#read warnings of fics!
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Cold Love/Hot Blood
Miguel O’Hara x female reader
Summary: “Between teeth on a broken jaw/following a bloodtrail, frothing at the maw”
Miguel is struck with something that he’s never experienced before
Tags/warnings: smut (18+), oneshot, dubcon by way of pheromones, fingering, overstimulation, squirting, rough sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, size kink, feral Miguel, biting, marking, blood drinking, paralytic venom
Wordcount: 3k
Ao3 link here
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You opened your eyes, blinking at the soft light from the bleary haze. Wincing, you raised your hand to your head. It didn't necessarily hurt, but it definitely felt wrong. What had happened? You were on a mission. That's right. And it had been going so well, until… until the anomaly villain threw something at you and Miguel. What was it? It had such an awful smell to it. And, where was Miguel?
You traversed the rubble of the abandoned building you were in. You couldn't see him. You shouted out for him.
"Here, I'm here," you heard him from the distance. Following his voice, you found him under some pieces of sheetrock from a collapsed wall. He was pinching the bridge of his nose through his mask.
"Geez, Miguel, are you alright?"
"Been better." His voice sounded strained. "Got a transmission from Jess that she's got hands on the anomaly. We'll meet her back at HQ. You go on ahead of me."
"What? No, we have to-" you started grabbing at the rubble to pull it off of him. He caught your arm before you could keep lifting.
"Please," he said, trying to meet your eyes from behind his mask. "Just go."
"What the hell is going on, Miguel? You're not… you're not acting right. We have to get you out of here."
He brought his hands up, holding his head in frustration. "Please, just do it. Don't make me beg."
"LYLA, please check him," you said, the avatar popping up and saluting you.
"No, don't-!" He tried to catch her in the air but she evaded him.
"His heart rate is really elevated but he seems okay otherwise. I think he's being dramatic. I don't detect any major injuries," she reported. You thanked her and she disappeared.
You crouched down to where he was. "What's going on, Miguel?" Your tone was serious.
He tried to hold your gaze for a moment until he swore and looked away. "That bomb that the anomaly threw… it affected me in a way that it clearly didn't affect anyone else, alright? Are you happy now?"
You furrowed your brow. "I don't understand."
He sighed, his breath shaking ever so slightly. "Itwasapheromonebomb." He said it so quickly and quietly.
"...What?"
"It was a pheromone bomb. Just leave me here so I can wait it out. This is so shocking humiliating- I," he sighed again. "Don't make me explain any further."
You blushed, not sure what to say. But you couldn't leave him like that, half-buried and vulnerable. "Can I at least help you up…? I promise I won't make fun of you. I just can't leave you defenseless like this."
He seethed for a moment, considering your offer. "...Fine. Grab this stupid sheetrock."
You did so, lifting it off of him with some effort. He did his best to stand up quickly. Despite his best, though, you could see the source of his embarrassment. He had a rock hard erection, and a particularly desperate one, by the looks of it. It laid upward, reaching towards his abdomen and pushing up against the tight fabric of his suit, straining. The size of him was nothing short of impressive.
You turned your gaze pointedly towards the ground as he moved away from the pile of rubble. Don't react don't react don't react. Could you pretend like you didn't notice? Even though not noticing was impossible, even from a single glance? You swallowed a lump in your throat, your head swimming with unprofessional thoughts.
Miguel turned from you, crouching down, hissing out a slow breath. "Fuck, it's getting worse," he whispered to himself, his body starting to tremble.
You took a step closer, reaching a hand out to his shoulder.
"Your proximity isn't… isn't helping." He admitted without turning around.
You stopped, silently moving your hand away from him. Touching him would surely make things harder.
"Miguel, I don't think waiting it out is an option for you. You just said it was getting worse."
He swore under his breath to himself. "I didn't mean for you to hear that. This is- shock it- this is completely foreign to me. Never been hit by anything like this before, it's s-so intense."
