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quietlyimplode · 11 months

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Black Widow Fest 2023 - Day Seven

Mirror, Mirror.

Warnings: dead dove. child abuse, child death (red room)

Word count: 2694

Pairing: nil. Natasha Centric.

A/N: truthfully, this has been a hard one to write but as it got going it got easier. Borne of beautiful artwork by @lightmotifs and a conversation about Natasha looking at herself in the mirror, spawned.. well, this. A five parter of times Natasha looked at herself in the mirror. So please heed the warnings. <3 (also this was supposed to be the last fic of the years bwf but I had to add in Kiss the Dread) As always your comments and support gives these fics life. <3

The scariest thing I had to encounter,

Wasn’t a ghost, or a scary monster.

It was the reflection, I saw as I looked in the mirror.

The moment I had to face,

All the dark parts, I tried hard to erase

Yet as I looked a bit closely, at the eyes staring back at me,

I realised they were still there,

Untouched and unfazed.

Waiting for the day to be let out of their cage.

- Reflection (S.S.W)

1/ Ohio

Touching the bruise softly, Natasha watches her face wince in the mirror. It doesn’t hurt, it stings, maybe that’s the sensation she’s feeling.

She’s old enough to know that she won’t be going to school tomorrow, because they ask questions about those sorts of of things.

Melina had promised to show her how to put make up on bruises, but she’d left in the hours of the morning with Yelena, leaving Natasha and Alexei together.

“Let me teach you something new,” he’d laughed, grabbing her wrist and pulling her away from her book.

“Don’t let the American language corrupt your mind.”

She’d tried to pull her wrist away, but he’d held on, and it was only when she trailed behind him, did she smell the vodka on his breath.

Whatever he had planned to show her, he wouldn’t remember, not being as drunk as what he was.

“Sambo is a man’s sport, but you will learn,” he’d said.

Natasha knows the bruise on her face isn’t the only visible one, but if she thought about what really hurt, her back would be top priority.

She takes her tshirt off to see if it has the same coloured hue as her eye. She takes the chair and puts it under the door so that Alexei does not wander in, and then twisting in the mirror, she catches a glance at her back.

It’s as she suspected, bruises mottling down her spine from where he’d picked her up and crashed her down.

His laugher had made her smile, even as she winced in hurt.

“Come on Natasha, show me how the Red Room girls defend themselves.”

She didn’t really know how to react, and so had thrown a half hearted punch, before he picked her up and threw her again.

Natasha wasn’t sure when it had turned, his laughter turned serious and she’d missed the cue for his anger. Suddenly, his attempt at playing, mutated and as she’d got up again, he pushed her down.

“I win,” he said conversationally.

She missed the warning in his voice as she stood back up.

Natasha tried not to cry when he open hand slapped her in the face, the sound shocking her more than the hit, and she’d stayed down.

He stood over her, grabbing the nearby bottle and taking a swig.

“I win,” he snarled, “I will always win.”

And then stalked off to find a corner to drink some more.

She’d only moved when she’d heard his loud snores coming from the bedroom, and had risen on shaking legs, making her way to the bathroom to assess the damage.

The mirror doesn’t lie, she thinks as she stares at herself, poking softly at the swelling, wishing quietly for a way to swap places with the mirror version of herself.

2/ Location Unknown. Russia.

They’re lined up like they always are, and take their places on the bar. The distance between them is measured and they’ve done this often enough to know exactly what to do.

Madam strikes her switch and the music starts.

Natasha follows the movement and lets her mind wander. It comes with such ease that she no longer even has to think about it.

Today feels different, but she can’t figure out why.

Madam, perhaps looks more strict, but she hasn’t said anything, hasn’t corrected anything, has let them follow the music without yelling or hitting them with switch to correct movement.

The longer it goes on, the more it feels wrong.

There’s no talking.

They breathe hard as training continues longer than it should.

She shares a glance with the other girls, and she knows everyone is feeling the strangeness.

Legs shaking they’re lined up again, and at last; Natasha thinks, they can go into the lunch hall and eat.

Except they don’t.

They’re sat, facing the mirror in the hall, and Natasha takes the opportunity to look at the other girls in the reflection.

Something she rarely does.

They all look as tired as she does.

They all look nervous at the change in routine.

Even those that know how to mask their faces, have shifting eyes and clenched fists.

She stares at herself, and takes her demeanour in, focusing first at relaxing her face, making her features become stoic and straight faced. Next she relaxes her shoulders, keeping her breathing even.

Her legs give nothing away, so she puts her hands flat on her knees and keeps her back straight.

No slouching.

Dreykov enters.

Immediately, her hands tighten on her knees but she sees it in the mirror.

Natasha knows now this is going to be a lesson.

And not a good one.

She stares stoically at the mirror.

Reasoning, that she can see everything in the room, and she can focus on herself.

It becomes more important when Anabelle is dragged in by her hair.

Natasha’s heart sinks.

They knew she was missing in the morning and had gossiped about her whereabouts. They’d concluded that she was in medical.

Because no one would be stupid enough to do what they assumed she had done.

As Dreykov starts to talk, Natasha’s heart sinks further.

She’d tried to escape.

They’d caught her at the border of the forest.

Glancing quickly at her, Anabelle seems to know her fate, her clothes ripped by what Natasha assumes is handiwork of Dreykov’s dogs.

She turns back to the mirror.

If she watches the mirror, she can make it seem like she’s watching an American movie.

She’s not here.

It’s not happening in front of her.

The mirror shows all the horrors, the monologue from a villain.

It’s just a movie, Natasha tells herself, nails digging into her knees.

Nails pieces her skin as the gunshot goes off.

She doesn’t want to look.

Dreykov’s voice is nothing in the back of her head as she watches the blood spread on the floor.

Staring stoically forward, she watches the others stand, numbly; she does the same.

She takes one last look in the mirror, and the scene of horror, and knows the truth that it holds.

3/ Location Unknown. America.

The interrogation room in Shield is simple.

Table.

Chairs.

Handcuffs holding her wrists on the table.

Two way mirror.

She wonders idly how many people sit behind that mirror, how many are evaluating her, if Clint Barton is watching too.

Maria Hill, the SIC of Shield, crosses her legs again and waits.

“We can make this more uncomfortable,” she states.

Natasha doesn’t doubt it.

“But Barton has assured us that you would cooperate, and abide by the rules of your surrender.”

Natasha nods.

Stares at the two way mirror.

“I will,” she speaks to it.

She has no interest in Maria, and is willing to talk, but there’s a certain anxiety that comes with divulging her country’s secrets.

If they find her, she’s dead, but she was already dead anyway.

She wishes she could see him through the mirror.

Instead, she just sees her own face, dead eyes staring back to her.

“Tell us about Bali, and your role in the assassination of American diplomat,” Maria repeats.

Natasha frowns.

“How do you know that was me?”

Maria bristles.

“Was it?”

Natasha doesn’t have enough information to know how much they know. If she lies, or tells less than they truth, and they know more than she tells them, there’s not telling what they’ll do.

It’s not a winnable game unless she answers their questions with more questions and gauge her response from that, she could perhaps play it that way.

It seems too hard though.

And she’ll let Clint down.

After all he went through to get her out.

She looks to the mirror again, and finds her eyes pleading.

Turning back to Maria and sighing, she uses the mirror as an anchor.

“No one ever assumes that the woman in a dress is a threat.”

The tiniest of smiles crosses Maria’s face, and it’s more like a softening of features than anything else.

“I passed him twice, once to slit his femoral artery and the second to make sure he’s dead.”

The clanking of the handcuffs make her brain short out alongside the anxiety, the fact that she’s in America, talking about missions, is tantamount to death.

Dreykov’s face appears in the mirror and her eyes go wide.

“He’s dead,” she says out loud, and the image fades.

Maria nods.

“Yes, he died, as you’ve stated.”

She’s thankful her fuck up isn’t noticed, despite the fact her heart is beating hard against her chest.

“Do you need a break?” Maria’s asks, the words kind, even if the delivery is not.

Natasha shakes her head, calming herself, as she grounds herself by looking back to the mirror.

