reader #heed the warnings #tw depressing thoughts #tw sui ideation #tw blo0d #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #my writing #i did the thing #Spotify

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timmydraker · 5 days

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CW: drugs

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

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

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

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

“Such as?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dick shouts at Bruce about how unbelievably stupid he is.

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

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

But Bruce has never been good with honesty.

#batfam #tim drake #bat family #dc comics #batfamily #dc universe #tim drake is red robin #dc #tim drake is a menace #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #tim drake angst #tim drake centric #tw drugs #drug addiction #please heed warning

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torchflies · 2 months

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

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

He comes a month too early.

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

#top gun #top gun maverick #top gun 1986 #jake hangman seresin #tw child abuse #tw murder mention #tw domestic violence #hangster #tgm #tgm fic #I don't own these images #heed the tags #kit writes stuff

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scooterpengie · 22 days

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

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

#villainous #villanos #miss heed #cecilia amanda kelly #g lo #g-lo #villainous fanart #comics #incorrect villainous quotes #my art #i actually sketched out a whole injured person for the first panel #then i got to the line art and thought screw it and just drew some legs #tw blood #?? a tiny bit #don't @ me for using an Instagram link I'm not on tiktok ok

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uninformedartist · 7 months

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So I'm genuinely disturbed. Had someone follow me on twitter & they were following & interacting with.. this person.

A massive TW for r*pe, zp*ophillia, inc*st I mean it.

I got to watch my followings cos that person was sitting in my following for a while.

I hate this fandom, I do I really do. How tf do you think of such vile things. Ya'll on twitter, its not all hazbin fans because a lot of them are chill and nice people just scope them a bit out cos my soul.

#TW #like please heed this TW for what is said #vivziepop critical #helluva boss fandom critical #hazbin hotel fandom critical

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k-slla · 8 months

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Always and forever

A/N: I'm almost finished with my first bingo card- honestly can't believe it! Only one more square after this :)

Square filled for @jacklesversebingo : "You told me you were okay! You promised!" Will be in bold

Warnings: loss of a child, grieving, attempted suicide, lots of angst, survivor's guilt, car accident (mentioned only)

A/N2: I can only imagine the pain of having to bury your child, but losing a loved one in car accident because of a drunk driver is unfortunately far too familiar to me. Don't drink and drive.

W/C: ~2k | My Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

All mistakes are mine. Reblogs/Likes/Comments always appreciated!

Never would have you imagined that loss of your child is something you'd ever have to go through. You wouldn't wish this upon anyone.

You and Jensen were standing now at the open door of the funeral home, with you cramped up to his hand, unable to move. Guilt, pain, shame, anger and all other negative emotions that come with grief, were crushing you from the inside. Jensen saw you struggling and pulled you against him, keeping you close. “We have to go inside. They're waiting for us.”

You didn't even bother to try and keep your tears at bay.

“I know, but..I c-can’t.. I can't move.” You looked up at your husband, who was sharing your pain, and tried his best to ease from the guilt and shame that had overcome you. He pressed his lips softly to your forehead, whispering. “I know..baby, I know, but I am here with you. Always and forever.” You felt a warm tear running down his cheek against yours.

“I just need a little more time. Little more before I say goodbye to her.” You hid your face into his neck. He hugged you tight as both of you stood still in the brisk autumn air.

You remember clearly the day you held her for the first time. As if you could ever forget that. You never believed those talks about how after giving birth you immediately forget everything after you see your baby. You never believed it to be true. How would it be possible to forget the physical pain so easily? But when you finally saw your tiny baby girl, you didn't think of the pain you went through, all that was occupying your mind was just how incredibly beautiful she was.

“Do you have a name for her yet?” Nurse next to you asked Jensen while you were still admiring the little bundle in your arms. “Aspen. Aspen Joelle Ackles.” he whispered and lightly dried his eyes from the tears. “Welcome to the world, baby Aspen.” The nurse smiled.

You laid in the bed, tired, but still smiling at Jensen when you saw him holding your daughter in his arms for skin-on-skin contact, beaming from happiness.

Both you and Jensen got used to your new roles as parents quickly. He still had to return to filming the show, but you weren't alone and he was home every weekend like clockwork. For five years your lives were perfect, until the accident that broke your little family.

He hugged you tight for the last time, and from the corner of your eye you saw all your friends and family waiting for you and Jensen to join the memorial service for your daughter. With your head held down, you walked into the room side by side with him. The silence in there was deafening, as everyone patiently waited for you to sit down.

A quick glance at the casket in the middle of the room made it almost impossible for you to keep your sobs under control. It was just heartbreakingly small.

Life is full of all kinds of twists and turns, you knew that, but it was just unfair how in the game of life and death, Aspen was the one to lose and the drunk driver responsible for your car accident was able to walk away unharmed. You just couldn't accept it. But it seemed that it was like this most of the time with these situations.

Innocent souls always seemed to be the ones who lost.

The memorial went by with your mind being completely fogged up. Both of your parents said a few words on your behalf, to make it a little bit easier for you, but you couldn't register anything they said. You were just focused on Jensen next to you, tightly holding onto your hands. One by one your closer family started saying their goodbyes to Aspen. You wanted to be left alone in there with Jensen for yours, because even now you were just barely holding on.

A week was all that was possible for Jensen to get off from work for the funeral. A week. Then he had to return to Vancouver for filming. Your parents were visiting almost daily, but you wished they’d rather leave you alone. Only person you needed for comfort was your husband and he had to work. You actually encouraged him to go work. He offered to stay with you, no matter the consequences, but you couldn't do that to him. You knew what it meant for him to be able to work on the show. And working has always eased his mind from anything, so you hoped it would make grieving a little easier for him too.

Each day you could feel the guilt starting to slowly eat you up more, and depression began to deepen its roots inside you. All day and night, your mind was always racing with the possibilities of different outcomes. What if?

What if you would've told Jensen to take a taxi home from the airport? What if you would've waited five more minutes at home before leaving to pick him up? What if you would've left five minutes earlier? Would any of this have changed anything? Would your daughter be still alive? All of this was playing in your head like a broken record, but you'd never know.

Day by day, everything started to get even more overwhelming. Eating. Getting out of bed. You were either sleeping all day or you weren't sleeping at all. All those small every day motions. It was all too much. But you still didn't look for help. You couldn't admit to anyone that you needed it, not even Jensen. On the outside, with each passing day, your smile was growing. On the inside, you felt nothing other than the guilt of you surviving the accident instead of your daughter. It got too painful for you to even exist, so you were looking for an easy way out.

Jensen didn't talk to you at all, when he visited you in the hospital, but you were still glad that he even came. Even if he just sat there beside your bed, you saw how he was barely keeping himself together each time he glanced at you. Slightly sniffling, but still silent. Past few months have not been kind to either of you. Worry, grief, pain- everything had left their mark, aging you more than they should have. While there wasn't a point to try to come up with excuses for yourself, you still felt like you had to say something. “I'm sorry, Jensen.” Your voice was barely above whisper. It wouldn't make anything better, but it was all you managed to say.

You saw that his green eyes were full of hurt and betrayal when he got up from the chair, not even acknowledging your apology. “I have to speak to your doctor.”

You were kept in hospital for a few days, under “observation”. In other words - to make sure you were mentally stable enough that you wouldn't try to take your life again. You knew that even if they'd let you home sooner, Jensen wouldn't leave your side. Even now he only left the hospital for an hour or so every day, the rest of the time he sat in the chair by your bed, even slept in it. But now he had come home for a longer time to be with you, as the filming for the season had ended.