You winced at that, you'd never heard his voice so pained. But, what was the other option? You shivered just to think about it, your body reacting in ways that surprised you. How could you possibly propose helping him without making him think less of you? Would he even want help from you? Across from you, he was in turmoil, on his hands and knees trying desperately to control his breathing.
“Miguel… how can I help you?” It was a foolish question, a loaded question.
“You know the answer,” he replied from over his shoulder, his tone cold. He cried out again. “I- I can’t- can’t do that to you.”
“What if I’m offering?” You asked, a little too quickly, pushing down your fear and embarrassment for even thinking such things.
He turned further to meet your eyes, though you still couldn’t see his from behind the mask. You didn’t even need to see his eyes, his body language was communicating perfectly on their behalf. His muscles were pent up and quivering. Every breath rocked his massive shoulders. “Why?”
You didn’t think he’d ask that question. You searched your brain for an answer. “Because it isn’t your fault. And I respect you enough that this won’t change my mind.”
His thoughts seemed to be diverting to his baser instincts, his voice becoming a growl. “Need you… to be sure. Don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”
“I’m sure,” you said.
In no time at all, he pounced, bringing you to the ground. He was on top of you, his taloned fingers caging in your wrists against the cracked concrete of the floor, your arms above your head. You landed with your legs apart and with him between them, his hips desperately close to yours. Your eyes widened at his feral energy, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. He brought his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling. His exhale was shaky. “You smell so good… always smelled so good.”
Your body grew hot upon hearing that. Always? Had he thought about you in that way before? You smiled to yourself as he nuzzled the nose of his masked face into your neck, his hot breath coming through and ghosting over your skin. You could feel his huge frame shaking around you. He brought his hips down to your pelvis, seemingly being as cautious as possible as he began to grind his hardened length against you. His breath quickened at the contact, and he met you again with fervor, stimulating himself on you. His cock was unbelievably hard and hot, the temperature of him coming through both of your suits to meet your skin and overwhelm you. The feeling of him against you was sending shivers down your spine, the pleasant pressure made even sweeter by the promise of more to come. He positioned himself on top of you in such a way that each rhythmic, grinding rock found your clit and teased it with clothed contact.
You moaned lightly, the sound of it causing him to growl into your neck. You lifted your hips up, meeting him with the same tempo so he could grind into you more thoroughly, your bodies now writhing in tandem. His heavy breathing became panting. "Need to… need to touch you." He picked up his head and released your wrists, one hand steadying himself on the concrete, the other reaching down eagerly.
You got the memo, quickly slipping the pants of your suit down and throwing them aside so he wouldn't rip them off for you. You had at least enough hindsight to know you couldn't go back to HQ looking so disheveled. He dismissed the gloves of his suit and retracted his talons as his fingers found you immediately, honing in on the wet heat of your sex. Two plunged inside as he loomed above you, his muscles shaking again as he wet his fingers with your arousal. You shook right alongside him, your reaction bodily, as your back arched and your legs closed instinctively to hold his hand in place and not let him go. His fingers hooked inside of you, already relentless.
"Soaked," he whispered, almost to himself. The word resonated with a deep, animalistic hunger. Without removing his fingers from your warmth, he sat back on his knees and used his free hand to pry your legs open. "Need to see," he said. He watched the length of his fingers disappear over and over. The large hand that kept your legs wide was squeezing the soft flesh of your inner thigh, and he seemed fixated on the way it was yielding to his rough touches. Nearly everyone was small compared to Miguel, but you… you were different. He had his hands on you, inside of you, the comparison was tangible. You were small, soft, and his. His mind swam with how he would take you, how he would sheath himself inside of you until he bottomed out, how he would desperately fill you with his hot cum and hold your hips up to keep any precious drops from leaking out. It took everything in him to not reach down and start rubbing his impatient cock through his suit, but his fevered brain convinced him to keep his free hand on your leg so he could watch you fall apart from his fingers alone.