If nothing else is real, at least she is.

She knows this by the way she raises her head and her mirror image copies the action.

The way she talks and the image opens and closes her mouth in time.

There’s no delay like in dreams.

Hours they continue, and she grows tired of the constant questions, the interrogation that occurs when her story doesn’t line up with her timelines of events.

It’s just, it’s how she remembers it’s happening.

It’s not like she has the mission reports in front of her.

She’s not even trying to hide lies in the truth anymore.

What would be the point?

They’ll either take her in and help protect her from the last standing Red Room members or they’ll kill her.

In the back of her mind, she doesn’t care about whatever way they go.

She’s dead either way, and being alive never seemed to help anyone.

“Tell me about Ohio,” Maria asks.

But it’s too much.

“No,” Natasha states, staring hard at her.

“No.”

“We’ve been at this for hours, days, handcuffed, toileted like a child, made to wait, been asked the same questions, about the same missions over and over to see if my story varies. It doesn’t, and still you ask.”

Sick of the handcuffs, she slips out of them, and rubs her wrists, a familiar action that feels grounding in the moment, allowing her to continue her rant.

Her mouth speaks, her mind wanders.

They know about Ohio.

They might know about Yelena.

“Either kill me or agree to the terms of my defection.”

She stares at the mirror.

“I don’t care,” she finishes, “I don’t care.”

Despondent eyes look back to her as she hastens a glance.

The door opens and Clint strides in.

There’s a sense of dread and relief simultaneously.

“You’re the one they send to kill me?”

He stands next to her, argues, for her, not against her.

He tells Maria off for keeping her in cuffs, for not bringing in food or water and keeping Natasha in longer than she should.

He sighs and she hastens a look up to the mirror finding their images standing together.

Maybe shes not alone in this.

4/ The Avengers Tower, New York.

The mirrors in the lift are usually easily ignored.

Sometimes she’ll even take the stairs.

This time Natasha looks forward to it.

She wants to see how she looks, wants to see how feral she is.

Blood in her hairline, bruises on her face, she smiles at herself.

For once she feels like the outside matches the inside.

The doors close and it ascends upwards without her having to press a button, and she can’t stop looking at herself.

She did good.

Her body, her mind, her training, for once, paid off.

She got Tony out, and he’s safe because of her.

Getting closer to the mirror, she eyes the way her hair is unkempt, flyaway bits adorn her face, almost lining it, even though it’s all tied up in a tight bun. Not red, but brown this week. Clint had commented and pouted that he missed her hair, Steve reported that he was going to go blonde and Tony called her chameleon. She likes her brown hair, so different to her natural colour.

Next, she looks at her eyes.

Green watches her.

The speckled brown seemingly more, when contrasted with her brown hair.

She likes the way her pupils are wide as she changes her expression with the move of an eyebrow.

Natasha used to do this in the Red Room, practice facial expressions so she could school her face, remember how to look angry, sad, happy.

She touches the scar on her lip softly.

No make up.

She didn’t need it for the fight she fought.

Pale skin, blemish on her chin.

The bruises from the fight coming through slowly.

Since when did she stop wearing makeup daily just to hide who she was? She thinks it’s been months. Only wearing it when needed, when meeting with higher ups.

Here though; she doesn’t need it.

She’s Natasha. Not made up, not fake.

She touches her lips again, swollen, cut.

Pushes it into a smile, a frown, playing with pushing them in and out, watching how the cut expands and shrinks depending on her how she curls it.

The elevator stops, the doors don’t open.

Turning and glancing at doors, she realises Jarvis has recognised she’s entranced.

They’d call it vanity, she’d call it a luxury.

“Thanks,” she whispers, and turns her attention back to herself.

Eyebrows, up and down.

Frown, practicing facial expressions; she feels like a marionette.

Eyes big, eyes small. Sad. Happy.

It’s what it looks like on other people anyway.

She can fake any emotion.

She can pretend.

She’s been doing it all her life.

It doesn’t take much practice.

Being unmasked does.

Years of it.

Sometimes she feels like she’ll never be able to fully unmask and be herself.

Natasha knows the lengths she’s gone to, to hide who she is. Being vulnerable is too hard, rarely worth it.

The select few that know her know her like this, feral, unkempt, truthful.

The more she stares, the more she likes this version of herself.

“Thanks,” she tells empty space around her, “we can go now.”

The elevator starts, and delivers her to the floor with her room.

Natasha takes one last look at herself, smiles, and leaves.

5/ Norway

Natasha feels the artificial lighting; her head hurting due to the lack of sleep and constant vigilance.

The phone, now sans the SIM card, sits on the sink, and she stares heavily, taking in every part of her.

So tired of running, missing the stability she’s had.

Weak, she calls herself.

How could she forget the trials and lessons of her childhood?

She should have known that it would inevitably fall apart.

It was always going to end like this, with her alone, and being tracked by people she once considered allies.

“Once a traitor, always a traitor,” Rumlow had once whispered in her ear, and she’d tried to not take it to heart.

The thing is, she’d always known, she only needed to stay true to herself.

Her own morals.

She’d once told Clint that that only person she could trust was herself.

He’s told her that he wished she’d change her mind on that.

Perhaps for a time she did.

Maybe at the tower; maybe for that short period of her life where Tony showed her tech, Steve showed her how to draw and Bruce taught her how to cook. Times that seemed much simpler.

Now.

That’s gone.

The only person you can trust is yourself, she scalds herself, frowning in the mirror.

The mirror doesn’t lie.

The mirror holds truth.

Reaching out for herself she touches it gently.

She is real and not alone.

She has herself, and she knows the power of that.

#bwfest2023 #natasha romanoff #black widow #my fic #heed warnings #black widow fic #Natasha Romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff fic #red room #Natasha Romanoff x #clint barton #black widow movie #alexei shotstakov #the avengers

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toxicanonymity · 4 months

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My dearest toxic, have you ever written a fic where Joel gives reader a facial? 🫣 Or would you ever consider throwing one in somewhere ? Just a thought..... Be the change you wish to see in the world....

There is a dark facial in Caught, and I will also keep this thot in mind going forward 👀 💦

#toxask #dark facial #lol #HEED WARNINGS #totally in my queue zone

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egophiliac · 3 months

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don't think I'm not still deep in the episode 7 brainrot. because OH BOY AM I

(also one more extremely, obnoxiously self-referential thing, I'm -- I'm so sorry)

#art #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland spoilers #twisted wonderland episode 7 spoilers #twisted wonderland episode 7 part 7 spoilers #twisted wonderland book 7 #twisted wonderland book 7 part 7 spoilers #and so ends the saga #(this time for real i promise)#malleus post-episode 7: shroud...i should have heeded your warnings...now tell me more about how i may hunt this elusive 'snipe'#alas poor puppies :( i'm glad they had a little aside about how they can fix them after this whole mess #let ortho have his dogs!#man i love that this has come down to malleus vs technology though #MY FAVORITE #ortho: you can destroy the shell that links me to this mortal world...but can you select the CORRECT DOWNLOAD LINK???#malleus: (downloads a billion viruses and dies instantly)#also i'm probably the only one who thinks idia complaining about his own mental tartarus prison is funny #but there we go #idia has two modes and two modes only #he's either in the middle of a metaphor where he finally forgives himself for his brother's death and takes charge of his own destiny #or he's like 'fuck yeah i'm about to get isekai'd into the internet! (immediately falls over making dying whale sounds)'#wait no he has a third mode: actively suffocating because silver and sebek won't stop squishing him #look he's just delightful no matter what's going on okay

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anotherqueersnailowner · 2 months

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hey here's a friendly warning

If I hear anyone of you claim that the A in LGBTQIA+ is for allies and you don't mention the Actual Fucking Queer Identities it actually stands for I will teleport into your room and beat the shit out of you

#just a reminder this isn't a threat but a warning #so really it's not my fault if you don't heed it and thus pay the consequences #arospec #acespec #aromantic #asexual #agender #aromanticism #aroace #aro #lgbtqia #queer #ace #aroflux #a is for aspec

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ministarfruit · 3 months

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pleased to announce that I have finished omori and feel very normal about siblings right now

#omori #omori omori #omori mari #y'all. who recommended this game to me I just wanna talk #FICTIONAL SIBLINGS ARE MY WEAKNESS OKAY #no more chatting in tags I need to go sit by the river for 240 years #whew. what a ride #yeah. play omori. BUT HEED THE WARNINGS. but play omori

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cemeterything · 2 months

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greek yoghurt will take hold of you and you will resent its absence

#🐉#heed my warning

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furiouskettle · 1 year

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SONBOY!!!!!