When you were finally let home, the drive there was again in deafening silence. You noticed him fidgeting nervously with the steering wheel. As soon as you got home, you just planted yourself onto the sofa in the living room. Jensen joined you a moment later and both of you sat there for a while without speaking. Time seemed to move so slowly.

He finally moved a little bit closer to you, but didn't look at you when he started speaking. “Why?” His voice was completely broken, as was he himself too. “Why did you do this, Y/N?” You turned to take a closer look at him. The lines around his eyes were now more prominent than they used to. His beard was also longer than he usually kept. The overall look of him was just like there was only a shell left of the man he used to be.

“I-I just didn't want to be here without you anymore.” You finally managed to whisper. “It was too much for me.”

You couldn't turn your eyes away from him, and at last he met your gaze, his eyes seemed to be full of even more pain than before.

“Why did you let me leave then?" He asked quietly. "I told you I'd stay with you.”

“I knew you'd feel better when you'd be away from here, working. I didn't want to be the reason to keep you here.”

He scoffed. “So you opted for suicide instead of calling me home? Instead of talking to me? I'm your husband. You know I would've left anything behind for you in a heartbeat. Always, sweetheart.”

“You would've probably been fired.”

“I don't care about that! I care about you! I only left because you told me to! I asked you to come with me.” He tried to get his voice under control, not to be yelling at you, but it was without success. “You told me you were okay! You promised!” He paced around in the living room, trying to calm down.

Your voice didn't fail to match his tone. “How could I ever be okay? I lost my daughter. I will never be okay with that!”

“I lost her too. I lost my baby too.” He came to kneel in front of you.

Both you were broken, crying, letting out emotions you had kept in for so long, desperately seeking consolation from one another. “No one will ever ask us to be okay with losing her. We just have to be there for each other, but you almost left me completely alone..” he reached his hand out for your cheek. “I was so close to losing you too, do you even realize that? When I got the call, I..” he couldn't finish his sentence. You finally saw what you would've left behind if your attempt would've been successful. Your parents would've had to bury their daughter, just as you did. Jensen would've buried his daughter and wife in a span of short six months. The thought of that made you broke down again.

“I'm sorry, Jensen.” You felt the wall that kept your emotions at bay, crumble at your feet. “It's just- I feel guilty..for the accident.” You were now sobbing hard as Jensen sat next to you again. “I should’ve taken some other route or anything. I should've done something. I feel like it's all my fault.”

He pulled you up into his lap before closing his arms around you. “It was not your fault, Y/N..It was not, and you wouldn't have been able to stop it.” he sighed. You let him hold you tight and rested your head onto his shoulder. “It's hard for me to believe that.” You sniffled.

“I know I haven't been home a lot, but when was the last time you visited AJ's grave?” Jensen asked softly. You took a little time to think. You realized it had been way too long. “I can't remember.” You answered him. “I just couldn't go there alone.” You had to admit with a heavy heart.

“Let's go there together then, hm?” You only nodded against his chest.

“Honey, please look at me for a second.” He begged gently. “Please promise me that you'll never push your emotions down, because you think that would make me feel better. I never want you to feel like you have to keep your feelings in because of what would be better for me. Never. I will always be here for you. Always, because that's what I promised to you.”

You locked eyes with him and gave your promise to Jensen, as you made him promise the same to you. You were in this together, you will heal together. It wouldn't happen in a blink of an eye, but eventually you knew it would get easier. It just had to. You just had to be there for him, like he always stood beside you.

Always and forever.

Taglist (always open): @jackles010378 @cevansbaby-dove @deanwinchestersgirl87 @il0vebeingdelulu @alternativeprincess94 @suckitands33 @nescavaneck

#jacklesversebingo23 #heed the warnings #jensen ackles #jensen ackles one shot #angst #tw: death #tw: grief #tw: depression #jensen ackles x reader #spn cast #jensen ross ackles #jackles

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simplepotatofarmer · 1 year

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tw: death threats, self-harm, rape threats, suicide baiting, racism, slurs, antisemitism, transphobia, and homophobia

i'm making this post because the fact that people don't believe there's harassment happening is wild. it's been happening since the usmp was announced. it got worse when the racism issue on the qsmp happened, which i felt very strongly about speaking out on, and has honestly not stopped. so i want to give a breakdown of what's happened and what i've seen.

i had to leave for a few days to avoid the harassment. people threatened me with acts of violence, threatened my kids and my pets, people were spamming qrts with images of self-harm hidden in fancams. they called me slurs or demanded to see my tribal enrollment. even someone here on tumblr said they believed people were probably faking being indigenous. there was a ton of 'oh so now dream stans care about racism'. because they see us as dream 'stans' first and foremost. this has been a long running issue for poc in the fandom.

people have been doxxed and at least one person got the police involved because someone showed up to their house. this was one of the admins of the usmp update account, an account that was hacked and whose admins have been endlessly harassed and threatened.

i have never seen this level of harassment before and this fandom once drove me to be hospitalized.

it's bad. and it's real. the fact that people are saying things like it's fake or 'dream stans always have to be the victim' is just awful. people on here have made jokes about the very real threats of violence, doxxing, and rape threats that are being directed not just at dream and his family, including his minor sister, but his fans as well. people are being harassed and threatened with the most vile shit. there are legitimate threats. people are scared. it isn't okay.

there's no doubt that people on both sides have been cruel. none of that is okay. i've seen stuff that i absolutely do not approve of. it's never okay to harass people. point blank. there's no 'but' to that.

right now, the fact is that people are being harassed and badly. whatever you may feel about dream and his fans, these things are real and unacceptable.

under the cut is examples of what i'm talking about. not all of them as a lot of people immediately blocked people (that's what i did until i began keeping what i could):

#mctyblr #usmp #qsmp #quackity #dreamwastaken #harassment #discourse #fandom critical #please heed tw i'm beggin'

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corazondebeskar-reads · 4 months

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the art of breaking: part two

the art of breaking, part two: theory of decay

very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. this fic contains themes of abuse and extremely dark content.

words: 10k

summary: joel knows just how to make you his forever. a sequel to "the art of breaking"

warnings (new warnings in red) and story under the cut; reader discretion is advised.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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, glory hole, reader gives tommy a blowjob (joel and tommy do not touch), body modification, permanent marking, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, whipping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, vaginal, reader x other men, degradation, humiliation, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare, blink and you miss it piss "play," straight up abuse this time guys, overstimulation, forced eating, needles, voyeurism, objectification, human furniture/ashtray, cigarettes, consumption of non-food items, nipple/clit pumps, this one might be worse than the first idk sorry

Please read responsibly.

i. dessication

When he goes to work, he leaves you free to roam the house and do your chores. For shorter trips out, he tends to put you in your cage. There’s no real reason, but it keeps you in a good place. You’re always softer, quieter when he gets back and lets you out.

He couldn’t do it all the time, of course. There are things needing to be done. Plus, every day, he gets to come home to you knelt, waiting by the door with dinner kept warm. He could afford a housekeeper, but then you’d have nothing to keep your mind and body occupied when he’s away.

Of course, sometimes he leaves you chained up in the basement. He can’t always be nice, after all. And the thing he loves to come home to most, second only to you kneeling at the door, is your exhausted body still tied where he left it, bearing the marks of his latest pleasure.

Sometimes, he just leaves you in stocks to contemplate all the raw kisses from his favorite whip. Sometimes, he has you pinned to the table with a vibrator strapped to your clit for the day. On the lowest setting—he’s not a monster.

Well. It starts on the lowest setting. He can do whatever he wants with it through a handy app. It was the only way Tommy could convince him to upgrade to a smartphone.

But today, you’re just set about neatening up. Neither you nor Joel are messy— though he does have a tendency to empty his pockets wherever he’s standing—and it’s not a huge house. You finish up early and have time to read while supper’s in the oven.