He was delirious as your walls started to spasm around his fingers, white hot pleasure pooling in your core, threatening to overflow as he kept up his efforts. The constriction of your muscles bolstered him, and he began to go faster and harder, starting to overstimulate you. You threw your head back, hands wildly trying to grasp at something on the concrete floor but coming up short. He removed his hand from your throbbing sex to start teasing your clit with abandon, and you moaned as your body lifted up off the floor.
"H-holy shit, Miguel," you gasped out. "It's- it's so much."
His hand moved so fast against your swollen clit that you could hardly think. The feeling was electric, and your orgasm was dangerously close. Your legs started to shake and tried to close around him again, but he kept them forced open as he intently watched, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. You came and it utterly racked you, your body shuddering as you cried out, hot liquid spewing from you and drenching Miguel's hand and forearm. You squirted on him, because of him. You thought you should be embarrassed, but he gave you no opportunity.
As your head just started to clear, he recalled his mask into the neck of his suit. You quietly gasped at unexpectedly seeing his face. So strong, angular, and handsome. His red eyes looked wild, his mouth was open, his fangs fully extended. He studied his hand, turning it over so the mess you made could catch the light. As it started to dry down on him, he brought the two fingers that had been inside of you up to his mouth, and he licked them both clean. You gaped at him, almost fully unable to process what was happening.
When he was finished, he turned his gaze from his fingers and back onto you, as you sat up on your elbows to watch him. You saw that his cock was still as hard as ever, still pushing to break free. As if reading your mind, he recalled that part of his suit too as he grabbed your legs and yanked you toward him. He rested his cock over your abdomen, once again reveling in just how much bigger than you he was. The hot weight of his manhood on your skin set you ablaze once more and you eagerly awaited him. He thrusted but without penetrating you, sliding himself over you and wetting his cock on your cum. His exhales quaked with anticipation until he could wait no longer. Even on his knees, he towered over you, and so he needed to tilt your hips up further so your entrance could meet the head of his leaking cock. He shifted his grip to your waist, holding firm as you steadied yourself on your elbows and looked to him with bated breath.
He slowly pushed his hips into you, his cock sinking deep into your pussy. The steady penetration had you reeling. You needed to feel him, all of him. Every inch, all at once. It felt like it took ages for him to finally reach the hilt, but when he did, he waited inside of you for a brief, merciful moment. You basked in the feeling of being so full, so complete. He began to pull himself out of you, leaving you cold and empty for a split second until he slammed his entire length back into you, repeating and repeating at an unwavering pace.
Each powerful thrust reached so deep inside of you that it was nearly painful. Immediately, the head of his cock found your cervix and was hitting it with each hard pump that Miguel delivered. Your eyelids grew heavy as your eyes began to roll back towards your skull. His onslaught was so thorough, every smack of his hips against your pelvis reverberating through every inch of your body. The overstimulation of when he fingerfucked you had carried over, and you were already close to losing control all over again. He felt it too, as he growled in response to your pulsating walls.
"This cunt…." He snarled through his fangs. "This cunt is mine."
"Yours," you moaned, meeting his words a little too quickly.
"Going to mark you… so everyone knows."
"Mark me, Miguel." You agreed, not quite realizing what he meant. He started to lay you down onto the ground without removing himself from you, continuing to fuck you in missionary as he brought his face down to the crook of your neck. Your pulse quickened with excitement. He opened his mouth, his breath making your skin somehow even warmer. You wished that you could've seen the flash of his fangs before what came next.
He bit down on you, hard, and you could feel the course of his venom like molten lava through your veins. When the searing heat reached its crest, a soothing wash of warmth followed in its wake, leaving your muscles loosened and relaxed. Blood started to drip down your shoulder, the wet trickle quickly cooling as it made contact with the atmosphere. Miguel stayed latched to you as his tongue met your skin, lapping at the red stream, determined to consume it all.