Guillermo del toro’s Pinocchio was WELL worth the wait!!! I adore this interpretation of the character so so so much.

#kiwidoodles #pinocchio #gdt pinocchio #guillermo del toro's pinocchio #sebastian j cricket #coraline's gotta make room for the next stop motion movie to traumatise kids with lol #I highly recommend goin in as blind as you can #do heed content warnings tho if you need to.#anyway im sitting on some art ideas but they go into spoilerish territory so they can wait a week or so

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ogpromiscuouspaperplanes · 4 months

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WHODUNIT but it’s increasingly difficult because the workplace all shares similar paint jobs

some weeks later:

#valveplug #my art #this post just shows I will rub sentinel up against anyone his ass is NOT special 🤷🤷🤷#idfc. he gets around and you know what good for him #but man #heed the warnings of the crack kids au ugh how many does this man have now?????? who KNOWS #sentinel prime #ultra Magnus #cliffjumper #blurr #jazz

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offbeateurobeatmiku · 1 year

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how i felt going from g witch episode 11 to episode 12

#it's my own fault tbh #like i did not heed the warnings about gundam's tone at all #i havent had a fucking wham moment like that since episode 3 of madoka #g witch #g witch spoilers #gundam witch from mercury #gundam witch from mercury spoilers #witch from mercury #witch from mercury spoilers #mobile suit gundam the witch from mercury #mobile suit gundam the witch from mercury spoilers #yeah that'll do for tags #idk what the main one for this show is

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staff · 1 year

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tumblr tuesday: goblin appreciation post

Last week was goblin week. This week, you get to feast your eyes upon the spoils of goblin week. Don't say goblin week doesn't spoil you. Honor goblin week, and goblin week shall honor you.

@evandahm

@thebeardlyben:

@fox-teeth:

@pitofsquids:

@toadlett:

@peikonlainen:

@malacandrax:

@michaeldrawrrett:

@goblinsgoblinsgoblins:

@snowwraith:

@oddsbod:

@littlemure:

@kiiro-art:

@leona-florianova:

@ghouleebones:

@pradaldi:

@warrenbutgnome:

#tumblr tuesday #goblin week #tag yourselves #goblin mode #goblin art #goblincore #character design #creature design #comics #art #illustration #long post #many goblins #some little odd bodies #so if you find that difficult #heed this warning:#weird creatures #are here

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cilil · 8 months

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Which of the Yandere!Valar would be worst for you to reject?

𝓐𝓝 ~ Hmm... interesting question! I've given this some thought and decided to list a few of them plus the reasons why (hoping I understood what you meant correctly, as in which Valar would have the worst reactions - if not feel free to send another ask X))

𝓣𝓦𝓼 ~ Yandere, possessive and obsessive behavior, hints at violent behavior, emotional and psychological manipulation, unhealthy and abusive relationships

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Melkor

Probably the most obvious answer. Melkor is particularly obsessive and possessive and doesn't take no for an answer, believing that no one has any right to deny He who arises in Might, the true King of Arda. His love can turn into hatred in a heartbeat, and he will do whatever it takes to claim you as his.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Varda

The Queen of Stars and Lady of Light is not only revered, but also feared for a reason. She's used to being adored by everyone and admired as the most beautiful being in Eä, so your rejection would be incomprehensible to her. How could you possibly deny her? And what most people don't know about Varda is that her wrath burns just as bright and hot as her stars, and she can be very vindictive.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Námo

Námo never forgets and has power over fate and death. What a grievous injustice you have committed by rejecting him... but he knows already it won't matter. Because in the end, once death claims you, your soul will fall into his grasp - for eternity if that's his verdict. Even if you aren't mortal, all it takes is a curse for death to eventually find you after all. You can't escape Námo, no matter how hard you try.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Irmo

To reject Irmo would already be quite a feat, as the Master of Desire has countless tricks up his sleeve to woo you. But even if you do, he too (much like his brother) won't let you escape. Irmo will invade your dreams, twisting them to suit his purposes, and slowly drive you insane with dreams, visions and illusions until you yearn for the sweet relief of his embrace.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

tag list: @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @singleteapot @wandererindreams

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quietlyimplode · 2 years

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leave everything but your bones behind

Whumptober 2022: day 29 - better me than you

Warnings: therapy talk (a lot of it) / confrontation of intrusive thoughts / discussion of suicidal thoughts

Word Count: 2.6k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.

A/N: long one. Heed warnings. Apologies for the delay. Not sure when the 30th will come. Almost there.

Main Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

———

They take the car back to his apartment.

He contemplates whether it should be her apartment or the tower but in the end he decides that he’d like some home comforts too.

Clint likes his apartment, his couch and bed. He likes the way it opens up to the balcony that he can reach the roof with and all the little intricacies of home.

It’s his own space.

The tower is great and it’s served so many purposes to keep all of them safe but now; he thinks they just need quiet.

Home is quiet.

She’s silent, apart from the audible breathing through her mouth. Her nose likely blocked from the tears shed.

He reaches across and grabs her hand, driving like they always do with one hand in each other’s.

“Will you talk to someone?” he ventures as he rounds the corner into the car park.

“I suppose.”

Natasha’s voice is quiet, far away.

He offers his phone and the text from their psychiatrist with a link to a secure video call.

“Now?” he asks, knowing he’s put her on the spot.

He could kiss Tony for his skills at making people do what he wants with money. Sometimes money doesn’t solve things but it does make access to resources a hell of a lot easier.

“How’d you manage that?” she asks, handing back the phone.

“Tony.”

“Of course.”

Natasha grasps her hands together, thumb touching her nails, that she rubs over and over unconsciously.

They walk up the stairs in unison, as they have so many times before. He opens the door and lets himself in, closing it behind her.

He offers her water that she takes with a nod.

“She’s ready whenever you are to call.”

Natasha takes the phone and stares at it. Puts it down and then picks it up.

She sighs.

“I can’t.”

Clint can’t stop thinking.

“I saw you standing by the water, I thought you were going to jump.”

He needs her to make the call.

“I was,” she admits.

“I felt like I was drowning without the water.”

Clint offers her the phone again.

“And now?”

She takes it.

“The feeling comes and goes.”

“Do you think you can?” if not, Clint thinks he’s going to make the call, not for her but for him, to help him process what he’s seen; what he’s done.

“Ten minutes?”

It’s a reprieve whilst she gets a hold of herself; it’s something he can give her. Setting a timer on the phone, shows her.

Sad eyes look at him for some sort of direction.

“Can we patch your thigh whilst we wait?”

Leaving the room, he keeps an eye on her grabbing a pair of clean pants and then rummages in the kitchen for his first aid kit.

“It’s not that bad,” Natasha tells him, taking off her pants, the blood dried.

“Your stomach?” he asks.

She looks to him in confusion.

“The burns?” He clarifies.

Natasha lifts her top, the healing blisters just now white with a thin red line around them. She gives half a smile.

Reaching up gently, she touches the cut on his nose, and the bruises that litter his face and chin.

“How’s your face?” she asks, grimacing.

“Better than yours,” he grins. Her bruises are healing already but still the dark marks stay.

“I’m sorry,” she says pulling her hand away.

“Don’t be,” he placates.

Gently, he wipes the dried blood away, the skin peeled back, almost flayed as he wonders what she was thinking when she did it. The scar tissue still seems thick underneath.

“God you did a good job,” he mutters.

Natasha watches him carefully, not pulling away and holding her leg down as he dresses the wound.

“I don’t remember doing it,” she admits.

He finishes with a bandage and sits back on his heels helping her pull her pants on over her feet.

