#HOW. part of him still sees himself as undeserving of all the love and care he gives to other people | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

corazondebeskar-reads · 4 months

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

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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thelov3lybookworm · 8 days

Text

Tolerate It (Part 2)

Part 1

Summary: Everyting will be okay.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: shes a lil small, but shes here hehe

(also creds to @mybestfriendmademe for giving me the idea for the part about fights and silence 🥹😚)

enjoy!

Azriel had never been given the love a child should have received, and maybe that was the reason he thought himself undeserving of it.

Maybe it was his ugly hands and the way he knew that those hands would taint the beautiful, pure skin of his mate.

Whatever it was, he knew he had fucked up when he returned home to find the house empty, the usual warmth and happy aura that he had gotten used to being gone, the house now back to the desolate place it had been before she came along to light it up.

Azriel had realised how much of an ass he'd been to his mate the moment he left, and then decided that he would apologise and explain his behaviour when he returned home that night.

But then the house was empty, and the whole place void of the things that made him want to call it home, so Azriel had simply sighed, knowing he was at fault as he turned and flew to the river house.

Of course, his sister in law had glared holes into his back the entire time he had been begging Rhys to disclose Y/n's location, and even Rhys looked disgusted with his brother.

Defeated, Azriel knew she would not be found unless she wanted to be, so he decided to return and wait it out.

Just before he left the River house, he ordered his shadows to go search the whole of Velaris for Y/n.

"Leave her alone. Let her think this through. You fucked up brother, now let her decide if she wants to forgive you."

Azriel ignored Rhysand, taking off towards the home he used to share with her, now nothing but four walls and a roof to him.

He knew he fucked up, he didn't need anyone to tell him that.

But still, no one left him be. No one let him wallow in his self hatred and pity.

They made it worse by fucking caring for him.

Cassian would visit Azriel, yell and fight, but then leave him food to eat because Azriel was so busy beating himself up over his actions that he had forgotten to eat anything.

Nesta would visit, starting to clean around the house without a word, and when Azriel would try to stop her, she would just glare at him and say the same few words. She did not like untidiness. I'm doing it for her.

Rhys had also stopped sending Azriel on missions, so that didn't help in any way considering Azriel had nothing to occupy his time with, ensuring him feeling guilty all the damn time.

Her silence made him curse himself more. Being an Illyrian, he was used to fights and arguments, but he wasn't used to being ignored. You either fought it out, or you killed in the camps. There was no other choice.

The quiet was too loud for Azriel, to the point he was convinced he was going mad.

It had been almost a week of him either staring up at his ceiling, wanting to just die, or bawling his eyes out in the bathtub, because then no one would see the tears that escaped his eyes.

Once again, Azriel could not help but think of how if he had just opened up to Y/n, let himself be vulnerable, cried in front of her as he told her of everything he had been through, he wouldn't have had to wipe his tears by himself.

Because then she would have wiped his tears for him, held him through the worst of nights, and kissed his sadness away.

But alas, he just had to continue being his thick skulled bastard self.

As he now stared at the half eaten apple Feyre had shoved into his hand when she stopped by his house on her way to the art studio, his heart stopped.

No. Some of us must stay back with him.

It doesn't matter. He will cry anyway. We must go to her.

She doesn't need all of us right now.

His head whipped to where a couple of his shadows hovered nearby, his eyes wide, breath hitched in his throat.

The apple tumbled from his slack grip.

"What..."

The shadows froze, then frantically hurried away, slipping through the space under the door, the couch, the window.

And Azriel could do nothing but sit back, a broken breath escaping him at the realisation that the shadows had known all along where she had been, but had kept the knowledge from him.

They were, after all, their own being, not to be commanded but placated.

After long moments of silence, Azriel got up from the couch and slid to his knees, his head hung low in defeat.

Please, he begged.

Please.

A startled gasp jolted Azriel from the trance he'd been in, and he raised his head to find himself staring into the eyes of his beloved, the eyes he had tried so hard not to become familiar with in case she saw the truth one day, realising he did not deserve her.

Azriel stared, and stared.

And continued staring until she spoke up.

"Az- what are you doing here?"

Azriel blinked, feeling something- presumably a tear- escape his eye as he glanced around. "I... I don't-"

His shadows hissed at him before he could continue, and he paused.

"I wanted to apologise."

Her eyes, that were hard until now, softened. Whether it was at the sound of his broken voice, the state of his being, or the tears streaming down his face without him realising, he didn't know.

And he didn't care as he took in her form, clad in an oversized shirt- his shirt- and nothing else, her hair unbound and messy, the soft skin of her legs on full display for him.

Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet hers, where tears now accumulated.

"Oh Az." She mumbled, stepping forward towards his kneeling, hunched form.

"Forgive me my love. I love you, I love you so so much, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Azriel's chest heaved as he reached his hands out, trying to grab at Y/n's shirt, but she walked forward without any prompting. Mirroring his position, she knelt in front of him, tugging him into her chest as his hands scrambled to hold her back, panicked as if she was going to vanish any moment.

It was getting harder to take a breath, tears constantly streaming down his face, any and all air he could take into his lungs escaping in startling gasps, emptying his body, lightening his head-

"Shh, take a deep breath with me."

It was nearly impossible, but he tried. Opening and closing his mouth, trying to get his lungs to work, expanding his chest voluntarily in hopes it would help.

When that didn't work, he shoved his head into the stretch of skin connecting her neck to her collarbone, letting himself drown in the unique scent of his mate.

Finally, his lungs started working again, if only to have her scent dominate all his other senses.

"It's okay, you're okay." She was still mumbling, her body so warm and welcoming as she remained wrapped around him, comforting his cold self.

"It's not." He whispered back, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm-"

"Sorry, I know." She rubbed her hand down his back. "And I am sorry too, for leaving instead of talking it out. But now, I'm ready. I'm sure we can work things out, right?"

He nodded frantically, pulling back to show her how sincere he was being, his head tilted back to look her in the eye. She smiled at him softly, brushing his hair back from his face, quiet understanding on her face.

"It will all be okay."

It will be.

Acotar Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @harrystylesfan2686 @cassie6392 @kennedy-brooke @tele86 @miluiel1 @hnyclover @minnieoo @sidrapotter @piceous21 @mybestfriendmademe @saltedcoffeescotch @eve175 @starsinyourseyes @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @byyalady @lilah-asteria @girlswithimagination @gardenofrunar

Azriel Taglist: @darthdumbasss @foreverrandomwritings @azrielsmate3 @celestialend @stqrgirlies-blog @tele86 @bakananya @xyzmeh @st4r-girl-official @caraaaaugh @nacho-nat @allllium @fandomarchiveilyd

Tolerate it taglist: @anuttellaa @willowpains @blackgirlmagicforever @isa1b2h3 @helloevilmuffins @bunnyredgirl @hellsenthero @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @fxckmiup @honeybee54321 @nahimgoodmom @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @sweetcarolina-24 @misskennygirl @macel625 @justyouraveragekleemain @its-sam-allgood

#azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #azriel fic #acotar #acotar fandom #acotar fanfic #acotar fluff #acotar series #acotar writing #mating bond #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #acotar headcanon #azriel spymaster #azriel acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel fanfic #azriel x you

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vrisrezis · 8 months

Text

Yuta better than me if geto grabbed my hands like that I would fold so quick

Anyways more Yan! Geto x reader I’m very deranged

Normal Yan stuff but there’s a lot of like worship and treating reader like a god ,, slight nsfw geto is very subby in this! this gets into getou cult territory and again treating reader like his god but this is still a weird college au

Yan! Geto who starts becoming more and more obsessive as the years go by

Yan! Geto who gets more and more jealous, don’t be surprised when more people around you end up dying!

And while on the topic, if you manage to piss him off you’ll find their corpses in your house yourself!

Thankfully, he is very forgiving and it’s very hard to make him upset!

Yan! Geto who only truly gets pissed off at you if you are deliberately ignoring him, and no, it’s not in his head. He knows you’re ignoring him. He will make you regret doing that.

Yan! Geto who, despite how jealous he gets, would never kill any of your friends or any family because he understands how important those things are. He will make sure you know how he feels though.

Yan! Geto who would slaughter so many people if it meant you’d no longer suffer or be sad

Yan! Geto who regrets forcing you to see those rotting corpses when he was mad at you, because he’s worked long and hard to keep you away from that side of him, because it made you scared and upset and he doesn’t want to be the cause of your fear.

And so he never does it again, even when he gets angry!

Yan! Geto who does everything for you because he wants to make a good impact on your life, he needs to mean something. Even if it’s nothing much, it’s okay.