You submitted to him fully, allowing him to position you how he saw fit so he could fulfill his feral need. His strong hands snaked around your torso to your back, lifting you up with him as he rocked back onto his knees. He helped you to swing your legs around his slim waist and to drape your arms over his huge shoulders. You let your face settle against his neck, the clean musky smell of him overwhelming your senses. His hands found your hips and he effortlessly lifted you up and down on his cock, fucking himself with your pussy like you weighed nothing at all. You moaned into him as you clenched around his cock, your limp body succumbing to the overpowering feeling of him. You started to shudder as your orgasm claimed you with a white-knuckled grip. You whined into Miguel's neck as it hit you with shock after shock, your vision going spotty while your cunt tightened around him.
He couldn't hold it any longer, and his cock jerked inside of you as he came. You were still getting hit with aftershocks of your own climax, your muscles bearing down to milk every drop of cum that he filled you with. He held you closer and he thrusted himself as far into you as he possibly could, instinctively trying to make sure as little seed would have the chance to leak out of you as possible.
Your muscle control started to slowly come back to you as you and Miguel were chest-to-chest, both of you sweating and heaving. You weakly raised your arms so your hands could tangle with the hair at the nape of his neck. You lingered there for a bit, his strong arms holding you in the place as you played with soft locks of chocolate hair. You finally leaned back to see clarity slowly returning to Miguel's expression, and he looked utterly mortified. He held your gaze as he turned red, removing one hand from your body so he could cover his face.
"Oh my God," he whispered. "What the shock came over me?"
You were struck with sudden fear. "Do you… not remember?" The fact that he was still buried inside you should've been a dead giveaway.
"No, I do," he said, nervously. "I remember getting hit with that stupid bomb, and you helping me, then me wanting to split you in half."
You couldn't help but giggle at that.
"I tried to make sure I wasn't too rough with you. I was still in there, the whole time," he said, taking his hand away from his face to smooth your hair. He stopped when he reached your neck, seeing the bite marks he left. "Guess I didn't do all that well, did I?"
"It's fine. I can take it."
"Clearly," he said, raising his eyebrows, mildly impressed. "Thank you. I… don't know what I would have gone through if you hadn't been so… generous. But… for God’s sake, let’s not go around telling people what happened. We have reputations.”
You agreed, the secret safe between the two of you, the puncture wounds on your neck a silent souvenir.
#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara smut#miguel o'hara#smut#my writing#not beta read#this one was for me tbqh#i didn't really know how to end it so pls be nice to me#but dear god read the warnings on this one#also another sleep token reference? on my fics?? it's more likely than you think#im nervous to post this one ahhhhhhh
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Coraline
Synopsis: Y/n’s childhood and history with her parents has always stayed a secret, and she likes it that way. Until a journalist reveals the truth, and everything seems to come crashing down at once.
young female driver reader x 2023 F1 grid
A/N: a few things for this fic: reader will be 20 years old, had driven for alpha tauri since the beginning of 2022, the 2022 is the same as the 2023 grid, and please look at the trigger warning below.
Trigger Warning: This fic contains abusive parents, talks of eating disorders, neglecting a kid, verbally abusing a kid, signs of depression, and a lot of hurtful comments in general. This fic is not meant to idolize or romanticize having abusive parents or depression. If anyone finds anything particularly disturbing with this fic, do not hesitate to let me know and I will fix it.
tagged: @treehouse-mouse
2023 was supposed to be a good season for Alpha Tauri. The cars looked good, your driver pairing was solid, and the hopes were high for your junior Red Bull team. You could only laugh at the naivety of it now.
Most of the season was exceptional; you and Yuki Tsunoda brought in points almost every weekend, your team was seventh in the constructors championship, and overall, you were having a great time traveling around the world.