“How worried should I be?” he asks, glancing at the timer.

Five minutes.

“How bad do you think it is?” he asks.

Met with silence, she doesn’t answer straight away.

“I don’t know. Some minutes are better than others, and then, I’m drowning again. It feels like I can’t breathe or like I’m so dizzy I can’t stay upright.”

She sighs as the timer goes off.

Holding his phone, she clicks on the link.

The therapists face appears almost straight away. Natasha’s hand reaches for Clint’s and squeezes hard.

“Hello Natasha. Hello Clint,” she says, her hair in a high bun, artificial light alighting her face.

“I’m sorry,” Clint begins, feeling bad that it’s likely some ungodly hour where she is.

“Don’t be sorry,” she dismisses, waving her hand.

She’s just as Clint remembers, kind but serious and no nonsense.

“It’s urgent,” he tries to justify, still feeling bad that he’s put her out and made this happen.

“So I heard. I’m sorry, I only have half an hour before I need to go, but we can talk more tomorrow. I think it’s good that we start, okay?”

Natasha body is fixed but even she nods with Clint, leaning slightly forward.

“There’s ugh… there’s a lot that’s happened.”

Clint starts, looking to Natasha.

The therapist looks to Natasha to continue,

“To you?” she invites,

Natasha nods minutely.

“She was telling me that she’s living minute to minute,” Clint breathes, unsure how much of the conversation to divulge.

Biting her lips, Natasha gives a half shrug.

“Sometimes it feels like that.”

The therapist takes it as an opening, and seems to know just what question to ask.

“What happens when you’re not feeling right?”

“She was standing by the water, ready to jump,” Clint can’t stop the words tumbling out of his mouth, much to the surprise of the two women.

“No I wasn’t,” Natasha rebukes.

“Yes you were,” he argues.

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

“There’s been some intrusive thoughts,” Natasha clarifies, but keeps it to herself the extent of the damage they’ve been causing.

“Are they sticking with you?”

Clint’s leg starts to bounce, his anxiety spiking.

“Now? No. They’ve stopped for now.”

He hopes it’s the truth. He hope she remembers the rules of therapy.

“Can you pin point what made them come?”

Natasha opens her mouth but Clint can’t help the words that cut her off, they tumble out of his mouth like vomit.

“She cut her leg,” he tells the therapist.

“What is this telling on me?”

He almost laughs at Natasha’s indignation, it’s the first time in a while she’s been angry or derisive at him.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

Natasha takes a deep breath, knowing this is the start of something hard.

“How much do you know of what’s happened in the last eight weeks?” she asks.

The therapist nods at them both.

“Some, but I’ll need to hear it from you. You know how this works.”

They do.

Natasha almost snarls at the thought.

The therapist seems to sense it.

“What’s been the worst bit for you? What part of the day is the hardest?”

She knows what she’s doing; breaking it down. It’s an old trick they used to do when healing felt to big, the enormity of it too much.

“Everything,” she says, honestly.

Then.

“No that’s a lie,” and it is. Natasha knows that she can separate it. She thinks of the times when she’s been okay, and the times that seem harder.

“I think at night, when I’m alone with my thoughts,” she clarifies.

The therapist shakes her head.

“You’re always alone in your thoughts,” she rebukes.

“What makes the night time different? What is it that makes the night harder?”

Silence.

She doesn’t know. Or can’t answer.

“Does it make it harder to sort through them?” she prompts, “or is it that they seem more harsh when you’re trying to rest?”

Natasha can’t think. Can’t formulate a sentence to save herself.

“When they’re trying to do battle,” she tries, looking to Clint to help her.

“Can you talk back to them?” he asks quietly.

It’s not a new thought.

“I did, I think.”

She turns to the therapist.

“What do you tell them?” The woman asks.

“I thanked them for keeping me safe,” Natasha says honestly.

“They wanted.. There was something they wanted to do, and I didn’t want to…” she tapers off. She doesn’t want to tell Clint that she wanted to kill him and run. All she ever wanted was to make sure he was safe.

Fear and embarrassment make her face burn.

She must see it.

“Our thoughts aren’t all of us,” the therapist clarifies kindly. This is not the first time they’ve had this conversation.

“Do you think you can keep pushing it away?”

“Sometimes.”

“If you can’t, what can you do?”

Natasha freezes.

Oh god, what if she can’t? What if she had killed Clint? What if in her impulsivity, she had done something that was irreversible?

Her breathing quickens as all the possibilities of what could have happened start running through her head.

“I don’t…” she starts, “I don’t..”

Clint squeezes her hand hard.

“Tell Clint?” She offers.

“And?”

She bites on her lip.

“Write it down?”

They’re the right answers, she’s sure.

“Do you still have the cat?”

Liho. Liho’s with Tony, she thinks.

“Yeah.. Yes,” she says, a vague memory of this conversation.

“Tell the cat?” The therapist prompts.

“Liho?”

She feels aghast.

“I couldn’t tell her those things.”

She could never tell the Cat.

“So why do you think it’s okay for them to sit with you?”

Natasha knows why.

“I don’t…” she starts.

“Because it’s me.”

“It’s hard.”

Everything feels hard.

“I know,” the therapist tells her.

“Do you feel suicidal?”

The question shocks Natasha.

She’s fought so so hard to be here.

She doesn’t want to die. She feels it’s not the same as not wanting to live though.

Not wanting to struggle through each day.

“No. No.”

It’s true, she doesn’t. Even if the voices prompt it.

“You don’t have a plan?”

The therapist looks at her intently through the screen.

“No,” the words are confident. She doesn’t.

“You would tell me?”

Would she?

“Yes,” she supposed, the words not confident.

The therapist looks at her until she looks down.

“I don’t, I would.”

The words more confident this time.

She nods.

“Clint, how are you?”

His eyes widen, the question unexpected.

He can feel the shaking of his hands start and overwhelm threaten.

“I’m fine,” he squeezes out.

“You’re worried?”

She can read his mind, he’s sure.

“Yes.”

He can’t look at Natasha.

“That she’ll get lost… that she won’t come back.”

The therapist is silent, waiting. Clint hates it. He knows she does it on purpose.

“That she’ll leave, and I won’t be able to find her.”

The therapist nods.

Clint sniffs, biting down hard on his lip, holding back the onslaught of emotions that threaten.

Natasha reaches under the table and grabs his hand, holds it as tight as she can.

He hangs his head unsure what to say, his greatest fear unveiled.

The silence in the room feels big.

“Natasha?”

The therapist says her name and she takes her eyes off Clint to look at the screen.

“I need to go soon, but I need you to know some things.”

She likes the therapist, likes how clear she is with her communication.

“You’re still figuring out how to live given all the heaviness you’ve faced recently. So many things have changed. There is more to life than pain, than the hurt you’ve been through, but I fear it’s not over yet. Is there anything you want to talk about right now?”

Natasha is so tired. So over talking. Her answer is slow, but one she can sit with.

“I’m not ready to talk about it yet. “

It seems to be the right answer for everyone.

The therapist smiles.

“That’s okay. We have time.”

She glances at the time.

“I’m going to call through tomorrow at ten.”

She nods.

“Homework,” the therapist laughs, “there’s always something right?”

Both Clint and Natasha grimace. Although used to the way this woman works, they haven’t had to do this in a while. They haven’t stopped holding hands.

“Stay in your comfort zones, for now, it’s important. Recalibrating yourselves and your needs, is where we need to start. Your comfort zone is where you’re going to find something that makes you smile, genuinely, conversations with each other, with friends, and those close to you, getting absorbed into something so you forget your struggles, and the heaviness and pain of what you’ve been through.”

“Those thoughts? Let them pass through. You too, Clint. You’re so worried about Natasha that you’re on tender hooks, and eggshells. Say them out loud, tell each other, make it ridiculous, tell the cat, write it down.”

She takes an audible breath.

“I’m sending through a prescription for sleeping tablets, the same ones you’ve used before. Take a quarter tonight, half tomorrow and then a full tablet the day after. You can taper back down but we’ll talk more about that over the next couple of days.”

He can feel Natasha flinch at the mention of medication.