You’re already kneeling when you hear the key in the door, eyes down, hands behind your back, but you have to tense up not to flinch when you hear a second pair of boots.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” drawls a voice you don’t know.

The only reason you don’t panic is because Joel’s boots enter your field of vision. You’re intimately acquainted with them—literally—and despite the fresh layer of dirt, you’d know them anywhere.

“Ooh, damn, she’s good,” says the voice.

Joel chuckles and reaches down to stroke your cheek. “Told ya.”

You melt a little against his hand, letting the pride in his voice warm you.

He rubs his thumb over your cheek and lets you press a little kiss to the digit before stepping back to take his shoes off and dump the handful of change and crumpled receipts on the foyer table. “C’mon,” he says, snapping his fingers so you know he means you, too.

You resist the urge to look at the stranger, but you don’t like the way he lingers to follow you instead of following Joel. You can feel his eyes on your exposed flesh, the dress just short enough to show off your cunt when you crawl.

No one has ever come into the house before. At least not when you’re out and about. You don’t know if Joel’s had company while you’ve been in the basement or something; you’ve never even thought about it. All you know is that it’s been a long time since you’ve seen another person.

It’s terrifying.

You go to kneel between Joel’s feet, but he stops you. “Turn around,” he says, guiding you with firm hands to face forward.

He laughs when he sees that you’re still staring very carefully at the carpet. “Y’can look at him; he ain’t gonna bite.”

The other man, who has settled in the armchair facing the couch, laughs too. “I might,” he says.

“No, you won’t.” Joel’s voice goes hard for a moment, and you don’t need to see to know he’s glaring.

It makes you feel better. So what if someone’s looking at you? Joel’s still protecting you.

He lifts your chin up so you have to look at the other man. He’s broad, though not as much as Joel, with dark curls and dark eyes that make you feel like he wants to cut you open and see how you tick.

“This is my little brother, Tommy,” Joel says. “Go tell him hello.”

“Hello,” you say quietly.

“C’mon, now, go give him a proper greeting,” Joel nudges you with his foot. You crawl over to Tommy and kneel between his legs. Your gaze darts from him to Joel, teeth worrying at your lip.

“Don’t embarrass me, girl,” Joel warns.

Tommy lifts your chin with his hand. “He wants you to suck me off. Go ahead.”

It’s nice, but it’s not his permission you need. You risk one more glance at Joel.

“You heard him. You got two seconds, sweetheart, before you’re gonna regret it,” he growls.

“You goin’ soft? You usually have ‘em trained better by now,” Tommy teases, but his words have Joel seeing red.

You sit back. “What?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, did you think you were special?” Tommy says with a nasty smirk. He pats your face. “Poor thing.”

You look at Joel, tears welling up.

“What, you think I had a house full of equipment that’s never been used? Y’should be grateful. All my toys before you had to suffer some trial and error. I got it perfected now, and you’re wasting it, being a fuckin’ disobedient bitch.”

You close your eyes tight and choke back a sob. He’s never, ever spoken to you like that before. When you turn back to Tommy, you have your mouth open wide and waiting.

He leans back. “Well? You gonna make me do all the work?”

“Can I use my hands, please?” you say, eyes darting from Tommy to Joel.

“Great, now you got her all nervous,” Tommy bitches, and Joel rolls his eyes.

“Go ahead,” Joel tells you gruffly. You’ve been so good. So obedient. Maybe he shoulda warned you that he wanted to show you off. No, he thinks, it’s not his fault. He didn’t owe you a warning. You should just accept it and obey.

You’re shaking when you tug open the button of Tommy’s jeans, fumbling with the zipper. Apparently, it takes long enough that he grunts and knocks your hand away, pulling his cock out.

It feels like a trap. Joel has not explicitly ordered you to do this. But he doesn’t usually try to trick you.

“For Christ’s sake,” Tommy snaps, and yanks you forward. You get with the program quickly, wrapping your lips around him and trying to do your best.

He’s smaller than Joel, but it’s a decent cock. Not that it matters to you. Despite not having to gag on him, you can’t breathe anyway, too preoccupied. Why is Joel doing this? Is he going to punish you for it later?

And the worst thing, the thing that keeps bouncing around your brain as you try to get Tommy off: What happened to the other girls? Did he get tired of them and kick them out?

Was he not going to keep you?

You don’t notice you’re crying, but Tommy clearly enjoys it. He moans and holds you down as he cums down your throat. You aren’t ready, though, and sputter a little, coughing and leaking his cum down your chest.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel snaps. He gets up off the couch and yanks you away from his brother by the hair. “What the hell's the matter with you today?”

“I’m sorry,” you cry.

“Shut up,” he says, and drags you out to the place you visit in most of your nightmares, despite only having been there once in reality.

The Pit.

ii. consumption

When he comes to get you in the morning, you’re wrecked. Deflated, no more tears left to pour down your cheeks. For now, at least.

The sun is against his back when he opens the gate, reaching down for you with one strong arm. Bathed in the golden light, he is every inch your savior, and when you’ve climbed out on shaky legs, you prostrate yourself at his feet the way he likes.

He’s still mad, though, so he steps one filthy boot on your head and grinds your face into the mud. He pisses on it for good measure, the hot stream dripping down your hair and face onto the soil.

He’s got a switch in one hand. With you effectively pinned in place, he wastes no time in swinging it down on your ass.

You scream and sob as he beats you. When he finally stops, when he’s drawn every bit of his anger in welts against your skin, he lifts his boot from your head and squats down.

“Why d’you have to make me do this?” He’s solemn, sorrowful.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you say, focusing on controlling the hysterical sobs wrenching from your chest.

You don’t know what will follow, so you remain still, not daring to move without an order.

“I should drop you off at a fuckin’ whorehouse,” he mutters. He pulls you up by your hair, and you scramble to your knees. “You can learn to suck who you’re told to suck.”

“Please, sir, please don’t, please—” It’s too much. You stumble, sobs wracking your body hard enough that you can’t move. You collapse in the grass with his hand still holding your head up.

He lets go, letting you fall.

You crawl to his boots and kiss them, mud be damned. It wasn’t like you weren’t covered in it anyway. “Please, sir, I’m so sorry, please don’t—” you say between sobs.

“Please don’t what? You think you’re in any position to be askin’ for anything?”

“Don’t get rid of me, please; I promise I’ll be better; I can be good.”

“I’ll think about it, if you can fuckin’ earn it.”

“Please, please let me try to earn it.”

He squats down and helps pull you to your knees in front of him, cupping your filthy face in both hands. “I don’t wanna send you away. You know I love ya. But if you can’t be good, then what’s the point, baby?”

Your sobs are subsiding out of the pure elation that comes from his gentle touch. “I’ll do anything,” you whisper.

“I know ya will. You don’t really have a choice.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna get you fed and taken care of. But you’re about to have one of the worst days of your fuckin’ life.”

You choke on a sob and sway a little. The fear and the hunger are like a fog over your brain.

“Hey. Listen t’me.” He holds your hands in one of his. “You’re gonna learn, and it’s gonna be real hard for ya. But at the end of it all— if you take it all like a good girl—you’ll be forgiven. Got it?”

You look up through tear-sodden lashes, lip quivering, and nod your head.

There’s no part of you anymore that registers an issue. No warning bells, no red flags, no hair raising.

You follow him to the bottom of the patio steps, where he nudges you to kneel back down, folding over so your face rests against the soil. You wait while he goes inside, unsure of how much time has passed until he comes back out with a plate of eggs, scrambled with cheese and little bits of sausage.