This was your second year in Formula 1, and now that you weren’t a rookie anymore, you could have more fun now that you knew what you were doing.
Some people just don’t like others being happy, though.
With less than 10 races left, you walked into the paddock for the Monza Grand Prix Thursday afternoon feeling optimistic. This was the second race after the summer break, and Alpha Tauri was expected to do well in Italy.
Your press officer, Ally, greeted you in your garage, and after saying hello to Yuki, you followed her out of the garage and into the media pen for a press conference.
You walk in to see Lewis, Carlos, Lando, and Fernando and talked quietly with them as the press in front of you get settled. “Everybody ready? All right, first question please” One of the directors asks, as a journalists speaks up.
“Lewis, you’ve witnessed the infamous ‘Monza Curse’ multiple times in your career, do you think the theory is true and will it strike again this year?”
“Um, no” Lewis chuckles. “I don’t believe in the curse, but it would be nice to see someone new finish first today, and if a curse is what it’s going to take, then yeah, why not”
The five of you laugh, not noticing the second journalist beginning to speak. “Y/n, what do you have to say about the recent article published regarding your past with your family?”
You instantly stop laughing, hoping you misheard the man.
“Sorry?”
There’s no way
“The article? That was recently published concerning your past with your parents, what do you have to say about it?” The journalist stared at you curiously while your mind blanked for an answer.
You had no idea what article he was talking about, but if it concerned your past with your ‘family’, you knew it wasn’t anything that should be published.
Suddenly there’s movement in the midst of the media pen, and your press officer emerges from the crowd. “Y/n, come with me” She pauses, seeing one of the directors nearing out of the corner of her eye.
“It’s urgent, I need her” You’d take any excuse to get away from the current situation, so after exchanging a look with Lewis, you follow the woman into the paddock towards your garage.
Once you were both in the safety of your drivers room, you turned on her. “What article is he talking about? What’s going on?” You said, voice heavy with concern.
Ally hesitated, looking uncomfortable, before answering. “This morning, an article published a story talking about you and your parents, and the-um, harsh history you have with them” She hands you her phone, said article already open.
“I think it’s better if you read it yourself” The bold letters blink up at you, clear and sullen.
“F1 DRIVERS UNCOVERED: THE REAL REASON WE DON’T SEE Y/N L/N’S PARENTS”
Your heart falls to your stomach and your hands start to shake as your eyes skim over the words of the most invading and overwhelming article you’ve ever read in your life. Whoever wrote this, wrote it in hopes of exposing every secret of your past, and further tangles the truth of an already over-complicated background.
The real reason your parents are never around you is a reason you hate talking about.
You first realized it when you were around ten years old, the way your parents never looked happy around each other, and always tense around other parents. The way they never said ‘I love you’ or kissed each other goodbye. It confused you, as these were the things you always saw your friend’s parents do, but you were too young to understand at the time, so you mainly ignored it.
It wasn’t until one night when you were eleven that you heard an argument erupting from your kitchen, one about money and divorces and you. The shouting continued for ages, until you heard one statement, loud and clear.
“Think about this, she’s getting good in those karting competitions of hers, and according to other parents she could go really far in this thing and get money from sponsorships and mentors. So let’s just give it a little time, make sure she gets better and gets paid, and the money will go to us and eventually she’ll leave to Formula- whatever and we won’t have to worry about her”
You put your pillow over your head, turned around, and went to sleep sobbing that night.
From then on, there was no ‘I love you’s’ or kisses goodbye even to you, and eventually, no happiness in your house. The ‘other parents’ were right, the older you got, the farther you looked to go in racing. Just before you turned 13, the three of you moved to a city in England so you could pursue karting further, and that’s when it all got worse.
You competed in countless competitions, and every race you won, the more criticism you got from your mom and dad. The second you stepped off the 1st place podium, your parents were waiting to comment on your driving and the techniques you should’ve used to win.