“If you don’t want to or can’t take it, then you need to set aside time for the meditation exercises we’ve discussed before, but Natasha? You need sleep, and this will be easier than the control that takes for the mediation to work. It’s important, you hear me? You too Clint.”

She glances at her watch.

“I’m sorry I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Think about what I’ve said, okay? One day we’ll talk on not so serious circumstances.”

She smiles, “talk later,” she says, and hangs up.

Clint collapses against the couch, thankful he’s in his own apartment and the comfort of it.

He’s exhausted.

It’s clear Natasha is too.

“You okay?” he asks, knowing the answer.

“No,” she says to his surprise.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry my darkness keeps leaking into your life, I’m sorry I got so lost and you had to find me and save me, again and again. They hurt you and it’s my fault. I didn’t mean to get so lost, I don’t feel like me.”

She starts sobbing into his arms, her body cold as he pulls her towards him.

“He’s dead,” Clint starts, his emotions overflowing too, “he’s dead and I couldn’t save you. I would take it all for you.”

Natasha looks sharply at him.

“No,” she says, voice clear and steady. “Better me than you. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, I would never want you to endure…”

Finally, she feels more in control and clear, the sessions, the burst of tears, his words, all helping her with clarity.

“No.”

She takes a shaking breath.

“They did terrible things to me, then; now. But it’s real and it did happen. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so lost. I am here, I’m not leaving, I’m fighting I swear.”

“I’m not going to leave you.”

Clint nods, exhaustion peaking.

“Can we stay here tonight?” he asks, looking to the promise of his own unmade bed.

Natasha stands and leads him there, pulling out some clothes for her and throwing his pyjama shorts at him.

“It’s like 7pm,” he says aghast. “We haven’t even eaten dinner.”

Natasha looks to the kitchen.

“Do you feel like cooking?”

Clint finishes changing and nods, “I feel like eating. Come on.”

He sticks the Mac and cheese packet into the pan and on the stove top, adding the butter and milk, and stirring it.

“Better than a peanut butter sandwich,” he goads, his voice more steady now, his actions sure.

#whumptober2022 #no.29 #better me than you #intrusive thoughts #therapy discussions #heed warnings #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #my fic #hawkeye #natasha romanoff fic #tony stark #clintasha fanfiction #clintasha fanfic #marvel fic #clintasha fic #avengers fic

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corazondebeskar-reads · 6 months

Text

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

the art of breaking part one | part two

very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 10k

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

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

dividers by @saradika-graphics

NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

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

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

Warnings under the cut:

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

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

Please read responsibly.

I. in media res

-the fracture

There’s one comfort Joel almost never denies you.

Well, never denies himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” he snarls.

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

“Get in,” he says.

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” you cry.

He shuts and locks the gate.

II. from the start

-intact

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did good back there,” he says.

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I doubt that. Try me,” he says.

“What?”

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

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

“And make ya take it?” he guesses.

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

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

“It’s not,” you mumble.

“Speak up, honey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah, cowboy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, please, Joel,” you beg.

“Please who now?”

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

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

You nod. “Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”

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

“Would like more,” you say.

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

“Anything, please, sir.”

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

“I do mean it.”

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

Tears spring to your eyes, but you nod frantically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry…?”

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

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

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

-fissured

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

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

“Take ‘em off and hand ‘em to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“N-no, I am sorry, I mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me what you did wrong today.”

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

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

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

“No, sir.”

“Why’d you argue?”

“I was afraid. I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

Your face burns. “I—”

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

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

“Hmm. Okay, I can work with that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You gonna trust me?”

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

Not that he would.

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

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

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

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

“So?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

-avulsed

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re too good to me,” you mumble.

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

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

“I dunno. It’s nothin’,” he says.

“Please tell me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mind your business,” your dad tells him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you do.

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you finally confess. “But—”

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re shaking, and he pulls out abruptly.

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

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

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

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

“Still disappointed?” he teases.

“N-no,” you pant. “Please hurt me.”

“Beg me properly, greedy little cunt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-broken

The day had started out fine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time would have to be different, though.

It was time to finally break you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—”

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

You start to cry. “I can’t say it.”

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

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

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

“Did you enjoy it?” he says.

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

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

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

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

“Why’d you do that, baby?”

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

“You what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’re you going to do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t wait to take you to The Pit.

-kintsugi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, lip trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

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mikavlcs · 1 year

Text

Shade Astray

Pairing: Ghostface!Tara Carpenter x fem!reader

Summary: Never in her life had Tara met anyone that made her feel like you did. She would make you hers, no matter what it took.

Warnings: graphic violence(!!!), murder, mentions of drugs and suicide, tara’s like genuinely terrifying here (tarafying? sorry), relatively bad pacing, overuse of the word anger and its various synonyms

Word count: 6.1k (sorry)

Notes: ...sorry about this, i just needed to get it out of my system. not proofread bc i was tired of looking at this story lol, but i’ll be back to my regularly scheduled wednesday stories in a few days<3

Masterlist | Part 2 | Part 3

For as long as Tara could remember, she had always struggled with her anger.

It was an issue during her early days. She of course didn’t remember, but her father would always humorously recall how she would scream absolute bloody murder as a baby if she wasn’t fed or if they took her toys from her.

Her patience did grow over time, but her possessiveness only ever got worse.

She treasured the things that she designated as “hers”, always treated them with the utmost care and she hated when others tried to take them from her.

Her family learned very quickly to not touch her stuff without asking. Only a few incidents were needed for them to understand how to respect her things.

Her older sister, Sam, seemed to understand better than her parents, but they learned, nonetheless.

And when she started going to school, it was the same.

Only once did someone make the mistake of taking something of hers. It was first grade. They were out for recess and one of her classmates, Alex, wanted to play with the stuffed animal she brought for show and tell. She said no, but he didn’t listen and snatched it right out of Tara’s hands.

In retaliation, she snapped the action figure he brought clean in half and threw the halves across different ends of the playground.

Alex wailed; she just snatched her plushie back and went back to her spot on top of the slide.

Her teacher was worried by the display, but her parents wrote it off, saying she would grow out of it. If only she were so lucky.

Over the years, her anger ebbed and flowed and changed as she did, but it never left.

Hundreds of pencils and toys suffered at the hands of her rage, but never another person. That simply felt like a line Tara couldn’t cross.

And she did not cross that line.

Not when her father suddenly left. Not when Sam abandoned her for no reason. Not when her mother started drinking and leaving the house for days at a time.

She stayed firmly on the “right” side of the line, but the anger still persisted, strengthening with each person she watched walk out the door and never return.

It was almost funny how the emotion that haunted Tara was more present in her life than her actual family.

At some point, it became a comfort of sorts. Even on Tara’s worst days, days when she couldn’t feel much of anything, she could still feel that simmering anger within her. It grounded her in a way she knew it shouldn’t.

Years began to go by and neither her father nor Sam came back. Her mother’s alcoholism waxed and waned. Eventually, she began to go to rehab, but Tara didn’t really notice anymore. Even when she was sober, she wasn’t really present anyways.

What she did know was that through everything, her anger never faltered. It simply persisted, festering in silence, and at some point, Tara welcomed it.

As she entered middle school, Tara found herself migrating into a group of friends. The group was on the smaller side, consisting of five other members besides Tara herself.

There was Amber, a rebellious self-described “wild card” who loved parties. Wes, a shy, soft-spoken nerd that crushed on every girl he saw. Mindy, a slightly obnoxious film buff that would talk your ears off about her favorite franchises. Chad, a dumb jock with a heart of (mostly) gold. And Liv, a pretty girl with a startling lack of individual personality.

Tara adopted the role of the good, responsible girl. The one that reminded everyone about homework and urged them to study for tests. It was an easy enough persona to maintain.

They weren’t perfect, but they were more tolerable than the rest of Woodsboro and they were fiercely loyal. And weekly group hangouts were much better than just sitting in an empty house.

But these new friends did complicate Tara’s life a bit. When there was no one else around, there was no need for her to try and hide her anger.