That raises some alarms. Not to the way he treats you, but more of a signal for what to expect. It’s protein-heavy, which isn’t necessarily unusual, but it smells delicious. And there’s no way you’re getting to eat that after behaving so badly.

You’re half right. He squats down next to you and scoops up a bite with the fork. You don’t take the bait; you know that’s not for you.

He moans exaggeratedly when he chews, grinning all the while. And then he scrapes the rest off the plate into the dirt in front of your face.

“Ah, ah. Not yet,” he says, and you close your eyes at the sound of his zipper being yanked down.

“You get wet from that beating earlier?” he asks.

You nod, even though he’s already reaching down between your legs and shoving his fingers in your cunt. He brings back his shiny hand and strokes his cock.

“Look at me, baby,” he says, shifting onto his knees so when you open your eyes, you’re faced with his fist pumping away at the red, angry head. “Coulda been you. Shoulda been, but bad girls don’t get what they want.”

You whimper. It really does hurt your feelings, but you know you have nothing to say for yourself.

“Open. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and get some fresh.”

You obey immediately, squeezing your eyes back shut as soon as he starts to cum. A little bit lands in your mouth, which you hold open.

“You can swallow that. But don’t eat yet.”

He walks away, puttering around on the patio. You try to work up the nerve for his command, stomach churning. Maybe it’ll still taste fine. Maybe cold semen and dirt won’t ruin it that much. Maybe.

If you hadn’t earlier, you believed him now about it being the worst day of your life. He certainly wasn’t starting out small. Sure, you’d eaten off the floor before, but inside the house. The house you clean, so you know how sanitary it is.

But thinking about doing this makes you want to cry. And when he tells you to get started, you do cry. Just a little.

“You got about six minutes,” he says, checking his phone for the time instead of the eternally broken watch on his wrist, “and there better not be a single crumb left. Get your ass up here as soon as you’re done.”

You’re not sure how long it takes you, but it must be nearly the whole six minutes, because by the time you’re knelt at his feet on the patio, he says, “Cuttin’ it damn close, sweetheart.”

He’s playing fucking Candy Crush, legs kicked out on the little wooden table in front of him. He’s got you knelt at his side, and after a few minutes, he digs into his breast pocket and hands you a smushed carton of cigarettes.

You draw one carefully out of the pack and extend it to him, letting go once he’s pinched it between his lips and pulling out the lighter. Carefully, you ignite the tip for him and tuck it back away. You go to give the carton back, but he shakes his head.

He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth to blow smoke. “Hang onto that for me. And this,” and he hands you his coffee cup.

It’s not the first time he’s used you as a table. He tried using you as a footrest but found it less satisfying. You try to sit and work through your nerves, try to ignore the terror that he might not keep you if you can’t endure the day.

It’s a good thing that he drained you of any concept of dignity long ago, cut you open, and let it ooze away like pus from an infection.

“Open,” he says absently, not bothering to look away from his game.

Your eyes and mouth snap open, and he taps the cigarette against your lip, letting the ash fall onto your tongue. You jerk back a little but correct it immediately.

He quirks an eyebrow. “I’ll give ya a pass this time. But keep your mouth open, tongue out, and don’t fucking swallow.”

He’s clearly happy to spend the afternoon like this. He goes through a second cigarette and still doesn’t let you swallow or spit. Your knees ache from the planks of the deck.

He gets up and goes inside for a few minutes, taking his empty coffee cup with him. You don’t dare drop your position, though.

When he comes back out, he hands you a bottle of beer, condensation already dripping. He resettles to watch the game on his phone.

Anything resembling hope is trickling out. He hates watching things on the little screen, peering at it through his glasses. But he never smokes inside the house, so he’s resigned himself to this for the sake of your punishment.

It makes you feel less than the ash on your tongue.

By the time it’s over, your mouth has long gone dry, itching with the ash of four cigarettes, when he stands up and stretches. He leans down and holds your chin before spitting in your mouth.

“There ya go. Swallow.”

And you do. When you cough a little as the ashes cling to your dry throat, he pries your mouth back open and spits again.

It helps a little.

iii. dismemberment

You’d only been in the Pit once before. The first time was arguably your worst offense, which was good, Joel thought, that you still hadn’t topped that misbehavior.

But as glad as you are that it hasn’t happened a lot, it means you don’t really know what to expect. When he brings you into the ensuite, you know this routine enough that you kneel on the shower floor, barely flinching when he turns only the cold tap, and the faucet sputters to life.

He never gets in until you’re shivering, so while he gathers fresh clothes and towels, you scrub the mud from your body. When he checks and finds you satisfactory, he turns the knobs until the water runs warm.

Your shivers don’t subside for a few more minutes, though. Not until you’re practically done cleaning him with the spongey loofah. Hot tears burn in the corners of your eyes, though only a few slip loose.

When he turns around and takes it from you, you thank him for letting you wash him.

He gives you a smile, hand cupping your cheek.

“Of course, baby. Don’t worry. I’m going to help you remember how to be my good girl.”

But first, before he can follow up on the threat, he washes the mud and piss from your hair with gentle hands, massaging your scalp. You hold still, head tipped back, and let the tears come harder.

He notices but doesn’t comment. It’s normal now, when he takes care of you after a hard punishment. Or, in this case, in the middle of one.

You go to speak, to pour out your regrets and devotion, but he shushes you.

“I want you quiet ‘till I say otherwise,” he says. “Nothin’ outta you unless it’s an emergency. Got it?”

You nod, and he helps you to your feet, drying you with a soft towel and taking care around the raised welts on your ass. There will be some nasty bruises tomorrow, but when isn’t there? Your tits have mottled spots of yellow fading, and the shape of Joel’s hand around your throat basically never leaves.

He gives your raw, burning skin a sharp smack, sending you off to put on the dress he’s laid out for you.

He tells you nothing, just leads you to the truck. The drive is quiet, apart from the crooning voice on the radio. It’s a bit of a drive, and you park in a broken-up lot surrounded by rusty chainlink fence. He grabs your hand and takes you across the street to a dilapidated building. A cheap banner is tacked above one of the doors.

Joel hands a bill to a man, who opens the door just enough for you to squeeze in. It doesn’t take long to figure out where you are.

“Been a while since I brought you someplace nice, baby. Hope you like it, ‘cause we’re gonna be here most of the night.”

That’s the understatement of your life. He hasn’t taken you out of the house in over a year. You’re not sure you remember how to exist away from home, clinging to his arm as he leads you through the club.

You can’t decide what will be worse, but you don’t have to wonder for long when he drags you around to an empty stall. He’s not there to use a hole. You’re there to be one.

He clips your collar to the wall with just enough slack that you could pull back to breathe if the person on the other side doesn’t let you.

He takes the ring gag out of his pocket and dangles it in front of you. “You need this, or are ya gonna be good?”

“I’ll be good,” you say immediately, a phantom ache in the hinge of your jaw.

“You sure? ‘Cause if you have to ask later or I have to make that decision myself, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper.

“Good.” He pats the side of your face, two sharp smacks in lieu of a caress. There will be no softness for you tonight.

He waits to talk to you until your mouth is full. You look miserable, but you don’t hesitate. It’s not to the standard he’d usually require, but you’re both aware of the hours ahead, so he lets you pace yourself.

He crouches down near you. “You like that? Some random dirty prick in your throat?”

You, of course, can’t answer, but your eyes close against the hurt.

“It’s fucking disgusting. You think I want to let just anyone use you? I could fuck any hole I want. I could go out there and have every cunt and ass and mouth. You know why I won’t?”

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t try to answer, don’t stop what you’re doing.