Yan! Geto who’s easy to use. He’s very susceptible to being manipulated, just say the word, you don’t even have to be nice about it! He is merely your servant, you are simply his god.

Yan! Geto who tries to make you laugh a lot, typically it works cause he’s funny but it never fails to make him blush.

Yan! Geto who has to stop himself from drooling at you in class.

Yan! Geto who has to stop himself from palming his clothed cock in gym class, watching you play football with satoru, nanami, and a bunch of other kids.

Yan! Geto who cannot play sports with you cause he ends up doing terribly whenever you’re playing, his knees buckle everytime.

Yan! Geto who worships the ground you walk on and worships the very air you breathe

Yan! Geto who is so intensely in love he calls you his god.

And as such he needs to serve his god in anyway he can

Yan! Geto who believes you are god but are far too humble about it, so he constantly does things to make you realize you have all the power in the world at your fingertips, even if you don’t realize it

Yan! Geto who’s heart practically explodes when you tell him to start finding other friends, you don’t want him to be lonely! You must really love him! But don’t fret darling, for you are the only one that cures loneliness and he could never get sick of you!

But once you become set on it, he manages to find a whole group of friends! Friends he’s gained the respect of, friends he has power over. He wouldn’t even say they’re friends, more like family. He of course, wants you a part of that, so he hands the power where it belongs, to you, a god. His god.

Yan! Geto hopes you’re grateful for the new family! He understands none of them are good enough for your graces, but he hopes you’ll give even them a chance. He spent so much time with them after all, and they’re lovely people! He knows that doesn’t mean much, coming from him. He’s far from lovely and so are these people when in comparison to you.

Yan! Geto will never let you go, for as selfish and as undeserving he is, he cannot let you leave his life. He understands it’s not fair to you, but selfishly he doesn’t care enough. He berates himself for it constantly, and doesn’t blame you when you do the same (he in fact gets off to it so please be mean to him)

Yan! Geto who becomes to convinced you’re a deity, he offers anything to you. While these can be things like food, candy, clothes, adorable stuffed animals and fun video games and even expensive pc’s, he eventually no longer feels guilt about mangled corpses showing up at your door, because he is convinced you want some sort of sacrifice, an offering for him not being good enough for you. He hopes this will suffice, please keep him around a little longer!

Yan! Geto will listen if you tell him to stop though, your wish is his command, after all. He exists to merely serve you.

Yan! Geto who worships you because of who you are. You’ve given him everything, you’ve given him life itself. He didn’t know what living felt like before he met you.

Yan! Geto who worships you for everything you’ve done for him. Every small kind gesture, even as simple as giving him a polite smile or holding open the door, sets his heart ablaze and has his body on fire. He yearns for you, and yet, he’s so aware that he’s not enough. No one is, quite frankly. But still… he’s the closest thing to being good enough, right?

Yan! Geto who could actually cum if you compliment him.

Yan! Geto who knows he should ask before being so clingy with you but he simply cannot help himself. You guys are a couple right? Even if you are so much more than him, you wouldn’t mind him suddenly grabbing your hand, would you?

Yan! Geto who thinks of you fucking him in the shower. He hears shower sex isn’t as pleasant as the movies make it seem, but he knows you could make anything pure bliss.

Yan! Geto is nothing but a toy to be used at your disposal, but he understands if you don’t want others to know what you do to him. After all, you must be so embarrassed of him. He’s done so many things considered to be down horrifically bad.

Yan! Geto who sees how much these lowly beings make you miserable. So he ends them. Not just them. He becomes convinced most people in the world only exist as not only a inconvenience but also to make you suffer, so he deals with them accordingly.

Yan! Geto who cannot stand the sight of people thinking they have the right to talk to you. They are nothing but the dirt beneath your shoe.

Yan! Geto who tells you everything he’s ever done has been for you. And he isn’t lying!

Yan! Geto is willing to strip himself of his humanity, his dignity, all for you to love him. But even then, while he hopes for you to, he doesn’t ask for it. He knows it’s wishful thinking. He wants your approval. Your smile, your laugh. He wants you to be pleased with him. He wants your heart, your mind and your body. He wants you to bare your entire soul to him, he wants you to be completely unburdened. He will do anything to achieve that.

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simplyreveries · 3 months

Note

I noticed that you opened the requests. I wanted to ask related to staff (separated) with mc/yuu who had daddy issues in their world and who sees them as a father figure

i love this sm,,,, TY<3

dire crowley

he is…. interesting- he does mean well but he just does a poor job executing that sometimes. he was never expecting to feel such a sense of protectiveness and being overly doting to you. it started when he couldn't help but feel pity for your own situation and watching you adjust to this world is tough.

you’ll find him randomly popping up out of nowhere in school and he’ll ask how you’re doing. a way as a check up on how you’re handling this world and school life so far, he’d tell you if you ask him. as soon as you ask him about home… "oh! is someone is calling me?" and just literally disappears.

In this case, I feel like his reluctance to figure out a way to bring you home stems from the fact that he really does care for you and doesn't want to lose that. so, let's just say, it'll take him awhile to figure that out. crowley seems to be trying to convince you how amazing, twisted wonderland really is! you could thrive and live so happily here! (minus the overblots… terrifying magic… creatures and more) he tells you how great it is for you already have a home, a whole dorm for yourself, as he’d say: “for i am so gracious!” that he’s done such a generous thing for you.

the first time you tried to give him a hug as thanks for something he was completely confused and didn't know how to react. he laughed and gave you the awkward pat on the back but once again, he means well i promise.

divus crewel

you have blatant favoritism from him… he seems a little less strict with you and if a student asks he’ll deny and tell them he doesn't do that or that he has to be since you’re not even from this world. he wouldn't expect you to know how to do certain things after all.

but still, ace and grim could groan because they got in trouble for forgetting homework or assignments but if you did he’d sigh and be like “bring it in tomorrow” and they are always so UPSET. it's also rare to get some compliments from him, but he seems to point out something well you did and give you a little “good improvement” and such. It's so obvious how he seems to care for you.

divus is literally the epitome of judgment when it comes to anyone having eyes for you or you tell him about even liking someone yourself… he is too protective and feels like any boy at this school is undeserving of you. he sees any attempt during class of one of them flirting or anything as them simply bothering you. If you mention someone like floyd he’d give you the most concerned look and be like “oh… him, how troublesome”. he doesn't really say what he thinks, unless you really ask for his opinion. he more so listens to you talk and he does genuinely try to give you some advice, even if it's a bit blunt.

mozus trein

now despite his strict and sternness, he can be a very calming person to be around and talk to. he will be pretty quiet, but he can become someone you just find if you need to talk as he listens and grades assignments, doing some work. if you really need to take your mind of certain worries and stresses, like finding a way back to your world- he'll offer you some tea and maybe even offer to play a game of chess with you (as he does with divus sometimes!)

trein is a father himself, he was very close to his daughters- so it actually is quite easy for him out of all of the staff members to develop a familial like relationship with. he enjoys having that feeling of looking after someone again and being someone, you could look up to in that sense. he would eventually notice that you do see him in such a way, he wouldn't say it, but it does warm his heart.

he'll let you play and pet lucius, it's just part of your special privileges. surprisingly, the cat likes you and always tries rubbing against you. since trein trusts you though, you will be given the duty to buy lucius cat toys from sams shop with money he gives you, he says its "in compensation" haha.

if you happen to be causing trouble with grim or some student in class, he'll scold you. but through it, he will remind and tell you he knows you're a good kid and doesn't want other bothersome students tarnishing your potential.

ashton vargas

oh poor you if you dread fitness or sports because he's always booming so loud, excited and pumped to get you involved more. even if you don't want to do something with others, he loves initiating one on one games with you and challenging you. he will not go easy though and laughs proudly whenever he wins. he'll still pat you on the back and tell you "nice job, kid!" or something of that sort. he's very supportive even if hes overly competitive at times.

sometimes you do have to hear his tangents on how he became so fit and strong... especially his "advice" on how great it is to consume raw eggs... this guy . he tries telling you it'd benefit you.

lowkey makes a big deal if you got hurt and needed to go to the infirmary. he always tries to keep a special eye on you in case and tries his absolute best to make sure you're alright. even after getting help, you needed from the nurse, still!!

sam

he tends to keep a watchful eye on you... he would much prefer and even offer, saying you'd be perfect to be working beside him at his shop. he wouldn't want you resorting or going somewhere like the mostro lounge really. but other than that, he is a very carefree guy who you could easily find yourself talking to about problems or issues you're having. his attitude and approach to things can be a good help.

also, if you're in general in need of something from his store, because you're extra special to him he'll sometimes just give you heavily discounted or even be like take it, ("it wasn't selling anyways"). hehe. he cares. especially when it comes to like snacks or food he'll have, he'll claim it's your "employee benefits!" if you're working there.

sam is pretty much in the loop with anything interesting happening at school or things he may have overheard from students. you can easily get gossip out of him, just saying. but sometimes that just turns him into trying to discreetly warn you about certain students at nrc.