Now, she needed to be cautious around others, to make sure the carefully crafted mask she wore around them never slipped. It was hard at first, but she got used to it with time.

The discovery of the Stab franchise changed her.

It was movie night at Amber’s house, the group favorite since her house was huge and her parents were virtually nonexistent. Amber insisted on them binging the Stab movies because she was obsessed and after enough “my house, my rules”, they obliged.

The group watched, Mindy and Wes pointing out every little thing they deemed ridiculous, but Tara was completely engrossed.

She had known about the movies and how they were based on the various real-life Ghostface killings across Woodsboro, but actually sitting down and watching them was riveting.

The movies themselves were fine, all overplayed tropes and cheesy one-liners, but the kills were another thing entirely.

Something about the brutality of them excited her, a mixture of anger and excitement creating a dangerous high that she was already addicted to.

Tara was immediately obsessed.

Immediately when she got home, she watched them all again. Within weeks, she had read every book and article she could find about the murders, absorbing it all like a sponge. She even joined the stupid Stab subreddits.

Her dreams became riddled with blood and gore and her behind that iconic mask. And from her dreams, it permeated her thoughts during the day. She daydreamed about it during class and when something inevitably angered her, it was the first thing she thought of.

The Line, as she had come to call it, could not be crossed in real life, but there were no boundaries she couldn’t cross in her mind.

If someone stirred that anger within her, she simply imagined herself donning the Ghostface mask and carving out their insides with one of her kitchen knives.

For a few years, that was sufficient, just thinking about the awful things she would do was enough to satiate the darkness within her.

Then you arrived.

You moved to Woodsboro a few weeks before the start of junior year. Tara heard about the new town residents, nothing stays secret for long in a small town, but she didn’t actually see you until the first day of school.

She and her friends were sitting at their usual table outside the school. Mindy and Amber were debating about some horror movie they saw, and Tara had checked out about five minutes ago when something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention.

A car pulled up to the school, grey and sleek and entirely unfamiliar to her. Her interest piqued, she watched on as two figures in the front seats talked. The passenger seat opened, and out of it came someone she’d never seen before.

You.

All it took was one look and her world stopped. When it started again, it no longer revolved around the sun, but you.

You waved goodbye to whom she assumed to be your father and scanned your surroundings, hesitance apparent in your mannerisms. She intently watched you nervously thumb the strap of your bookbag, a plan to make you hers already formulating.

It began with something innocuous. Throughout the day, she found that your schedule was similar to hers, and in all the classes you two shared, the seat next to hers just happened to be the only one open.

Tara took the opportunity to introduce herself. You introduced yourself, voice soft and melodious, and already, she wanted to hear it again. She offered to show you around, which you shyly accepted. Before she could say anything else, the bell rang, lapsing the class into silence as the teacher began speaking.

Throughout class, she couldn’t keep her eyes off of you. You were everything she could ever want, and she knew then and there that she would stop at nothing to make you hers.

Within a week, Tara being by your side at school became normal. What was once a mere convenience became routine, and your place in class became rightfully next to her. Somewhat awkward small talk became friendly banter. And Tara finally got you comfortable enough to accept her invitation to sit with her at lunch.

Unfortunately, her friends were also there, but meeting them was an inevitability, and you ended up getting along with them pretty well. A bit too well in some ways.

Wes, of course, took an immediate liking to you. His light blush and stuttered words gave him away instantly, and as much as it annoyed Tara, that wasn’t what worried her.

What worried her was Amber’s behavior toward you. She was always talking to you, always grinning with her arm over your shoulders or a hand on your arm. A look in her eyes that Tara couldn’t—or more accurately, didn’t want to—place.

So Tara took a different approach. She started taking pens and pencils so you would ask to borrow hers, and she happily obliged. Then your class notes started going missing, textbooks disappearing between classes, but Tara always let you use hers.

She began inviting you over to her place under the guise of studying, but inevitably you ended up just hanging out. With some gentle coaxing, she got you to open up a bit.

You ranted about anything and everything, she listened, and you thanked her afterward.

She kept doing that until it became a habit. Until you began seeking out Tara to talk about something that was bothering you, which made her happy.

Tara slowly positioned herself to be the person you could rely on most, the one you could go to about anything.

And for a fleeting moment of time, that was enough—to know that you trusted her more than anyone else in the entirety of Woodsboro.

But, of course, it didn’t last. (It never did.)

You had an odd effect on Tara. You were the first person she had ever met that could calm her deep-seated rage. Any fury she felt at an incompetent classmate was washed away by the mere touch of your hand to hers.

But you also exponentially worsened it. Because even if she hadn’t made an official claim on you yet, you were hers. And she began to notice just how many people had their eyes on you.

The boys she caught leering at you in the halls, the jocks she heard having vulgar conversations about you—hell, even the occasional person that asked you for a pen in class. They all awoke an unprecedented amount of ire within her.

Every time Tara saw someone staring at you during lunch, she wanted nothing more than hit them until the skin on all of her knuckles was split and bleeding. Whenever she heard anyone talking about you, she wanted to reach into their throat and tear their vocal cords out.

She never did, she never once laid her hands on any of those people. But she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.

Tara quickly found herself inching closer and closer to The Line, using all of her remaining control to stop from crossing it.

All of her remaining self-control and morality went out the window when someone finally asked you out.

Tara was the first person you told. And she didn’t know what angered her more—the fact that someone had the gall to try and take what was hers or the fact that the person that asked you out was Amber.

Boiling hot anger bloomed in her chest and spread through her veins.

Tara’s relationship with Amber Freeman was complicated.

In some ways, Amber was Tara’s closest friend. The whole group shared a love for horror films, it was what initially brought them together, but Amber was the only one whose love for the Stab movies rivaled hers. She had even introduced Tara to the franchise. But that wasn’t what made Tara’s relationship with her so different from the others.

Her bond with Amber was special because Amber was the only person Tara had ever met that was like her.

She saw it most in the way Amber looked when she watched the murders in the films. Sure, Amber always loved the gory kills in slasher movies, but something about the Ghostface kills made her more intense. And it only took one glance for Tara to know why.

The acute passion and almost primitive desire she saw reflected in Amber’s eyes when Ghostface slaughtered someone was something she was entirely familiar with.

In that moment, Tara knew that Amber was capable of the same terrible things that she was. And she knew Amber knew it as well.

They never talked about it, just let it linger in the air between them, open and free. Their special connection brought Tara closer to her than any of the others.

But that also made Amber Tara’s biggest threat. The horrifying potential within her made her unpredictable, and while that had yet to actively oppose Tara’s own wants, it was beginning to become a nuisance now.

Because she had seen the way Amber looked at you, knew what that desire in her eyes meant. She was taken with you the same way Tara was.

And she couldn’t accept that.

She wasn’t able to sleep that night. Her anger was so potent that it felt like it had swallowed her whole. Her fists shook violently, a scream she had been holding back for hours bubbled up again and Tara could only curl into herself and swallow it back down.

It was too hot, sweat coated her skin and soaked her clothes. Her fury was burning her alive from the inside out and she ached for something to take it out on, needed anything—even if it was painful to drown the fire inside of her.

More than anything, she yearned to get rid of Amber. Permanently.

She knew she shouldn’t, but once she thought of it, she couldn’t stop. It would be so simple, to just sneak into Amber’s house and gut her. Hell, she even had a costume, nearly forgotten in the back of her closet from Halloween a few years prior.

And if she didn’t do this, there was a chance that she would lose you.

With that realization, the dam broke, her moral walls crumbling under the weight of her need for you.

The Line was the last thing on her mind that night and before she knew it, her plan was fully formed.

Exactly one week before she planned to kill Amber, Tara invited her over for a Stab marathon. Likely around the twentieth one they’d had over the years, but this one was different.

Watching these movies never got old for Tara, and they were always made better by another person that shared her love for them.

But even with that, it was still less passionate, less enthusiastic than those other times. A melancholy had settled in the air. There was a new finality to the rolling credits, and Tara would be lying if she said it didn’t get to her.

She wondered if Amber could feel it too.

On the walk home, Tara was somewhat conflicted. But then she reminded herself that Amber was trying to take you away from her and that was enough to have her seeing red.