“Because they ain’t you, sweetheart. You’re my perfect girl. Nicest I’ve ever had. And if I got something this nice, and I don’t share it with my brother? You don’t even suck him off right? How do you think that made him feel, baby?”

He keeps it up, past the point where he feels like carrying on, but he can tell it’s wearing you down faster than the relentless facefucking. You’re starting to work your jaw, joints popping in between visitors, but even that doesn’t compare to the way you’ve started to shake when he’s scolding you.

“I know you’re tired, baby. I hope you remember this fuckin’ lesson because I’m not sacrificing two nights of sleep again to repeat it.”

You whimper around the stranger’s cock, which encourages them to fuck into you harder. But Joel knows the tears in your eyes aren’t from that.

“Yeah, you were bein’ selfish, huh? I couldn’t fuckin’ sleep with you out there, and now I’m up all night with you here.”

There it was, he thought, watching you break. A little too early; it was going to be tough to keep you going. But nothin’ did you in like the thought of having hurt him in the process.

And it was true. He never slept with someone out in The Pit. Too fuckin dangerous. He kept watch on a camera. He needed you scared and sorry, not dead.

He watches as you choke down the stranger’s seed, looking like you might retch. He shuts the little sliding door for a few minutes and gives you some water. After you’ve rehydrated and seem a little less green, he opens it back up.

“Alright, get ready for the next round.”

In the truck on the way home, he keeps you tucked close to his side. Between the dark, empty highway and his coat wrapped around you, you start to doze off.

He nudges you a little. “None of that now. Ain’t finished with you yet.”

You whimper, not in protest but in exhaustion. Despite how hard you try to fight it, you’re fast asleep when he pulls into the driveway.

He thinks about waking you up anyway, to follow through on his word. He carries you inside and up to the bedroom, still deliberating, but when he tries to set you down on the bed, you cling to him desperately, even in your sleep. He manages to wriggle the coat off you and lays down beside you. He’ll just let you both rest for a little while.

You wake up, mid-afternoon, shaking all over. Joel awakens moments later, eyes wide as he tugs on your arm to roll you over.

“Oh, baby,” he says, and moves to get out of the bed. “Knew I shouldn’t have let you go to sleep.”

But you grab onto him, lip trembling.

He knocks your hand away. “I‘ll be right back, jus’ hold on.”

You’re curled into yourself, sobbing, when he gets back three minutes later.

He hands you a water bottle anyway. “Sit up; you need to eat. It’ll help.”

Somehow, you find the strength to struggle and wriggle your body into sitting. He brings you to lean against his chest while he leans against the headboard.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, a kiss pressed to your head.

You start crying hard all over again.

“I know. M’sorry. I should have talked to ya last night, huh? S’that what you’re all worked up about?”

You nod. There you are, sitting in his bed, when you hadn’t fucking earned it. But he doesn’t shove you off or hurt you for it; he just feeds you a protein bar and lets you sip at the water between bites.

After he’s given you the last of the bar, he has you slide down to your knees by the side of the bed.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I disobeyed and embarrassed you.”

“I didn’t ask you what you did wrong.”

“Oh,” you say softly, and have to think. “I didn’t understand, at first. That you wanted me to suck his cock.”

“And after you did?”

“I—” you don’t want to say it. You know he’s going to be mad. He doesn’t like when you question things like this.

“Is this because Tommy said you weren’t special? ‘Cause you know better.”

“No, I just… why did you get rid of the others? What did they do?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, and cups your face in one hand. “I don’t think that’s anything you gotta worry about. Not anymore.”

“But how will I know how to do better?”

“You already are. None of ‘em ever made it this far. They talked big talk but couldn’t back it up. Some of ‘em didn’t want to give up the things you have, some of ‘em couldn’t handle my expectations. I told you, you’re the nicest thing I’ve ever had. You’ve let me make you exactly the way I want you to be.”

“Even though I was so bad the other night?”

“Yep. Because you took every consequence, and I know you’ve learned your lesson. And you’ll probably fuck up again someday. But if you keep wantin’ to be better, I’ll keep teachin’ ya.”

You can’t help but cry again. You’re so tired and so tired of crying.

“What, were you worried I was gonna replace you with some new young thing someday?”

You nod, and he clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“I’m gettin’ old, sweetheart. I don’t want to keep breakin’ in toys that ain’t worth my time. I just finished puttin’ you back together exactly the way I like ya. You stay my good girl, and you’ll be mine ‘till I die.”

It doesn’t stop your tears.

“Hey,” he says. “What do you need?”

It startles you. “What?”

“What do you need? What’s gonna make you feel better, baby?”

You’re not sure when the last time you’ve had to think about something like that is. He’s been taking care of you for so long now.

“Whatever you want,” you say.

“No, baby, that’s not what I’m asking.”

“That’s my answer, though,” you realize. “I need to feel whatever you want me to.”

“God damn,” he whispers. “I fucked you up, huh?”

Your lip trembles.

“No, baby, I didn’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just kinda incredible. Jesus. How could you think I’d ever get rid of you? There’s not a fuckin’ bit of you that isn’t mine.”

Your cheeks burn, so you bury your face into his palm and press a kiss to the center.

“You want to know what I want, is that right?”

You nod.

“I wanna fuck your pretty little mouth. And then I want to order us some fuckin’ takeout and eat it in the bath.”

It makes you smile just a little.

“Yeah? That sound good, baby?” His thumb rubs against your cheek.

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, open up for me.”

You wrangle yourself into position. The initial weight and taste of him sends warmth through your bones for the first moment since he dragged you outside.

It’s sloppy, the way he fucks your throat, in a way it usually isn’t. It’s always messy, but his thrusts are erratic. You can’t keep up with his pace because there simply isn’t one. It’s not long before he’s holding you down and pumping his cum down your throat.

It trickles down and cleanses everything in its path. You’re lighter, like you can breathe again. You thank him sweetly, pressing a kiss to his twitching cock.

He’s panting, but strokes your cheek with one hand. “That’s my good girl. Feel better now that I washed all those other guys outta your mouth?”

Technically, he had done that last night, had shoved three soap-covered fingers in your mouth in the gross club bathroom. Wretchedly, it had the side effect of making you nauseous, and he had insisted on doing it over after you threw up.

But this felt more pure to him, more consecrational in a way. The soap might have cleared the actual evidence away, but his come was your wine and wafer.

“Yes, sir,” you say into the flesh of his thigh where your head rests. You kiss there for good measure, eliciting a pleased hum from him that sends you preening a little.

He lays back on the bed, leaving a hand on the top of your head to stroke your hair while the other gropes around for his phone. “What do you want, baby? Lo mein?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

He feeds you noodles in the bath and then eats you out until you fall asleep.

iv. reduced to bone

You’re on your knees in the basement, bent forward over a metal pipe placed at just the right height to nestle into your hips and keep them tilted up in the air. Stocks hold your head and wrists in place, tits hanging just below. The wood is slowly dampening as you drool around the ring gag.

“Got a surprise for you, baby,” he had said when he led you down. “You know how you keep beggin’ me to hurt you worse, and I have to keep tellin’ you I’m not tryin' to wear you out?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Well, I think you’re going to like this.”

That had been… well, you’re not entirely sure. A while ago, maybe, but your brain wasn’t the best judge of time right now. After he had secured you here, he had dragged out the little machine. It’s sitting under your torso somewhere, thin clear tubing stretching out like a web he’d caught you in.

There’s no noise but the hum of it, which you’ve gone pleasantly numb to. The pressure is unending, each nipple and your clit being tugged into the tiny cups relentlessly.

It tingles, just on the side of too gentle to be fulfilling on its own. That’s okay. You’re pretty sure you’ll be in delicious, mind-shattering agony soon.