#twst #disney twst #twst headcanons #twst wonderland #twst imagines #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #dire crowley #crowley twst #divus #divus crewel #mozus trein #trein #sam twst #ashton vargas #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland imagines #twst hcs #twisted wonderland hcs

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neonghostlights · 10 months

Text

Bang

Warnings: SMUT, P in V sex, 18+ Minors DNI, just a little blurb

Word count: 691

The fireworks crashed over the trailer with a loud bang, giving the walls a slight vibration.

You and Eddie barely made it through the first few before you were dragging him back inside for privacy. The sound of the fireworks hiding the noises of the sinful things you were doing to each other.

You were spread out on the bed, legs wide open for him. Like you were a feast ready to be devoured. The only light coming into the room were the occasional red, white, and blues of the fireworks outside.

Each time one went off, it illuminated the light sheen of sweat on your skin and the hearts in your eyes as you gazed up at him.

Eddie never really cared for fireworks until now. Now that he could feel them going off inside him like he was explosive. His own skin trembling lightly from the feeling of you clenching around him.

The release from your previous orgasms covered the base of his cock. Matting into the thick pubes there.

He thrust forward slowly. Wanting to take his sweet time with you now. Drawing out the waves of sparks that flew through him. Each push inside of you had him rolling his eyes back into his head. He would never get used to how perfect you were for him. Enjoying the way you loved him. He reveled in the sound of your whimpers when he hit that spot inside of you. He made it his mission to feel you come around him again before this was all over.

This was his own fireworks show. Fuck all the rest.

He leaned down, capturing your lips with his. His tongue tasted the sweet popsicle you had been sucking on earlier. Eddie moaned at the taste of it mixed with you on his tongue. The most perfect concoction.

Your fingers glided across any part of him you could reach. His face, shoulders, and arms were all claimed by your lingering touch. Eddie could still feel you on his skin when you drew your hands away to move to the next part of him you wanted to explore. Each touch melted to his bones, staying there forever. He would never be able to get you out of his system even if he wanted to.

You were in bliss. Eyes glazed as you tried to focus in on Eddie’s face. The way you let go was a beautiful work of art. Eddie didn’t understand what he did to be so lucky to see you like this. He felt undeserving to worship you, but damn was he going to anyways.

You had told him you thought he was so pretty like this. The way he concentrated on making you feel good while allowing himself to give into his own pleasure.

You reached up and gently tucked a piece of Eddie’s hair behind his ear and he nearly lost it then. Eddie was quick to discover that your love really did it for him.

The fireworks sped up in rapid fire succession. The room lit up like strobe lights. Eddie matched their pace with one hand on the wall and another holding your hips in place as he pounded into you.

You screamed when you came again, the noise drowned out by the loud bang outside. Your head turned to the side, like looking at him would be too much. Eddie touched your chin, trying to speak to you without any words. You obliged, turning to face him again, still writhing from your orgasm. Giving him what he wanted.

Eddie heard his name on your lips like a prayer.

Eddie exploded then at the face of your pleasure. He felt himself light on fire and whirl towards the sky as he stilled inside of you, releasing all that he had. He held onto you; his sweaty face pressed into your neck as he tried to breathe through the most intense feeling of his life.

He felt the soft whisper of your fingertips against his back, soothing him. Letting him know you were there to catch him when he fizzled out and crash landed back into earth.

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson au #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x femalre reader #eddie munson #eddie munson oneshot

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eupheme · 2 months

Text

— all I want is you

alfred pennyworth x f!reader

rated e - 4.5k

tags: pfyt request, jealous and possessive!alfred, light angst, copious amts of tooth-rotting fluff, split pov, semi-clothed semi-public sex, return of the daddy kink (light), marking, creampie

a/n: inspired by this lovely thot by @csboz 💖 references part ii and vii of penny for your thoughts but not required to enjoy

When a gala brings you face-to-face with your ex, Alfred realizes that seeing something in a photo is a lot different than seeing it in person.

Alfred had never considered himself a jealous man.

Maybe life had been simpler, then. He had known his place, where he fit in. A perfectly-made mould, sculpted just for him.

Solider. Bodyguard. Lover.

The lines of each were neatly set. Not just drawn in sand, but etched into stone.

Rules and regulations only blurring in the evening, behind closed doors. In the same slow way that evening bleeds into night - red to orange to deep indigo. Only to right itself the next morning, with the clear coming of dawn.

As man of routine, it had been easy to follow. He had never given it much thought, this throbbing ache in his chest. Fingers that itch to reach out, and take. The poison that pulls at his brow - the permanent furrow above narrowed, watchful eyes.

It’s uncomfortably new, and unwelcome.

And now, small part of him wonders if it’s because he never had anything that was really - truly - his.

Not the way that you are.

As much his and he is yours. The band on your finger, that promise, had felt like enough when he had sunk to a knee before you.

Now, he’s resisting the urge to drape you in jewels. To whisk you away. To give you anything you want.

It had been different, seeing that photo. Static, splashed across the screen in black and white.

Another insecurity had dug its claw into his mind then, convincing himself that he wasn’t good enough. Acutely aware of just how undeserving he was.

You had set him straight. It’s a night he still remembers, one he cherishes deeply.

The night you told him, even if it had taken him a while to return those words to you.

He had thought he knew better. That such emotion had no hold over him.

But a photo doesn’t move. A photo doesn’t have roving eyes, doesn’t give a look that he doesn’t much care for.

You looked beautiful, of that he had no doubt.

An hour ago it had been almost all he could think about. The thoughts of the Gala and those he must meet with Bruce severing - splitting down the middle, as you had modeled your dresses for him.

Asking his opinion, twisting and twirling in front of the mirror. Letting him undress you after each one, his lips against your spine as he worked the zipper. Black and bronze and silver, all wrapping around you, until you had picked a favorite.

Wanting to get things right. No longer just the messenger girl, but now seen often at Bruce’s side. Someone that was recognized, that was sought after.

He’s always seen you. Then and now and in the bedroom, tucked away, he had been so proud.

And when you had slipped your arm in his in the Tower, neatly curving your hand into the crook of his arm, he had thought it would be a long night.

Eager to end up right back here, to strip the fabric from you, one final time.

But now… it feels like an eternity.

There’s an uneasy flip in your stomach, when you see him.

It’s lessened over the months since that first meeting. You’ve run into Harvey a few times since the Parliament, though you haven’t stepped foot in the building since. Those days were long behind you, buried deep.

Your path with the newly-elected DA would continue to cross, as long as Bruce was working with him to improve Gotham. It was something you had thought about, had decided to bear. Another thing from the past, that you were convinced would no longer take up a worried residence in your mind.

And it was different, this time.

This time, Alfred is with you.

Not physically with you at the moment, but the comfort still lingers. He had just stepped away - offering to get you a drink while the guests work their way into the banquet hall, after the silent auction.

Leaving you next to the ornate seating chart - trying to pick your name out of the hundreds of small groupings.

And it seemed like Harvey Dent had the same idea.

“Thought I would see you here, doll.” The handshake he offers turns into a hug, his hand pressing against your shoulder. You own giving a half-hearted pat against his back.

“And I figured you would be too. To see Bruce, I mean.” You smile tightly before your eyes are drifting back to the list, “Is Gilda with you?”

His arm brushes yours as he moves to your left, to look for his own name, “Not tonight. She’s getting ready for a show next month.”

His fiancée. The girl he dated after you - the girl he was set to marry, once his position was settled.

There’s no twinge in your stomach this time. No weird, lingering feelings that you hadn’t been able to process.

Just a sense of pity, that he had to come alone. Thinking back - you can’t remember the last event she’s been to.

You never minded going to these things. Half the time it was your job. But it was always better when Alfred came with you.

“What about you? You here with anyone?” He’s asking, nodding towards the cane tucked under your arm - but then you hear your name. The press of a warm hand to the small of your back, as you are gently moved to the side.

“There you are, darling.” Alfred coos, as you grin - making room for him. The flute passed over from where he stands between you and Harvey, before he’s turning.

“Mr. Dent,” His left hand extends, “Pleasure.”

Harvey’s eyes flick down for the briefest of moments. Following the path of the arm that curls around you. To where you lift the glass to drink, the glitter that reflects off one of your fingers.