Without anymore hesitation, she took a step over The Line, crossing into that horrifyingly seductive forbidden territory, and firmly planted her feet there.

You were Tara’s and she wasn’t going to let anyone get away with trying to take you from her, not even a friend.

The kill itself was easy enough to pull off.

The Freemans were almost never home, leaving Amber to roam the house by herself most nights and she was never the best at remembering to lock the windows. She relied mostly on their cameras to alert her of anything, but even those were easy to avoid if you knew where they were.

She slipped in through a window around the back, swift and silent as she made her way through the house, mindful to avoid the inside cameras when she could.

Amber was in the living room, watching some show Tara didn’t recognize. Her phone sat on the couch beside her, and the sight of it nearly made her sigh. She had debated doing the phone call, but she didn’t have the iconic voice changer and thus, was forced to do without it.

She knew that Amber would be turning in for the night soon, so she waited, lingering in the darkness of the attached kitchen for her moment to strike.

That moment came mere minutes later. Amber turned the tv off and stood, stretching for a moment before heading toward the stairs. Tara gripped the hilt of her knife and quietly walked out. Her heartbeat quickened, perfectly matching her footfalls as she came up behind Amber.

One of her last strides had a bit too much weight behind it, causing one of the floorboards to creak. Amber whirled around and only had time to blink before Tara struck.

She buried the knife right between Amber’s ribs then twisted it sharply, finding a sick satisfaction in the way she felt something crack. Her heart raced as she pushed Amber to the ground, settling on top of her as she yanked the knife out and plunged it back into her, slightly lower this time.

Then she did it again and again and again. Tara would admit that she lost herself a bit, the adrenaline pumping throughout her pushing her into almost a frenzied state as she brought the knife down then back up.

Amber, to her credit, didn’t scream. The only sounds that filled the air were the sounds of the knife piercing flesh and Tara’s labored breaths under her mask.

When she finally snapped out of it, all she could see was red. It was everywhere—on her knife, the carpet, the surrounding furniture. Some had even managed to splatter onto the ceiling. It was oddly beautiful.

Knowing her time was limited, she turned her attention back to her victim. Amber remained silent, only the occasional bloody cough escaping her as she stared at Tara above her.

Tara reached into Amber’s pocket and pulled out her phone, holding it briefly in front of her face to unlock it. Once inside, she opened the security app and remotely shut off all of the cameras in the house. She waited for a moment, ensuring they were off before reaching up to pull her mask off.

Amber’s eyes widened slightly when their eyes met but she didn’t look surprised. If it were the other way around, Tara supposed she wouldn’t be either.

In a way, they both knew this would only ever end one of two ways.

They would either wreak havoc on the town of Woodsboro together, or one of them would eliminate the other. And unfortunately, it had to be the latter.

Tara adjusted her grip on the knife handle, careful not to move the weapon as she held her dying friend’s gaze. Neither of them said anything, they just let everything sit in the air around them until, finally, Amber stopped moving altogether.

Once the warmth left Amber’s body, Tara stood and pulled the knife out of her one last time, cleaning the blood off of it with a quick swipe of her hand per tradition.

She stayed there for another minute then left, making sure to lock the window on her way out.

Later that night, as she waited for sleep to take hold of her, she wondered if she regretted what she did, finally crossing that line after all these years of holding herself back. It took only a few moments for her to find that her answer was a firm and resounding no.

She would mourn the loss of a friend but never regret her decision. Tara was going to make you hers, and she was going to make sure that no one stood in her way.

It took three days for the body to be found.

Considering Amber’s parents were probably somewhere in Europe, they took no notice of their daughter’s sudden silence, but the rest of the group did. They had been on edge since the end of the first day and by the third, you wanted to go over and check on Amber.

Tara stopped you immediately, not wanting you to see what waited in that house, and suggested calling the police to perform a wellness check because “what if it’s something serious?”

Amber’s face was plastered all over the local news within hours. Along with the news that her killer was another Ghostface.

For public safety reasons, the security camera footage was released and immediately caused an uproar. The idiots in the Stab subreddits were clamoring, new theories being posted every hour. Tara ignored them.

Her entire focus after Amber’s death was made public was you.

The entire group was upended by Amber’s passing, but you were distraught. Even if you didn’t return her feelings, Amber was still your friend and her death hit you hard.

She took every opportunity to be there for you. She hung out with you after school when you didn’t want to be alone, invited you over on the weekends when you needed a shoulder to cry on.

In your eyes, the two of you were grieving together, and in some ways that was true.

When you cried, she would always hold you and cry with you. Sometimes her tears were real, sometimes they were fake, but her concern for you was always sincere. And the way you held onto her like a lifeline made her sure that what she did was more than worth it.

Aside from your sorrow, everything was going relatively well. The fraudulent mask of sadness she needed to sustain almost everywhere she went was exhausting but necessary.

She knew she would have to grieve with the pack, and she did it masterfully while also paying special attention to you and your mental health.

Her ever-present anger had also been noticeably dull. It was always tempered when you were around, but even when you weren’t present it was still anemic.

It was actually somewhat peaceful, and she expected it to remain like that for a while.

What she didn’t expect was her sister to suddenly return to Woodsboro.

Tara swore she had never been more surprised when she answered the door, expecting it to be the police, and saw instead her sister standing there. She was taller, a bit rougher around the edges, but she was still the Sam that Tara tried to forget about over the years.

She let Sam in more out of curiosity than anything. Tara wanted—no, needed to know why her own sister had to abandon her for years without even attempting to contact her.

And, admittedly, the explanation was worth her time.

Turned out that her sister was actually her half-sister. They had the same mother but different fathers. Sam’s father was Billy Loomis, one of the original Ghostface killers. Sam ran away because she was scared that she would end up like her father, that she would somehow hurt Tara if she stayed.

So she left and ended up getting mixed up in all kinds of bad shit. (She didn’t specify, but the track marks on her arms told Tara everything she needed to know.) But she heard about the rise of another Ghostface and that convinced her to finally return, for good.

Throughout Sam’s explanation, Tara bit her cheek until she bled and gripped her chair until her knuckles were white.

It was all she could do to not laugh in her sister’s face.

The “darkness” inside of her that she was so afraid of amused her because she knew it didn’t exist. She couldn’t see the potential that either she or Amber held in her sister’s eyes, and that made the entire situation laughable.

Tara couldn’t help but wonder how frightened Sam would be if she found out about what she did, how terrified she’d be if she knew about the things that Tara thought about doing.

Part of her was jealous, to come from such a profoundly blood-stained family legacy sounded incredible, but she knew it was for the best that it was Sam and not her. It would only make her a prime suspect.

So she flooded her eyes with tears and feigned understanding, allowing her sister to hug her for the first time in years.

The words “I forgive you” tasted like ash in her mouth, but the act needed to be upheld.

Sam expressed her want to move back into the house, something Tara was immediately against. But as she thought about it more, she found herself allowing it.

For insurance mostly. If there were more victims, Sam would be able to back up Tara’s alibis about being at home. She would also serve as her backup plan in case things went south.

After all, if the police were to ever suspect her, it would be so easy to implicate the ex-addict daughter of Billy Loomis in her place.

The following months were an adjustment period.

Tara having to relearn how to cohabitate in her house with her sister, the group learning to function without Amber, and the town having to deal with the fact that there was another Ghostface on the loose all at once proved to be…a lot. For everyone involved.

Naturally, Tara managed just fine. She dealt with the hurdles that came with her sister’s constant presence as they appeared and found a rhythm to fall into relatively quickly.

Things with her friends were similar. With more practice, her persona got easier to maintain and as the group began to accept and move past Amber’s death, it became effortless.

You had grown much closer to Tara over the past months. It was obvious that her insistence to be there for you when needed had paid off. You naturally gravitated toward each other, spending nearly every moment together at school.

You were also doing much better, smiling and laughing again like you did before. The effervescence you usually exuded was back and Tara couldn’t be happier.

There was just one problem.

Amongst the chaos, Tara found that the calm that settled in after Amber’s death slowly faded, her anger returning to her with a fiery vengeance.