This you know because, well, it’s Joel, but also because of the tools he’s laid out on the little wheeled cart and left for you to stare at.

A thin cane. Clover clamps with a length of chain. A tawse with a tapered, pointy tip. A wand.

It makes you dizzy to look at.

Also, you know because it’s a Friday night. Joel enjoys you however he likes any day of the week, but he’s careful about saving the deepest of his cruelties for Fridays. Because mind-shattering wasn’t really an exaggeration. When he gets like this, you sometimes don’t surface enough to take care of yourself for a day or two.

On those occasions, he never leaves you alone. Doesn’t want to, both because he loves when you need him that deeply and because you’re so soft and pliant. Truthfully, he thinks he could do anything to you then and you’d thank him for it.

Which is why he’s got Tommy coming over tomorrow. It’s not that he thinks you need to be out of it to avoid a repeat of last time. He knows you learned your lesson and you’ll be good.

But he’s got something special in mind that he needs help with. It’ll just be easier for everyone if you’re at your most agreeable.

And yeah, you owe Tommy a blowjob. One of the ones that make Joel feel like he mighta died and somehow gotten through the pearly gates by the grace of your devotion.

Plus, he’s pretty sure you’re going to love his plan, and he wants you unprepared, so you’ll cry real pretty and be truly desperate to show him your appreciation. It’s been on his mind since that night a few months back when you didn’t seem to believe him about never letting you go.

He’s never fucking letting you go. There’s nothing in this world that could take you from him. He’s made sure of it.

Sometimes, he has to remind himself that you don’t know you’re married.

He thought about telling you that night, so you’d understand the depth of the commitment he’s made. But he doesn’t want you to take it the wrong way. Doesn’t want you thinking you need to act like a wife .

He’d had a whole bucket of bullshit cooked up to excuse it, but when he told you to sign the paper, you hadn’t questioned it. Hadn’t questioned that you couldn’t see what it was, only the line where he pointed. You’d signed the fucking paper and never asked a goddamn thing.

He was glad. He didn’t like lying to you. This was just one of those hoops to jump through in a world that didn’t understand what you shared.

When he comes back down, your eyes are already glazed over. Your body shines with a thin layer of sweat, and your chest is heaving as you squirm. It’s gone beyond gentle. The waves of suction have you whimpering soft and high, barely louder than a breath, but nearly constant.

He chuckles and strolls over, crouching down to wipe the sweat off your brow with the bandana from his pocket before it gets in your eyes. You give him a truly pathetic look, eyes wide as you drool helplessly.

“Not so nice now, huh?”

You whine.

He strokes your cheek with an exaggerated pout before sliding two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on the back of your tongue. It tries to curl around them, eliciting another cruel laugh.

“Jesus, girl. S’there anything that would stop ya from gagging for my cock?”

You shake your head. Even if you weren’t spread by the ring gag and choking on his fingers, you’re beyond speech. Too far deep.

Joel actually doesn’t mind when you talk. He’s got no rules restricting your speech (well, most of the time). As long as you’re respectful, he likes the company.

But he really likes when you go quiet like this. When he’s pushed you so far that you can’t .

“Look at you, all worked up. We haven’t even gotten started, baby. You gonna be able to take it?”

You nod, whining, and he pulls his fingers out of your mouth and wipes them on your cheek.

“What was that, baby? Couldn’t quite understand ya.”

Tears spring to your eyes as you whine again.

“I’m just teasin’,” he says and kisses your forehead. “I got ya. I know you’re gonna be my good girl and take everything I fuckin’ want.”

He reaches down and tugs the tubing until the cups pop free of your breasts. You cry out, but it turns into a desperate moan when he tugs the one off your clit.

Yeah, he coulda turned the pump off first so they just fell off, but where’s the fun in that?

He’s grinning wickedly as he reaches back up to your breast. He barely, just barely, brushes over the side of your nipple, and the sound you make goes right to his cock.

“Fuck, you’re so swollen.” He has to remind himself he’s playing the long game; he just wants to pinch and pull so badly. He’s pretty sure you’ll scream, even though normally it wouldn’t be much at all.

But he wants to fuckin’ torture you tonight, so he’s going to drag it out. He wants you incoherent and beaten down when he’s done, so far gone you’ll stay there for days.

So he’s gotta start soft. He drags his fingertip around your areola, not quite brushing the nipple but tracing the ring left behind by the cup. You twitch, shoulders jerking back, and he grips your breast.

“None of that, now,” he croons, letting go and switching sides to torment your other breast.

It’s holy, in that way you never quite understood. Not like the Jesus kind, though you never were much for church either, but in the way that people chase salvation through empty bottles and sharp needles.

With the wand and the tawse, he breaks you down again and again and again. But that’s the thing about Joel. He reduces you to pain or pleasure or the delicious apex of both that brews between your thighs, and then he cleans you back up, puts the pieces back where he likes them.

He makes you come until you cry, and then, when you’re sobbing and exhausted, that’s when the night really begins. You’re twitching and jerking at the barest contact, writhing with every snap of the cane.

It’s so, so good. Until it isn’t. But he’s running that damn mouth of his, that sweet, filthy mouth, and you can’t not take it. Your tears are gone, all run out; he likes to wring you dry. And he keeps rubbing his hand over your hypersensitive flesh, already raw and ruined, and murmuring soft words and sweet taunts.

“Look at you,” he croons. “My pretty little toy. You’re so beautiful, suffering for me like this, baby.”

And so you do. You suffer for him. There’s nothing left in your little subby brain right now but Joel Joel Joel.

You’re dry. He almost can’t believe it. The only time you’ve not been a sloppy, soaking mess was when he broke your finger.

He whistles low and slow. “Shit, baby. Guess you have some limits after all, huh.”

It’s impressive that you can even lift your head enough to shake it weakly. An overwhelming fondness washes over him.

“ Aw. Takin’ it for me anyway, were ya?” He comes around and squats near your head, unhooking the gag and easing it out of your mouth. He rubs gentle circles on the hinges of your jaw as you whimper.

“Did so good for me, baby. Lemme get you outta there, and I’ll give you my cock.”

You shake your head, tears spilling over, but you don’t have a voice. The words don’t come together in your mind, just devastation.

His grip turns tight, forcing you to look at him. “No? You tellin’ me no?”

You shake your head again, lip quivering.

“You don’t want my cock?”

You shake your head harder and try to reach for him, hands flexing where they’re bound in the stocks. Trying to make him see just how bad you want his cock.

Luckily, he understands that much. “You wanna stay there? Baby, my knees ain’t gonna like fuckin’ you here.” But he can tell from the way your face crumples that he still isn’t quite getting it.

“Are you tryin’ to tell me you want me to keep goin’?”

You nod and he slaps you, a sharp strike that catches you by surprise.

“Stupid girl,” he says, scowling, and gripping your chin tightly between his thumb and forefinger. “I decide when we’re done. The whole point of this was not to ruin ya. This ain’t a punishment. Well, it wasn’t. Might be, next time.”

He stands up, shaking his head. “Dumb fuckin’ cunt.”

It hurts worse than the cane did.

When he sees the heartbreak on your face, he sighs. “Ah, shit. Look, I know you’re just tryin’ to please me. But you’re makin’ me feel bad for tryin’ to be careful with ya. If I take it too far today, you won’t be able to take as much anymore. I ain’t breakin’ you.”

You’re sobbing too hard to respond, but you don’t try to argue or struggle when he releases you. You crawl to lay kisses to the toes of his boots and nuzzle your cheek against them.

He sees it for the apology it is.

v. parched to dust

This time, when Tommy Miller takes out his cock in front of you, you’re ready. And there’s no way in hell you’re disappointing Joel again, so you wrap your lips around him, not quite eagerly but with enough determination that no one could fault you.