He smiles, as he takes the offered hand. You miss the way Alfred’s knuckles whiten, for the briefest of moments. The slightest wince in reply, before they’re letting go and Harvey is pivoting to face both of you.

“Heard about the accident. I didn’t think you’d be out and about just yet.”

The reminder almost makes you flinch. It’s been months, but you still have nightmares - racing down endless bleached-white halls, trying to find him. Panic flaring when a siren wails down the street, your eyes automatically leaping to the sky.

“It would take more than an amateur to get rid of me, I’m afraid. Much less Master Bruce.” Alfred’s knuckle graze along your back, soothing. A small smile sent your way, “Besides, I had the finest care you could ask for.”

There’s a presence at your elbow then, the feeling of a heavy shadow.

“Table Twelve.” Bruce tells you in greeting, after a quick glance at the chart - before he’s turning to Harvey, “I heard you’re working on the Nashton case.”

“Not much of one,” Harvey grins, a hand smacking Bruce’s shoulder before he sends you a wink. “Don’t worry, you’re safe with me. I’ll make sure that freak stays in Arkham.”

There's a tightness in Alfred’s jaw, his hand staying firmly in place. A tell-tale tap of annoyance of the cane you’ve handed back, against the marble floor.

You're certain that you're the only one who notices, besides Bruce - the briefest flicker of a look before he's lassoed back into the conversation.

There's a shuffle, when you sit for dinner soon after. Your arrangement differs from what's been noted on the namecards, as Alfred pulls out the seat to his right, instead of left. You take it, without much thought - fitting yourself between him and Bruce.

The conversation from before trickling into dinner, silted by the way Bruce has to lean past both of you - an elbow digging into the table - to talk to Harvey.

Your mind has drifted elsewhere. That unease of seeing him again disappearing completely with Alfred's arrival at your elbow. With his touch now - the hand that slips beneath the tablecloth. The breadth of his palm as it presses down, high above your knee.

Curving the silky fabric of your dress against your thigh. His touch firm enough that you can feel the slow drag of his fingers, circling strokes that press into your skin.

Reminding you of his touch, somewhere else.

Distracting you terribly, thoughts drifting back to the stolen moments as you dressed. Barely able to manage not to squirm in your seat, as the food is served.

He’s attentive as you eat - his voice low and smooth in your ear, as he points out people you should make note of. His gaze always on yours - the grip of his hand tightening each time he leans, sometimes slipping higher for the briefest moment.

A welcome distraction, as the courses are served.

The first of the notes are plucked from the big band on the stage when dinner is cleared - a modern cover played in an old jazz style, the notes drawn out and bright.

Harvey’s arm slings across the back of his chair, as he leans to catch your attention.

“I nearly forgot about them,” He gestures with a smile, a two fingers tipping towards the stage, “Bristol County Club, do you remember?

You did.

It had been before you were together, back when you were just friends - a senior banquet, right before graduation. Month spent on a fundraiser that pulled out all the stops.

Catered food, black-tie, a hired band. Compared to now it felt so small - but back then, it was the most extravagant night you could imagine.

The memory makes you smile, and just as your lips part to answer there’s a touch to your arm - a voice cutting through.

“Would you like to join me, dove?”

Alfred’s hand extends in front of you - waiting, his seat already pushing back. His cane tucked against his chair, to be retrieved after.

“Excuse me,” You manage to tell Harvey - before your hand is pressing into his, and he’s guiding you away.

Winding in between the other tables, joining the couples that spill from their own, onto the dance floor.

“I’ve been looking forward to this all night.” Alfred tells you, as the dance floor slowly fills, “You look beautiful. Have I told you that already?”

It makes your cheeks heat, “Maybe once or twice.”

There’s couples swirling around you, each caught up in the endless flutes of champagne, the energy from the live band on the stage.

You stay close, though. A slow, sway - the movement familiar, even if the details are different this time.

How the hand that should cup yours, now entwines - fingers lacing together.

How the palm that guides you slips lower on your back. Not so far that it’s improper, but you can feel the warmth and pressure on the curve of your ass, inside of your spine.

It sends up a spark that follows the path his lips took earlier. A soft press of his lips as the zipper lowered, each time.

You had wanted him, then. The only thing that kept you in check was knowing how he’d never give in, if it made you both late.

Leaving the memory sizzling under your skin.

Stoked by these slow moments of change. Because you’re starting to put things together now - all those little details perhaps imperceptible to an acquaintance.

But not to you.

It takes you another two songs to figure things out fully. The circling steps taking you into the middle of the floor, and then out to the opposite side. Far away from the shared table.

You haven’t really seen him quite like this before. If you didn’t love him so much, perhaps you’d want to laugh.

And you think that maybe - maybe, you should do something about it.

His fingers slip higher on your back, but it’s only to press you just a little bit closer. Your lips brush against the peppered-grey scruff on his beard, just before you press a kiss against his cheekbone.

Keeping your fingers clasped as you step away, back towards the edge of the dance floor.

“Come with me.” You coax, but you don’t have to.

He follows - would follow - you anywhere, a hand in yours until the dark corners of the room surround you, the music fading as you slip with him down a corridor.

It’s near-deserted - a thick ornate rug running down the hall. Small groupings of those discussing business, paying you no mind as you wind down one more hallway.

Your name is a whispered question as you try the handle - the room you open is not in use, like you knew it would be. Year-old memories of helping Hazel set up in these halls are still fresh in your mind.

Perhaps at one point, it had been set up for meetings, or a small, private party. The wallpaper pretty and patterned, but at least a decade old. Matching furniture pushed around - heavy wooden tables shoved to one side. Stacked rows of chairs in another corner.

A dim and dusty table lamp that you click on, as he shuts the door behind you.

“You look like you could use a minute.” You tell him, with a knowing tilt of your head.

The corner of his lips twitch, “Am I that obvious, dove?”

“Maybe just to me,” You smile, hands finding his, as you walk backward. As he follows, again.

Another glance around the room, before you’re adding, “Feels a little familiar, hm?"

His stern look softens, as he remembers.

Your second meeting, that flurry of feelings. Him, thinking might have changed your mind. Your own anxiety, thinking he wasn't going to call.

Leading his hands to your hips, as you lean against a table that bumps up against the wall. A second, before you’re pushing yourself up, to perch on the edge.

"I think I loved you, even then." Your admission is soft. Cheeks burning in the darkness, even after all this time, "Well, I knew when we danced together in your kitchen. But, I mean... even that early, I knew you would be important to me."

He laughs - a short, rough thing. It startles you, a little frown as your chin tips up.

"I'm sorry, darling. I just-” He sounds almost breathless, in the dim room, “That night... for me, too."

Your smile is bright, blinding. If asked, you’d say it was impossible to love him more, but with his answer comes a surge of affection, a little flip of your heart.

His own lips curve, when you meet them. Hair shorn short and velvet against your fingers as your hand slips against his neck. Sighing into his mouth as he leans into your touch, into the kiss.

Pressing himself snug against the table, as your thighs have to inch wider. Your knees digging into his hips, as his hands find your waist.

Possessive, in the way he grips onto you. Fingers pressing into the fabric, your skin. The smallest tug to bring you forward, closing those last few inches of space.

His confession finally coming in the breaths between your mouths meeting - quiet, in the dark room.

“I don’t like the way he was looking at you,” It’s almost a growl, as your lips press against his cheek, “Like he was reconsidering things.”

You do laugh then, but not at him. The sound low in your throat, bitten back, “You know, it would have to go both ways, right? That I would want to want that, too?”

Before your voice lowers, “You know that you’re the one I’m going home with.”

His eyes seem to darken at that, his voice a low rasp, “I know.”

“Then you realize you’re being silly?” You press, gently.

Alfred does smile, then - a small, rueful thing.

“I’m well aware.” An inhale of breath, then, “I haven’t felt this way before, but then again I’ve never-”

His words break off, as his eyes drag down you for just a moment. Admiring, but it’s more than that. The same feeling that was stirred with his greedy touch, the delicious shiver at the growling rasp his voice.

It does something to you - your pulse quickening, something hungry awakening in your belly.

“Do you need me to show you, again?” You offer sweetly, learning forward to let your lips brush his again.

His answer comes as a ragged sigh, “Just once more, love.”

Expecting words, perhaps another soft press of your mouth, before you return to the party.

Not the way that the soft layers of your skirt gather in a hand, bundled near your hip. How your other catches his palm, guiding his fingers beneath.

Cupping you. Where you’re so warm and where the thin fabric clings to you - worked up from before, and during, and now.