But her rage was never more apparent than when she was with you at school.

Those guys that ogled you in the halls didn’t simply disappear (as much Tara wished they did). If anything, they only got bolder without Amber’s presence. Some of the stares she saw them giving you were downright disturbing.

And that wasn’t even mentioning the vulgar conversations she overheard about you.

Every disgusting word she overheard in class or in passing while she searched for you in the halls made her fingers twitch toward her side, looking for a weapon she didn’t have.

It was like before, but now that she had crossed The Line it was so much worse.

Now she didn’t simply want them to hurt, she wanted them to die by her hand, slowly and painfully. She wanted to watch the life slowly drain out of their eyes, for them to die with the knowledge that you would never be anyone else’s but hers.

Tara could only hold back for so long, especially when it came to you.

She gave in four months after Amber’s death, almost to the day.

Her second victim was Daniel Holmes, a lanky art club snob that had a crush on you. During Calculus, Tara would see him drawing pictures of you in his notebook.

His older brother found him on his bed with 11 stab wounds and no fingers. He would never draw you again.

Her third victim was Rowan Morlow, your tall and endlessly arrogant chemistry partner who took every opportunity to make you uncomfortable. He flirted with you relentlessly, ended up giving you a stupid poem about how you were “his sun” that always managed to light his world up.

Tara burnt him alive. The police could only identify him through his dental records.

Her fourth, and (for now) final victim was Jason Lowry, a linebacker for the school’s football team. Tara hated him. He was a repeat offender, ogling you in the halls, saying disgusting things about you in class, and always trying to get your attention. He was always on her list, but the others distracted her from dealing with him.

She finally snapped when she overheard him talking to his friends about wanting to drug you at a party you planned to go to that week.

That same night, she stabbed him 43 times and then slit his throat with so much force that she nearly decapitated him.

(Later that week, she convinced you to not go to the party and stay with her for a movie night. Just in case.)

After Jason’s murder, she had to take a step back from Ghostface and lay low for a bit. The media coverage was picking up and the sheriff was getting more and more intense about finding the killer. Especially after Jason’s (deservingly) brutal death.

The police were really starting to crack down, patrol cars were on nearly every street and Tara couldn’t afford to take any chances.

So, begrudgingly, she locked her Ghostface costume away and took a break from the killings.

Her hands still itched for the hilt of her knife when she saw someone’s eyes on you, but you made it manageable. And now that she wasn’t planning murders, she had more time to spend with you.

You seemed just as eager to see her, which pleased Tara. Biweekly hangouts became you coming over nearly every day to watch movies and just spend time together.

You admitted how terrified you were about the Ghostface killer running around Woodsboro and she nearly said that “she would never hurt you” before she caught herself.

It was the truth. Tara would kill herself before she laid a hand (or knife) on you. But she couldn’t say that outright.

Instead, she offered to drive you home after school every day.

And that’s where she was now.

Classes for the day had ended only twenty minutes ago, so there were still tons of students there waiting for buses and parents. She sat in the parking lot, blaring music in her car while she watched for you to appear at the entrance.

Two songs later, you finally walked out the doors. She perked up, about to get out the car to wave you down, but stopped when she saw who walked out with you.

Wes.

He was matching your strides, pulling you to a stop before you could look out to find Tara in the lot.

Leaning forward, she watched him step close, much too close for her liking, and ghost a hand over your arm. Every time you went to look away, to look for her, he pulled your attention back to him.

It made her want to tear his insides out, but she held herself back. So far, the killings had been deemed random. Two murders within the same friend group would look suspicious. Not to mention the fact that Wes was the sheriff’s son. If she killed him, there would be a manhunt.

Before her thoughts could go forward, you looked over and saw her. The way your expression brightened almost made her forget about Wes, but he remained there. Even after you started making your way to Tara, Wes stood and watched you go.

Tara’s palms itched.

The passenger seat door opening brought her back to the present. She turned to see you already looking at her with a beautifully bright smile that she couldn’t help but return.

Momentarily forgetting about Wes, she put the car in reverse then paused. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours.”

Tara nodded. It was the same answer you always gave, and she forced herself to swallow the lingering question of why.

She turned the music down and handed you the aux before she sped off toward her house. The drive was spent with Tara listening to you ramble about your day, your music playing softly in the background.

But even the melodic sound of your voice couldn’t distract her from the nagging thought of Wes and his stupid crush.

She lasted a few more hours before she finally cracked.

The two of you were in the living room lounging on the couch in front of the tv. Sam was out, thankfully, so Tara didn’t need to keep you holed up in her room to avoid her.

Some movie Mindy recommended was playing on the tv, but Tara had long since stopped paying attention, instead focusing on the feeling of your head on her shoulder.

But again, Wes and his stupid blonde hair invaded her thoughts. He was so close, looked so hopeful about whatever he was talking about. She couldn’t help herself.

“So, what was Wes talking to you about earlier?” She tried for a casual delivery and given the way you answered without hesitation, she succeeded.

“Oh, he just wanted to know if we could study for the chem test together. I told him I’d have to check my schedule,” you said, and she could hear the smile you inevitably had in your voice.

A growl bubbled up in her throat, but she forced it out as a breathy laugh. “He totally likes you, you know.”

You only hummed in response. Tara didn’t like that. She needed a definitive answer to how you felt. So she took a more direct approach.

“Do you like him?”

This time, you sat up straight, putting a bit of distance between you to her displeasure. She tried to meet your eyes, but you stayed quiet, not quite looking at Tara. She clenched her fist, nails digging into her palms so hard they nearly drew blood.

“Because if you do, you could always go hang out with him. I wouldn’t mind,” she lied, unable to keep a touch of bitterness out of her voice.

She absolutely would mind. If you left her for him, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to stop herself from slitting his throat—sheriff’s son or not.

You looked at her then, eyes wide, “No, I don’t want to leave. I’d rather be here, with you. I feel safe with you.”

Tara’s fists relaxed, pride swelling in her chest at your admission.

“Besides, I like someone else.”

Surprised, Tara froze. Her anger flared again but she tempered it immediately. She knew she shouldn’t ask, that hearing you say anyone’s name but hers would send her on a rampage, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Who?”

You glanced away, lips pursing as you fiddled with your finger. She couldn’t be upset with you for your lack of answer when she saw the subtle shaking of your hands.

“I can’t say,” you eventually said.

Tara’s jaw clenched, but she kept her voice soft. “Why not?”

You brought your eyes up, not making eye contact but close enough, and bit your lip. Tara could barely tear her attention away from it to hear you whisper, “Because it would ruin things.”

“What?” Tara asked, confusion drawing her brows together. What did that mean? What exactly would you ruin?

Again, you stayed quiet, but a deep blush was rising on your cheeks. Your eyes traveled the length of her face as you stuttered something too soft for her to hear.

Finally, you looked up and met Tara’s gaze and she understood.

“It’s me?” she whispered, her disbelief more than apparent in her tone.

A sharp inhale, then you nodded, slow and shy. That was all she needed.

Without another word, Tara surged forward and crashed her lips into yours, kissing you fiercely. You were surprised at first, but you reciprocated with the same urgency, hands rising to her face. At the feeling of your hands

Tara lifted you onto her lap, slowly running her hands from your thighs up to your hips, slipping her fingers beneath the fabric of your shirt to graze your bare skin. A soft yelp escaped you, but you only moved closer, both of you losing yourselves in each other.

You stayed pressed against her until long after the movie ended.

That night you fell asleep in Tara’s arms. She laid awake, barely able to close her eyes with the overwhelming amount of emotion running through her. You had always heightened her emotions, but now that she’d kissed you, claimed you it was different. More intense. A type of euphoria she’d never been privy to.

But the anger still remained, still thrummed at the very thought of someone else touching you now. Unconsciously, her arms tightened around you.

You were finally hers.

And if needed, she would kill every single person in that godforsaken town to make sure it stayed that way.

#this is bad sorry #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #ghostface!tara #scream #scream vi #jenna ortega #idk what tags to use #pls heed the warnings #like it gets kinda concerning #i promise i'm normal

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