When you drag the second consecutive orgasm from him, he tugs you away with a fist in your hair, panting and gasping. Joel swats his hand away and beckons you back to his lap.

“ Jesus,” Tommy finally says, tucking himself back into his jeans.

“Told ya it was just a bad day,” Joel snipes.

“Sorry,” Tommy says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shoulda figured. It’s just… you’re a little soft for her, yeah?”

“Course I am. But I’m not soft on her.”

You know he loves you. You do. But hearing him admit that he’s soft for you makes your chest ache.

“Got another surprise for ya, baby,” Joel says, rubbing his hand over your back.

You’re overwhelmed. It’s not that he doesn’t give you things or do things for you; it’s that it’s never such a big deal. It just is . He takes care of you. That’s how this works. Not gifts and surprises.

You bite your lip so you don’t question it, but he sees through you.

“Now I know you don’t remember. D’you even know what day it is?”

“Saturday,” you say. “You’re home.”

He shakes his head, but it’s betrayed by the smirk. “You’re right, baby. But what’s the date?”

You actually have to think for a minute. You hadn’t crossed off the calendar this morning like you usually did, and yesterday’s activities have you a little rattled. “It’s um, it’s August 19th?”

“That’s our anniversary, baby.”

Your brows scrunch as you try to think back. That’s not right. Your first date was in February. You moved in sometime early in June. You’re not sure what his metric is, but August doesn’t make sense. “Um. Are you… are you sure?”

He doesn’t get mad like you thought he might. He just laughs. “Course, I’m sure, baby. It was the night we came home from your folks’. When you agreed to be mine.”

Your face heats. “I’m sorry—”

“Y’ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry about, baby. I didn’t expect ya to remember. But you’ve been mine for two years now, and you’re still worried I ain’t gonna keep you. But I’ve been thinkin’, and I know how to prove it to you.”

If this doesn’t convince you, he thinks, nothing will. Never mind that his whole goddamn life revolves around you. Never mind that you’ve worn his collar for the last 731 fuckin’ days.

You’re busy wondering why he made you suck another man’s cock today if he cares about your anniversary. But then again, you’ve long accepted that what he wants won’t always make sense. It’s not your job to make it make sense. It’s just your job to do it.

“C’mon, let’s go downstairs,” he says.

You swallow hard around the sudden fear, and he laughs.

“What? Had enough yesterday?”

“No, sir,” you say. It’s mostly the truth. Mostly.

He shakes his head. “Not today. C’mon.”

Now that he moves, you follow.

Tommy’s already in the basement, which almost gives you pause, if only because his movement startles you.

Joel has you hop up on the padded table instead of the metal one, typically a sign that either you’re going to be here for a well-extended time or that he’s going to fuck you on it.

Tommy’s setting things you don’t recognize out on the little cart, but you don’t try very hard to look. Looking makes your breathing get a little ragged, so you look at Joel instead.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, bending slightly to give you a kiss before he begins to slowly circle the table, fastening straps over your body.

He’s left the dress on, which is weird, too, but you’re not complaining. It’s always a little chilly down here and even though you know you shouldn’t, you’re glad he’s not made you bare yourself completely in front of Tommy.

It’s a lot of straps. You watch curiously, if not a little dazed, as he secures your ankles, thighs, stomach, chest both above and below your breasts, arms in three places, neck, and head.

The one around your neck clips to your collar, not adding another band or choking you. But you’re unable to lift your head and neck at all.

When he’s done with the strap across your forehead, he smooths away the worry lines that crease beneath it.

“Just need ya to hold real still. You’re probably going to like this, but don’t fuckin’ come.”

“Yes, sir.” Your eyes are wide and worshipful as you wait for further commands.

“Be real good for Tommy, okay?”

Your heart pounds in your throat, but you promise immediately.

He hops up to sit on the spanking bench nearby.

“Where first?” Tommy says.

“Hip,” Joel says, settling in to watch.

Tommy goes about his business and pulls the bottom halves of the table apart, wrenching your legs open slowly. He spreads them wide and slides a stool over, situating himself right up by your cunt, and flips the hem of your dress up over your belly button.

You whimper and try to look at Joel for any indication of how you’re supposed to behave, but the restraints don’t allow enough wiggle room.

Something cold smears across the front of your left hip, and, much to Joel’s surprise, you break. You’re still raw in more than one way from the previous day.

“Please, sir,” you blurt, lip trembling and eyes squeezed tight.

He hops down, brow furrowed, and comes closer, raising a hand to Tommy to pause him.

He cups your face. “Please, what, baby?” His other hand rubs up and down your side.

You force your eyes open to look at him, blurred through waiting tears.

“Please, can I have a gag?” you say. Your eyes are scrunched, and fists clenched.

He strokes his hand over your cheek. “‘Course you can. Good girl.”

The praise keeps you calm while he steps away. When he comes back, you open your mouth wide, and he settles it between your lips.

You nearly cry in relief when you feel the little bulb press inside, not much different than the head of his cock. A few tears spill over when he leans down to kiss your forehead.

“Atta girl, he says, pinching your chin before returning to his perch.

The warmth of his touch lingers, and you let the pressure of the gag distract you from where Tommy starts to move again. You suck on it steadily, eyes fluttering shut when you feel the unmistakable scrape of a blade across your hip.

Shaving. He’s shaving you. You can’t fathom why, with only peach fuzz reaching there. And you think maybe it’d be a cold day in hell before Joel let anyone shave your pubic hair. He liked it kept trimmed but not too neat.

“I’m from the seventies, baby. Women’re supposed to have a nice healthy bush,” he had told you fairly early on when you were just dating. He hadn’t told you to stop shaving and waxing, but of course, you had.

Warm water washes over the area with a washcloth not far behind. Tommy’s firm hand does a final sweep with something cold.

“Alright, honey,” Tommy says, his voice almost seeming fond , “just hold still and be a good girl, okay?”

As if you’d do anything else.

You startle a little at the loud buzz that kicks up, and Tommy rubs gloves fingers over the opposite hip for just a moment.

And then he gets to work. It hurts . But the pain clues you into what’s going on, and you come to the only logical conclusion: Joel’s having you tattooed.

You start to cry, the feeling of being loved and owned overwhelming. You don’t hear Joel’s chuckle, buried as it gets under the gun in Tommy’s hands.

You thought it was overly cautious of him earlier, to worry about you having an orgasm during anything involving Tommy. But you get it now. The pain itself is bearable, almost delicious, but the rush of euphoria in your veins from the mere concept is intoxicating.

It goes on and on. Maybe it’s only half an hour. Maybe it’s four. The pain cycles, fading to a soothing heat before building back up to a scald.

You don’t realize it’s over right away. The buzz of the gun plays on in your brain even when the room falls quiet. And Tommy’s doing something to it, probably wiping it down, but your skin still rages.

Joel hops down and comes over to the side of your left leg. “Shit, that’s fuckin’ gorgeous,” he says to his brother.

“Looks damn good. Hey, she’s got a real pretty pussy, huh?” He says, elbowing Joel. “S’funny, watchin’ her leak all over.”

Joel peers over, running a finger over your cunt, and laughs. “Knew you’d like that,” he says.

You whimper.

He pulls out his phone and snaps a photo. “Want to see, baby?” He asks though he’s already turning the screen to you.

The skin is red and irritated, but the ink takes your breath away. In shiny black, right there on your hip, sits a blocky “JM” surrounded by a circle. It looks like a fucking brand.

Your eyes fly to his, whining desperately and praying he understands. A sly grin spreads across his face, and the tip of his middle finger traces oh so gently up your slit.