He sucks in a breath as you bite back your own sigh. Your hand still on his wrist as your lips press against his throat, to the hollow under his ear.

A bitten-back groan as your teeth graze his earlobe, just before you croon.

“You could take me in here, you know that?”

The hand on your waist tightens, just as his fingers begin to move. The tips of two fingers crooking against the fabric, slipping up to circle against you.

“That’s what you want, right? To send me back out there, full of you?”

Alfred wouldn’t ask it of you, you’re sure. Too proper to suggest it, himself… but to have it offered so prettily and openly.

But he is only human, after all.

You can feel his groan against your lips, the flex of his muscles as he swallows.

“Yes.” He rasps.

The fingers that circle halt, but only enough so he can slip them beneath your panties. His eyes dark in the dim light of the room, fixed on yours as his touch teases you. Drifting along your slit, before dipping lower.

A rough curse growled out as the tip one fits inside you easily. You’re slick, the fabric damp and sticking to your skin, coating the fingers that presses deep, before he’s working in another.

“Oh fuck,” You sigh, thighs nudging wider. Hands wandering, fingers hooking around his belt and tugging him closer, “Please, Alfred-”

“I will.” He promise, before his mouth is pressing against yours. Fingers working you open, as you tug at his zipper, trying to slip your fingers beneath.

Finding him more than half-hard from your words, thickening with the touch of your hand on bare skin, as you work him free. His other hand rises - cupping the back of your neck, just as his fingers press deep and curl.

His desire thrills you. Not often does he give into your whims when you’re out like this. Preferring to make you wait, make you suffer until he’s got you alone again.

More than once you’ve ridden him in his car, but that was an extension of his space. Fingers have drifted during dances, during long dinners.

A promise for later, but not now.

You’d be worried if he hadn’t already admitted just how self-aware he was.

But he needs this.

You can sense it - the tick in his jaw, the not-so-subtle flex of his hips into your fist. The way his fingers pound, as if trying to rip the orgasm from you.

It has you clenching down hard, whining. Your other hand drifting - across his chest, tugging on his tie to keep him close. Parting your lips with the soft brush of his tongue, so he can taste you as his hand slips free.

Working it over his aching cock twice - marking himself fully with you, until it’s slick with your need.

“Come here.” He reaches for you, his other hand guiding your hips to edge of the table, “I’ll give you what you want dove, but you need to be quiet.”

Nudging your thighs wider with his hip, your legs rising to hook around his waist, opening yourself up more. One of your hands bracing behind you, flattened across the tabletop.

He’s so broad like this. The shadowed light cutting across his features, his strong shoulders. The loosened tie, the clinking belt the only pieces out of place.

The velvet soft length rubs against you, as he steps closer. Your eyes drop to watch the slow twist of his fist as he rubs the tip against your folds.

“As much as I want everyone to hear you’re mine, I’m not too keen on sharing.”

It makes you throb, the edge in his tone. How aware you both are of the unlocked door. The hundreds of people just outside, the muted music that crashes against the walls.

Too far gone to stop, as eyes narrow - letting himself look, now. To where you’re exposed and open - so needy for him that it makes him ache.

He won’t leave you waiting.

With the next roll of his hips, he’s splitting you open. Not with the slow tease of home - fitting just the tip, making you earn every inch. No, this makes you cry out - the feeling of his cock making a home for himself in your warm cunt.

He swallows the sound, his own groan rough in his throat.

“Christ, I missed you.” Alfred rasps, as if it had been weeks instead of hours. Eyes fixed on your own, how they go half-lidded with the drag of his cock, as he begins to move.

“Missed you too,” You whine, as you start to lean back, your dress still fisted around your waist.

Thinking he’d like to watch - see where you stretch around his cock, where he fucks you open. How he gleams with your desire, with each sharp rut of his hips.

Instead, Alfred catches your wrist. Holding it against his chest as he tugs you back up.

“No,” It’s close to an order, except for the way he sighs with need, “Stay close darling, just for a moment. Please.”

Your legs hook around him, instead. Doing as you’re told, as your hands drop your dress - sliding across his shoulders instead, fingers entwining behind his neck.

The “good girl” he murmurs shoots straight to your cunt, a shared look that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

His thrusts grow harder, deeper. A steady pound that will leave both of you aching tonight, not that either of you mind.

In this moment it’s just you and him, everything else fades into soft shades of nothing. Your focus caught on the spots where you’re connected. Eyes, hands, mouth. His cock, pressed deep - dragging against a spot that sends a rolling wave of pleasure to lap low in your belly.

And when his hand leaves your wrist to drift down, circling against you once again, you feel as if you’re about to break.

His name is garbled, another soft plea. Your hips rocking into the perfect pressure of his touch - further proof of his devotion. Every detail tucked away so carefully, keep safe in a mind that never forgets.

“Oh fuck, don’t stop-” You whine, forgetting about your promise. Each breath short and harsh as your nails sink into fabric, desperate to cling to this moment.

Alfred’s forgotten too, his growl lower than the low murmur of before.

“Never.” He rasps, “Come on, darling. Let me feel you-”

Everything winds tight, your breath held. And then - it snaps, fracturing and splintering. The music fading out to white noise.

You come with him wrapped around you. Caged in - an arm wrapping around, hand pressed between your shoulder blades. The other steady and unmerciful against your clit, drawing your pleasure out. He groans with the tight pulse of your orgasm, pressing himself deep, so he can feel each throb.

“There it is, that’s my girl.” It’s murmured into your sweat-dewed skin, as he mouths at your neck.

This is what he’s been craving. His mind a seismograph - those jittery waves of emotions now slipping flat and smooth. A reminder that he’s the only one that makes you feel this way.

Loose-limbed in his arms. Your grin lazy as you squirm against him, trying to catch the fingers that push you towards too much.

You feel a low laugh against your skin, as bristle of his beard tickles your cheek. Then, against the soft column of your throat. His lips following, as he starts to fuck you again.

Just as teeth scrape and then pinch the curve where shoulder meets neck. A rough groan against your skin, just before his lips close - sucking hard against the same spot.

You’re sure it will leave a mark. High above the strap of your dress. Near impossible to hide, and you find yourself thinking that he did that on purpose.

Tongue trapped between your teeth as you smile, going soft. Letting your hands drift now, smoothing over the soft fabric of his shirt. Slipping beneath his open jacket to hook your fingers into the hem of his pants.

Urging him to a quicker pace, as you tell him what he needs to hear.

“Yours.”

Finger pinch at your hips, angling them so he can drive deeper. You can just barely hear the wet suck with each thrust, again and again and again.

“Mine.” He echos, teeth gritting.

This time when you lean back, he lets you. A heave of his chest as your fingers drift down, until they slowly circle your clit.

Pleasure throbs but your touch is more for show, for him, letting him watch as your fingers split - framing where he sinks into you. That steady thrust starting to stutter, the only unsteady thing about him.

“Tell me you want it.” That harsh, pleading tone is back.

“God, I want it.” Your teeth sinking into your lip, before you sigh sweetly, “Please, daddy.”

It catches him off guard like you knew it would, his eyes darkening. How you offer up a piece of yourself like a tempting piece of fruit - how you would burst so sweetly on his tongue if he were to sink his teeth in.

“Only me, yeah?”

Only him.

He knew it was true. A hushed confession in the late night hour - a warmth in your cheeks as your face rested against his bare chest. Rising and falling with his steady breath, tender feelings betrayed by the flutter of his heart beneath your ear.

“I haven’t called anyone that before. Only you.”

“Only me, hm? Then perhaps you should let me hear it again.”

“Yes, daddy. Always-” One of your hands slips from the table, entwining with his, “I want you to come in me. I want to feel you, too-”

He comes with you begging for it.

A rough grunt paired with the rutting of his hips, until they press flush against you. Little shallow thrusts, keeping himself buried deep as he spills inside you - the last dregs of his jealousy swept along with the sharp burst of pleasure.

Leaving Alfred feeling foolish, a throbbing ache in his chest that matches the galloping of his heart.

You’re always so good to him. Thighs tightening against his hips, keeping him inside until you’re sure he’s been milked dry - until the throbbing twitch of his cock has ebbed.

He pants a breath, fingers still wrapped in yours. Wrinkling the fabric as his hips press flush with yours, keeping himself buried in you for another long moment.

Your mind always runs away with you.

Imagining slipping your panties down your thighs. Thinking how pretty they would look as a pocket-square - or tucked beneath, right against his heart.

Instead, he groans as he slips from you. A slow smile, as his lips brush yours, as you slump back fully against the tabletop.

You’re sure you look debauched - the dim light leaving you glowing, after your orgasm.

The straps of your dress slipping from your shoulders, skirts hiked up to where he has your panties still pushed to the side.

His fingers drifting across where you still gape from him, for just a moment. A look crossing his face that is almost smug, if he could be - before he’s tucking the lacy hem carefully back into place, tugging it snug against your cunt.

“Better?” You ask, breathless. Pushing yourself up, reluctantly starting to out yourself back together.

Relishing in the stolen moment, but knowing the night was not quite over. That it would be a little while longer before you were home - already dreaming about the hands that would wander beneath the warm water of a shared bath.

His fingers press down as he cups you. Grazing against the fabric, where it’s damp with him. Dripping from you and sticking to your skin, now that his cock no longer keeps it inside.

Alfred smiles, as he answers.

“Yes.”

(and then the table was purchased for a sizable donation as part of the “auction” and kept as a beloved souvenir 😌)

thank you so much for reading!! and for giving me an excuse to dive back into them again, it has been missed 💖

#thank you for letting me dive back into them again 💖#please mind the tags!#alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth x f!reader #alfred pennyworth x you #alfred pennyworth smut #tw: daddy kink

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tokoyamisstuff · 4 months

Text

Dad! Mark Hoffman HC's

A/N: Thanks for all of your Requests! I'll try and get them done over the holidays.

In the meantime a lil' treat for you.

Before the death of his sister and involuntarily association with a serialkiller, it had been Mark's absolute dream to have a family of his own someday - sadly, life happened and he deemed himself undeserving after everything he had done.

The two of you are an open secret to anyone, yet were never official - even though you were basically living like a married couple for a long time already.

You knew he was terribly afraid of commitment, so as long as he never had to label your relationship as such, he could continue lying to himself.

So obviously, when you realize that you had become pregnant despite precautions, you panic.

How would he even react to the news? Furious? Afraid? Indifferent?! Either way, you were certain his fight or flight instinct would kick in.

You had already made up your mind, yet don't dare confronting him directly - but hey, he can't really blame you.

He'll find the positive test on his bathroom sink, together with a letter from you explaining that you intend to keep the child but him not having any responsibilities shall he not want to.

You don't hear from him for days and it breaks your heart - until he suddenly appears at your doorstep with a bonquet and a bigass stuffed animal.

Tells you he needed to settle some things which definetly involved murdering Jigsaw and any other possible danger before he could face you again, but from now on he'll always be here for you and the baby.

This will be the first time he'll actually open up about how much you meant to him all this time - yet the fear to lose you as well made him keep his distance.

You'll end up having a long talk throughout the night, just lying in each other's arms and speaking about both your worries and wishes for the future.

Afterwards Hoffman will make a whole 180, turning his life around from this day onwards. Immediately becomes sober and gets his shit together. Time to become a functional human being!

Man is unrecognizeable in his efforts. No more half-assed bonds, asks you to move in with him in a better part of the town as soon as possible. You won't get rid of him anymore.

He's not really a fan of marriage, but reconsiders because it'd be easier to care for each other, at least officially. Good luck convincing him to host an actual wedding ceremony, though. Most likely only celebrates with your close family and some mutual friends.

Is really traditional with other values, however. Shall you not want to keep working, he'll be so happy to provide. And damn, you'll be taken good care of!

Backrubs, feet massages, holding your belly or bringing your cravings - Mark's love language is acts of service!

Sadly misses most of the appointments du to working his ass off, but hell make it up in other ways. At least tries to come to some birth prep classes.

It's hilarious seeing this gloomy old man so invested in baby-stuff. He is so clueless, but gives it his utmost to learn.

Mark is an overthinker, after all. Makes plans and preparations years in advance. The house will be baby-proof before you even hit the second trimester.

More overthinking. What if there's still students of Jigsaw alive, after all? And even if there isn't, as a cop his family would always be in danger! This man has seen so many traumatizing things in this cruel world, he will go to any lenght to protect you.

Underneath this behavior he's actually afraid to be a bad father due to his past. Sure, he cared for his sister a while but a baby is on a whole different level. He never got to experience what a real family is like, so he is both incredibly excited and scared.

Contemplates leaving the state to somewhere safer, but only if you want to. You have family there, after all.

Will shamelessly beg you to name this child after his sister, shall it become a girl. At least only the second name, pretty please?

Discovers that your pregnant state is a huge turn-on for him. Cant take his hands off of you, gosh you make him weak. Would've never thought you could become any more attractive but there you are, proving him wrong!

Definetly gains some weight together with you during the pregnancy. Jokes about his belly almost being bigger than yours.

Advocates for you in the hospital. Your body, you decide how it's done. Good for you this man is used to seeing worse. He won't leave your side even for a second, like a guard dog until you're discharged.

Definetly cries when holding his child for the first time. Utters neverending words of gratitude and adoration at both of you.

Is a little hesistant to handle the child at the beginning. I can imagine him being way more comfortable as soon as it can hold it's own head and he's safe to play with them.

Tries to take some time off of work until you're feeling well enough to be on your own. He'll take good care of the household and your healing body.

My man is old, let him rest. The nights really are killing him, no coffee in the world will help.

Enjoys bonding with the baby so much! He could look at it all day, and gosh as soon as you show him how to babywear you probably never get it back except for feedings lol

He's one of those dad's who has his whole wallet full of photos of you and the baby. Will proudly show them everyone at every possibility - may they want to or not, they'll have to listen about how amazing you are.

In the end Mark will always say that you and the family you gave him has saved him in more than one way - and you were blissfully unaware about the extent of that statement.

#saw #mark hoffman #mark hoffman x reader #self insert #writing #headcanon

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utilitycaster · 10 months

Note

Assuming Laudna will open up to Imogen about killing Bor’dor/Delilah possibly still lingering, I wonder if it will cause friction between them. I don’t know why it would but maybe I just want drama between them to make them interesting to me lol. Anyway, It is gonna be interesting to see how the bells interacts after this cause they all have had some growth and regression. You know what I mean?

So I agree that the reunion is going to be really interesting. While I actually think the parties are on roughly the same page (though Imogen and Laudna might not be; Imogen is still kind of a lone holdout on "but what if I don't care about the gods") they did have wildly different experiences, and I do love drama.

Here's my opinion: I don't actually think Team Issylra regressed. I think there's a very common false equivalence of violence=regression that pops up in the fandom, and I think it's 100% wrong given the setting and genre conventions.

I'm reminded actually of a lot of discussion about the Ted Lasso finale a few weeks ago - there's a good post here, the gist of which is that sometimes a part of recovery is looking less happy. Laudna's entire deal is that she compartmentalizes and suppresses and tells herself it's all uphill from here. Orym has heard multiple people - people who like him, even, who'd consider him a friend or ally - openly say the group that murdered his husband and father-in-law who was basically a father to him and who used his leader (whom he's sworn to protect and who said husband and father-in-law died protecting) as nothing more than bait might have some good points, and he's mostly kept quiet. Even Ashton, who has been in somewhat better shape this arc, believed himself to be undeserving of anything good.

So yeah, Laudna might possibly have reawakened Delilah, but she's actually letting herself experience some emotions and talk about them. It's a pretty major step forward that she's spent so much time admitting to anger and fear, and her feelings about betrayal, and crying on Ashton's shoulder instead of constantly pretending everything is totally fine so that she can be the shoulder to Imogen. Orym's moment with the locket is not, to me, an act of cruelty. It's him saying "why do I keep trying to understand and sparing the feelings of people who never once gave me that grace, and who will use me or murder me without a second thought?" And while Ashton isn't immediately running to Hishari right now because, understandably, they are prioritizing the reunion and stopping the Vanguard, their moment about realizing this is anger and the past was self-pity feels like a breakthrough. He's confronting that past (speaking of false equivalences, there's a similarly common one of "choosing to go along with the main party-wide plot instead of one's own specific hooks=avoidance") and is letting himself whole-heartedly support the party after spending years refusing to have friends because friends leave.

Team Issylra is in the messy part of growth, but they've grown immensely, and that's actually the biggest thing I want to see Team Wildemount respond to.

#answered #Anonymous #critical role #critical role spoilers #bells hells

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bloody-bee-tea · 3 months

Text

You're safe with me

When the new patron steps into the bar, he immediately draws all of the attention to himself, including Suguru’s. It’s hard not to, with his height and his mob of shocking white hair, but what stands out most to Suguru are the sunglasses the guy is wearing.

Inside of a bar, at a time that is closer to morning than evening.

Suguru has been in the business for long enough to wince slightly, because this guy is sure to be an asshole and tending to him is not going to be pleasant.

Still, Suguru plasters on a smile when the guy comes up to the bar, because it’s his job and it’s how he makes money.