“Come for me, baby,” he says, not bothering to touch you further. He knows you won’t need it.

Vision blacking out, you writhe uselessly against the restraints as the pleasure batters through you. You’re only vaguely aware that the loud keening sound is coming from you, but it’ll register later when you feel the raw ache in your throat.

Tommy whistles. “Sorry I doubted you, princess.”

You whine through the aftershocks, tears welling up again at the thought of the tattoo. You hope Tommy would leave so Joel will fuck you.

Then you remember him asking, “Where first?” just as Tommy drags his stool around to the right side of your torso.

Joel comes with him, rolling up his sleeves and tinkering with something on the cart. They both touch your arm a lot, fingers roving and adjusting you. You start to tune it out until Tommy lathers a spot on the inside of your wrist.

Once it’s been shaved and cleaned, someone presses something against the spot for a moment.

“Well?” Joel says.

“Lines look clear to me,” Tommy says. He’s leaning close to your arm.

Joel doesn’t walk away this time. As the gun kicks back to life, he stays with his hand resting on your upper arm, looming over Tommy’s shoulder.

It’s easier this time, now that you know what to expect. It hurts, but you’ve had worse and probably will again. You’re feeling a bit too dizzy, though, when it finally stops.

“This one’s for you to see,” Joel says, starting to unlatch the straps. He frees your arm first and then your head and neck, plus the gag. The ache makes itself known as soon as you shift a little.

You peer immediately at your wrist, and a strange clenching tears through your chest. A few inches below your palm lays the dark outline of Joel’s thumbprint.

“Oh,” you whisper, a strange tingling spreading through your limbs. “Oh.”

“Knew you’d like it,” he says, lips curling into a smug smirk.

Once you’re untethered, he peels your dress off so the fabric won’t brush against your hip.

“There’s a protein bar and a bottle of water on the coffee table,” Joel says. “Go eat and wait by my chair.”

You’re swaying a little but he helps you down and makes sure you can stay on your feet before he removes his hands from your waist.

You make your way upstairs in a daze. Truthfully, you don’t really remember it. When they come upstairs, you’re knelt in your place, wrapper and empty bottle on the table.

“Good girl,” Joel says, lowering himself with a little groan into his recliner. He shifts around and pulls his cock out. “C’mere.”

You hop up immediately, and he takes you by the waist to help you settle where he’s fully hard already.

“Don’t move,” he says, to your great disappointment. “None of that,” he scolds at your pout. “It’s my turn. Just relax.”

Tommy sets the gun and equipment up to the side of the chair. You settle against Joel’s chest, snuggling in and resting your head on his shoulder so you can watch.

Joel’s other hand, the one not waiting in place, comes up to cup the back of your head. He bends his head down to kiss where he can reach. “You’re being so good. Just a little bit more, and then you can take this cock.”

“Do not come on her tattoo, Joel,” Tommy says.

Joel laughs, but Tommy smacks his arm. “I’m serious. It’ll fuck it up and probably infect it. Don’t fuckin’ do it.”

“I’ll wait ‘till it’s healed, don’t worry.”

You moan and clench around him at the idea, which only encourages his pleased chuckling.

Tommy takes your hand, peeling it from where it rested against Joel’s chest, idly brushing through the hair there. You let him, letting it go limp and unresistant.

He presses your thumb against an ink pad and pushes it down on a piece of paper, rolling it carefully. He repeats the process a few times before he’s satisfied. Wiping it clean, he coats it one more time before pressing it against Joel’s wrist.

You stare, rapt, as he traces the lines of your fingerprint onto Joel’s thick arm, framed by dark hair. It sits in parallel to the watch on his other wrist.

“Where d’you want these?” Tommy says after he’s wrapped up and started to pack away the equipment. He’s holding the papers where they tested your print.

“The safes. One in each office,” Joel says.

It’s weird, certainly, but so is Joel, so you don’t give it much thought.

He’s cradling your face in his palm, looking at you with something so tender and ferocious that you can’t possibly look away. He thrusts up into you, his other hand tight on the hip opposite the tattoo.

It hurts, but, well, you don’t mind.

The way he fucks you open now is slow, cruel after making you sit still for so long, but he’s savoring it. Savoring the way you can’t help but stare at him in worshipful bliss. It’s like a drug, the way his attention makes you hazy. He’s got you hooked, addicted, right where he wants you. His.

Not a damn part of you that isn’t.

The smirk curls across his face, and his hand curls around your neck, abandoning the gentle caress for something you both understand as love. You come on his cock when he tells you, every time he tells you, as he leaves you gasping and clutching his forearm, not prying him away but holding on as the room spins.

When he fills you, he kisses you deeply, hand back around your throat as his mouth takes the rest of your air. You collapse against his chest when he lets go, and he holds you there with a smug, satiated smile and a soft kiss to the top of your head.

You doze in and out in his lap as he and Tommy share a bottle of bourbon.

“Damn, I shoulda brought Daisy over. You haven’t had someone for her to play with in a while,” you hear Tommy say through the fog of your brain.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Joel says. His hand is scratching at your scalp and it feels so good you almost forget Tommy is talking.

“... my wife and your little pet—” he’s saying.

You don’t mean to open your eyes, but you catch his as soon as you do. He laughs. “Yeah, I got a wife. I’m not as mean as my brother, here.”

You find that hard to believe, but also, you don’t really think of Joel as mean. He’s strict, sure, and he has high expectations. But he takes such good care of you, and you want for nothing.

The phrase stirs something odd in your head. Do you want for nothing? Well, it’s at least partially true. You don’t want anything, not a thing you have or don’t have. You’re happy with whatever Joel gives.

It’s probably the same thing. Besides, you wanted that career; you wanted to put on a face, a mask, and pretend to be someone who gave a shit about the company’s reputation. And you were wrong, so wrong. And Joel’s always been right. So what do you know about what you want?

Joel’s rumbling voice startles you a little where you’re tucked against his chest. “She was one ‘a mine, y’know,” he says to you.

Tommy’s wearing a sly grin. “Yeah, until you scared the shit out of her,” he says, laughing. “Poor little thing didn’t know what to do with herself.”

“She wasn’t like you,” Joel says. He waits as if he expects a reaction, but you don’t stir from your safe place in his arms.

“Nah, not everyone’s as fucked up as y’all,” Tommy says. “I ain’t a sadist,” he says to you, a glint in his eye. “Don’t get me wrong, I do love puttin’ her in her place, but mostly, I just like havin’ my pretty little wife at home.”

Joel’s watching you; you can feel the heft of his gaze. But you’re so blissed out, so calm right here in his lap, dripping his seed slowly around where his cock still fills you.

“Would that bother you? Playin’ with a girl who used to be Joel’s?” Tommy goads.

You think about it for a moment. “She ever get his mark?”

Tommy grins, teeth like a shark. “Nope.”

You hum, unbothered, and nuzzle your cheek against Joel.

“Attagirl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head. “Knew you’d learn this time.”

You gaze at his thumbprint on your arm. The cells around it will grow and die, but not his claim on you.

It’s almost comforting, you think, that by the time that fades, there’ll be nothing left of you anyway.

bonus: the art of breaking playlist

thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who asked for a part two and expressed love for the first. I will admit I am INCREDIBLY nervous to publish this both because it's kind of fucked up but also because so many of you loved the first part and I'm scared this won't live up to your expectations.

please, if you enjoyed this, let me know! soothe my anxiety lol. and if you don't want to publically do so, anon is always on.

i love you!

#dead dove fic #dark!joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #dark fic #dddne #tw non con #READ THE WARNINGS #HEED THE WARNINGS #fic: the art of breaking

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