“Hello there,” the guy says, and Suguru feels appraised in a way he isn’t quite used to because usually his scowl keeps people away until they are distinctly more drunk and then there’s so much less heat behind it.

“What can I get for you?” Suguru asks, his hands lightly resting on the counter, ready to get the guy whatever he wants, if only to get him out of his face faster.

“Straight to business, I see,” the guy mutters and then gives Suguru what must be his most winning smile. “Here’s the deal,” he then goes on, putting his phone on the bar between them.

It has to be one of the newest models and therefore probably cost more than anything in Suguru’s bar. He slightly wonders if the phone should even be touching the bar at all, but it doesn’t seem as if the guy cares much, going by the careless way he spins it around.

Suguru fights the urge to lean back when the guy leans closer but going by the small tick of his mouth the guy noticed anyway.

“My name’s Gojo Satoru,” he then says and now Suguru can’t hide his reaction because his eyebrows fly up.

Everyone knows Gojo Satoru; heir to the biggest company in the country and successful model to boot. The last part not quite undeserved, Suguru has to admit, now that he sees him in person and up close.

“Good for you,” Suguru says, just a beat too late, but it still makes Gojo crack a smile, despite Suguru’s rude tone.

“So you know who I am then, that’s good, means you’ll be much more open to my plan,” Gojo says, the same smile on his face, though it gains an edge.

“What plan?” Suguru wants to know because usually, plans that need a bar are the worst ones and he’s not going to mop up this guy’s puke, rich boy or not.

“I am going to get spectacularly drunk,” Gojo declares and slides his phone over to Suguru. “And once I’m passed out, you’re going to call someone, anyone, from my contacts list to come and pick me up.”

Suguru eyes the phone.

“That’s password protected,” he flatly gives back and Gojo cackles.

“It’s also fingerprint protected so just stick my thumb on it and it’ll unlock, no problem.”

Suguru narrows his eyes at Gojo.

“I fail to see how me knowing who you are is going to help with this brainless plan.”

“Ah, but see, that’s the beauty in it! It is a brainless plan; stupid and reckless and depending on who you call maybe even dangerous but it’s entirely up to you. You know who I am, so you get to pick who gets me. You get to decide who gets their hands on a defenceless Gojo Satoru. Surely there must be something you hate about me, maybe my family’s company fucked you or a loved one over. I hear that happens to a lot of people in this town, so this is the perfect opportunity to get revenge. Or just fuck with me, whatever you want.”

Suguru can do nothing but stare at him, because this guy is certifiably insane, he has to be. There is no other explanation for why he would do something so incredibly reckless, something so stupid and smile while saying it.

“You’re insane,” Suguru finally gets out and Gojo’s smile turns a little bit wider.

Suguru refuses to read anything in it that isn’t there, because surely the tension in the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes don’t quite crinkle correctly with it is all his imagination.

“Maybe,” Gojo agrees. “Possibly. Doesn’t matter though. You in?”

He uses one of his insanely long fingers to push the phone closer to Suguru.

And really, what is he going to do about this? This guy came into his bar, a plan clearly in mind and he’s definitely old enough to drink and he’ll probably be a good-paying customer.

There is no reason for Suguru to say no.

“If you puke, I’ll keep you here until you cleaned up behind yourself,” Suguru decides and pockets the phone before Gojo can push it off the counter.

“Deal,” Gojo immediately declares and claps his hands together. “Wonderful,” he adds in a whisper, and again Suguru refuses to read anything into that even though the way Gojo’s face falls for a second makes him feel a little bit sick. No one should look that empty.

“What’s your poison then?” Suguru wants to know, ready to keep a steady supply going, if only that will make Gojo get drunk faster.

“Something sweet?” Gojo asks with a tilt of his head and Suguru has seen enough people in his bar to know that he has no goddamn clue what the options even are.

“You–do drink, right?” Suguru wants to know, weariness creeping in and he wonders why today of all days he decided to cover a shift.

He’d really rather be anywhere else than here at the moment and in all honesty it would have been hilarious if Nanako would have had to deal with this guy.

“Sure,” Gojo says with a confidence that tells Suguru that he most definitely does not and so he simply sighs.

“Fine, something sweet then,” he mutters and gets to mixing.

He doesn’t enjoy making cocktails but he sure as hell can and so soon enough a red, sparkly concoction sits in front of Gojo.

“It’s so pretty,” Gojo breathes out, as if he has never seen a sparkly drink in his life before and Suguru rolls his eyes.

“Thanks, I guess,” he says and for a moment he doesn’t understand when Gojo’s eyes snap up to his as a light blush dusts his cheeks.

“The drink,” Gojo almost yells out, correcting a mistake that wasn’t even made in the first place and Suguru can’t help it, he simply has to laugh.

“Sure thing, pretty boy,” he says with a wink when he stopped laughing, only making Gojo splutter more and as if to hide his embarrassment he takes the drink and downs it in one go.

Suguru raises an eyebrow at that.

“Did you even taste any of that?” he then wants to know and Gojo glares at him.

“Shut up,” he hisses and Suguru notes with alarm that there’s already a slur to his words.

Surely this guy is not that much of a lightweight, right?

Gojo continues to glare at him even as he ruffles through his pockets for some money, though his eyes get hooded, Suguru can see that even behind the sunglasses he is still wearing, and not even two minutes later his head drops down to the bar, some crumpled bills in his hand.

“You cannot be serious,” Suguru mutters out, staring in complete disbelief at Gojo. “Hey,” he tries, poking the mop of white hair with a finger, but he only gets a groan in response.

It seems as if he’s out for the count, after one measly cocktail.

“What the fuck,” Suguru sighs, and rubs a hand over his face. “Fine then. Be like that.”

He carefully extracts the money from Gojo’s hand—it’s way too much, and he has half a mind keeping it all, just for the hell of it but of course he doesn’t—and slips the change into Gojo’s pocket before he reaches for the phone.

One press of Gojo’s thumb unlocks it, just like he said it would and Suguru is free to scroll through his contacts, deciding on who to call.

It’s not going to be an easy decision, that much Suguru can already tell by the first few and his stomach drops with every new contact name he sees. Wants money, Wants favours, Already blackmailed me the words read and Suguru tries to will his hand to stop shaking when his eyes fall on Sent the assassin and switches off the screen when he reads Bad touch.

He shakes with anger, for Gojo, for what he clearly has to go through all day, every day and Suguru can barely bring himself to switch the phone back on to check if there is even one normal name in there.

But Gojo is still soundly asleep on his bar, and really, what other choice does Suguru have? He unlocks the phone with Gojo’s thumb again and scrolls through his contacts once more, going faster than before, so he can barely read the warnings Gojo set for himself.

He stumbles over a promising one—Nanami-still mad—before he finally finds a normal one. Utahime. That surely must mean she’s safe, right?

Suguru hopes she is, at least, because he already pressed the call button.

“The hell do you want?” Utahime greets and it gives Suguru pause, wondering if he made the wrong decision, when her tone suddenly changes. “Satoru? You there? You okay?”

It sounds almost as if she’s worried and that’s good enough for Suguru at the moment.

“Geto Suguru here,” he says. “Gojo is passed out in my bar at the moment.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end.

“Fuck,” Utahime then sighs out and Suguru silently agrees with her. “He got drunk?”

“If he can get drunk off one cocktail, then yes,” Suguru gives back and Utahime huffs out a laugh. “He told me to call someone to pick him up, gave me his phone and everything, but—”

“Oh, Satoru,” Utahime whispers out, making Suguru wonder just how long they have been friends.

Clearly she’s not too surprised by his behaviour.

“Can you come pick him up?” Suguru asks, wondering how much longer Gojo can stay in that position until his back starts to hurt but he knows he has his answer when a telling silence comes from the other end of the phone. “You can’t.”

“I’m not in the country at the moment. What about Nanami?” Utahime asks and Suguru shakes his head.

“His contact says he’s still mad,” he tells her.

“Damn, that means Haibara’s out, too,” Utahime mutters and even though Suguru doesn’t know her, he can just imagine how she’s pinching the bridge of her nose. “You could—I mean. You can always put him in the back of a cab.”

“And send him where?” Suguru incredulously asks. “With how his contacts are named, you think I want to put him into the hands of a complete stranger?”

“Well—I mean, he did put himself into the hands of a complete stranger,” Utahime tells him none too gently and Suguru has to admit that she’s right.

It’s still different, though, because Gojo made that decision for himself. Now it’s on Suguru to make a decision and he doesn’t want to get Gojo hurt. Something Gojo himself clearly is not too concerned with, if his actions are anything to go by, but Suguru can’t get that one look out of his mind.

“I’ll keep him here,” he decides on a whim and wonders if he’ll manage to get Gojo up the stairs to his apartment.

“Huh?” Utahime very eloquently asks and Suguru takes a breath.

“This is my bar and I live upstairs. I can keep him here until he’s sober tomorrow. Then we don’t have to worry about anything.”

“That’s—awfully nice of you,” she says and Suguru can hear the suspicion in her voice. “What do you want in return?”

“To know that he didn’t get fucked up on his way home?” Suguru shoots back. “Listen, he’s—” Suguru doesn’t even know how to finish his sentence because he doesn’t know Gojo besides the handful of sentences they exchanged, but that one look; he had seemed so resigned, so empty that it makes Suguru ache even just remembering it.

“He’ll stay here,” Suguru says instead of trying to find words for something that probably can’t even be said out loud and he holds his breath for Utahime’s answer.

“Fine. I have his location pinged, if he ends up hurt or vanishes or anything like that, I know where you are, just saying.”

“Noted,” Suguru gives back, secretly glad that Gojo does at least have one friend and Utahime hangs up on him without saying goodbye.

“Rude,” Suguru mutters as he pockets the phone again and surveys the bar.

There’s no one in it anymore besides the two of them and it’s close enough to closing time anyway that Suguru doesn’t feel bad about flipping the sign at the door to Closed. He cleans up what he can with Gojo still slumped over half of the bar and then he gets ready to lug his unwanted guest up the stairs.

Suguru is no slouch, he does work out regularly and carrying around all the bottles in the bar is kind of a work-out itself but still; Gojo is all long limbs, flopping around without a care in the world and Suguru almost falls twice dragging him up the stairs.

They do make it in the end, but only barely so, and Suguru is a lot less careful when he dumps Gojo on the couch.

“What the hellhell are you so heavy for?” Suguru pants out, dragging a hand over his face and he decides that this is it.

He’ll throw a blanket over Gojo, get him a glass of water and then he’ll go to bed himself. Let him fend for his own for a while. He does exactly that—though he also gets Gojo situated more comfortably and gets him a bucket in case he does have to throw up—and by the time Suguru falls into bed himself he wonders just what the hell he got himself into with this.

Well, he’ll probably find out in the morning.

~*~*~

Suguru is in the process of frying bacon when he hears a low groan from the living-room. He moves the pan to the side, before he goes to see his unwilling guest. Gojo’s hair is rumpled, sticking up in every which direction and Suguru’s fingers twitch with the urge to smooth it back out. Gojo is blearily blinking at his surroundings, clearly trying to piece together what happened and where he is, and Suguru can see the rising tension in his shoulders when everything is unfamiliar.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Suguru greets him, even though it’s long past morning and he doesn’t mention the way Gojo startles as his head flies around to him.

Gojo’s mouth drops open when he recognises him and then his face goes petulant.

“I did not throw up,” is the first thing he says, his voice still scratchy from sleep and it’s surprising enough that it startles Suguru into a laugh.

“No, you did not. Still decided to keep you here,” Suguru gives back with a shrug. “Didn’t like your contacts much, to be honest.”

“What?” Gojo breathes out, his eyes falling to his phone. “But—you could have—”

“Yeah,” Suguru agrees, because he could have. “But I didn’t. So. You take your breakfast with coffee?” he asks, almost desperate to get that look of surprise off Gojo’s face.

“I take my breakfast with a name,” Gojo shoots back and Suguru has to give it to him, for all that he gets drunk awfully fast, he doesn’t seem to suffer much for it, if his wit is anything to go by. Or maybe that’s just wired into his very being.

“Geto Suguru.”

“Suguru,” Gojo mutters and then smiles brightly at him. “I’m Satoru.”

It’s overly familiar, Suguru thinks, but then again—Satoru did just sleep on his couch and Suguru did just offer him breakfast.

Maybe it’s just familiar enough.

“Coffee?” Suguru comes back to his original question and Satoru’s face really is enough to give him his answer.

“Only if there’s syrup and sugar and a lot of milk,” Satoru gives back as he gets up, pocketing his phone.

“You have a new contact, by the way,” Suguru says, trying for nonchalant as he turns back around to the kitchen. “It says Safe.”

Suguru doesn’t try to think too much about why he did that in the first place; he doesn’t know Satoru, has nothing to do with him and there is certainly no obligation to care for him and yet—the thought of letting Satoru leave, letting him go back into a world where the only safe option for an emergency pick-up might be out of the country sits wrong with Suguru.

Satoru is very quiet behind him and it stays like that for long enough that Suguru turns to look over his shoulder. Satoru is staring at his phone, his face slack with the same surprise as before and Suguru’s heart squeezes when he sees Satoru’s lips shake.

“That’s a joke, right?” Satoru asks, clearly pushing it all away and giving Suguru a smile that tries to convey that he looked right through him.

Even though there’s nothing to look through.

“Try it,” Suguru simply gives back and does not startle when his phone starts ringing not even a moment later.

“You’re serious,” Satoru breathes out behind him and again, there is that itch in Suguru’s fingers to reach out for him, soothe him in any way he can.

Suguru wonders if there’s something wrong with him.

“Of course I am. If you insist on doing stupid stuff,” he says with a shrug and this time he does startle when Satoru steps close to him, presses against his back as if he had done it a thousand times already.

“What if I call you in the middle of the night?” Satoru wants to know and Suguru lets out a measured breath.

“Then I’ll see if I can find someone who takes over the bar for however long it takes me to get you,” he gives back, doesn’t think too hard about the promises he is making right now but just the thought of not doing it makes him feel vaguely sick.

“What if I pester you all day long just for the heck of it?” Satoru asks next and Suguru lets out a snort at that.

“I’m kind of expecting that, though in the dreadful kind of way,” he explains and laughs even more when Satoru pokes him in the side.

“And what if I only come to your bar to make stupid decisions?” Satoru wonders and Suguru sighs.

“It’s your back that’s going to get ruined on the couch,” he easily gives back and Satoru hums.

“Mh, maybe I’ll send you a new couch then,” Satoru says and Suguru groans.

“Please don’t.”

It’s—strange, how domestic it all feels, how right and familiar, as if Satoru has always been there, right at his back when Suguru makes breakfast, but Suguru refuses to think any more on that. He doesn’t know if Satoru feels it in the same way he does, isn’t even sure if he wants to, and he certainly doesn’t know how to explain it should Satoru not.

“How else am I going to say thank you?” Satoru asks, his head now on Suguru’s shoulder as if it belongs there and who knows. Maybe it does.

Suguru doesn’t know anymore.

“Maybe by not getting drunk anymore and putting yourself at risk?”

“But will I get to see you again if I don’t?” Satoru asks, the hint of a grin on his face and Suguru loses the fight with his hand, because he reaches out to ruffle Satoru’s hair.

It’s just as soft as he imagined it to be.

“You have my number, idiot, you know where I work and you know where I live now. Hard to not get to see me again, don’t you think?”

“Mh, true,” Satoru hums out and then looks down at what Suguru is making. “Breakfast, just for lil old me?”

“More for me, but you can have what I can’t eat,” Suguru shoots back, as if he always bickered with Satoru like this, as if this is simply his normal state of being and for now Suguru decides to just go with the flow.

Satoru is warm against him, he seems to be an alright guy—fucked up life excluded—and Shoko does tell Suguru that he needs to get out of his comfort zone more.

This is very much still in his comfort zone, despite everything, but he guesses Shoko will appreciate the thought, if nothing else.

“Thank you,” Satoru mutters after a moment, barely audible over the bacon sizzling in the pan and Suguru knows that this is not about breakfast.

“Always,” he gives back and he’s surprised to find that he truly means it.

“I’m going to shamelessly abuse this, just so you know,” Satoru tells him, as he pulls away, spilling himself into one of the kitchen chairs and grinning at Suguru.

“Oh, I expect nothing less,” Suguru sighs out, already dreading what he got himself into and yet feeling more at home with Satoru right there than he ever has.

He wonders just how far Satoru can push it before he changes his mind about that, but Suguru guesses he’s going to find out soon enough, if Satoru’s bright smile is anything to go by.

(Satoru can push and push and push and it never gets too much for Suguru. He has to admit that a few weeks later when Satoru invites himself to live with Suguru and Suguru starts to fantasise about rings on their hands. It doesn’t stay a fantasy for long.)

#bt writes #jjk #satosugu #geto suguru #gojo satoru #no curses #bartender geto suguru #fluff #hurt/comfort #caretaking #low-key reincarnation vibes #strangers to lovers speed-run

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