They never let you focus on anything but karting, letting you go nowhere but the track and to school, and made sure you were always looking for ways to get better. They ruthlessly compared you to kids in other series that were performing better than you, and countered every compliment someone gave you with a complaint.
All of this seemed like a dream compared to the treatment you got when you lost. Whether it be second, or tenth, every race you didn’t come first in was a loss, and your parents simply didn’t accept this.
When you lost, they’d make you practice on track for twice as long, no matter the weather, and berated you the second you started to complain. They limited your diet after your losses, claiming you needed to be lighter if you wanted the kart to go faster.
Your mother and father gave you this relentless attention with anything regarding racing, but the moment the topic drifted, you were neglected. There were no family dinners or movie nights, if you wanted something, you were going to have to buy it with your own money, and if you wanted to go somewhere, you needed to walk or find a ride because they refused to drive you anywhere if it wasn’t for a race.
There was no other family to go to even when things go impossibly rougher; you had no other relatives in the UK, and you couldn’t exactly ask your friends if you could live with them.
So you endured these conditions, all the way through the F4 British Championship, F3 and F2. You turned 18 while you were in Formula 2, and the second you did, you took the little money you had, and rented an apartment in South England, where you’ve been living ever since.
Your parents constantly contacted you in whatever ways they could, but you very quickly made sure they didn’t know where you lived and were never given paddock passes again. No one knows any of this anyway; when people ask where your parents are or when they’d get to meet them, you just shrug and say, “they couldn’t make it”
You haven’t seen your parents in person since you were 17, and you’ve done everything in your power to keep it like that.
Though with a few thousand words and 4 hours, one nosy journalist has managed to unravel all your work and growth and release it into the world.
You’re broken out of your stunned silence when Ally puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’ve set up a meeting with Alpha Tauri and Red Bull’s PR managers so we could figure out what we should do next to keep the press off your back, okay? The meeting’s in fifteen meetings, so I’ll leave you for a while”
Ally takes her phone back and exits the room to leave you standing still in the middle of it, astonished and speechless.
The meeting goes as well as you expected it to go. You shared as much as the truth as you saw fit, and came up with a statement to post with the rest of the PR managers. You were confirmed to go back to the media pen to finish interviews an hour later, and while no one asked you about the article, you could tell it was the unanswered question they all wanted to raise.
You are able to avoid most of the press of the remaining of the Italian weekend, and stuck to answering race-related questions only, your safest and only option, Ally told you later. You finished the Grand Prix P10, and flew home still sullen.
You spent the two weeks in between Monza and Japan in your apartment, regretfully thinking about all those years you had to spend under your parent’s treatment, and trying to forget them with simulator work.
You arrive in Suzuka, quiet and unsmiling, and try to ignore the shouting of the press that greets you on your way into the paddock. Ally guides you away as two new voices greet you.
“Hey Y/n, how are you?” Lewis asks, pulling you into a side hug and stepping into place beside you.
“Are you okay? You seem off” Charles says concerned, meeting you in a handshake.
“I’m fine, my flight just got in late last night so I’m tired, that’s all” You half smiled in response, hoping it was believable enough.
“Sure?” Lewis presses father. “Yeah, I’m okay” You nod.
“Okay, well, we’re still going into the city after media today?” Lewis asks. “Of course, I’ll meet you guys at my hotel after” You assure as you near the Alpha Tauri garage.
“See you then, and try to sleep a bit, yes?” Charles says before the two men walk off together.
Your friendship with the two drivers started because of the Spanish and British Grand Prix’s, the two races that gave you your two highest race finishes, and ended with two of your closest friends. Spain was a great race for both you and Lewis, yourself in P4, him in P2, and after non-stop talking in the paddock, you flew back to the UK together, effectively starting the friendship existing today.
You’d been friendly with Charles previously, but after his P9 finish in Silverstone and your P5 finish, he realized in a conversation before an interview that you were undeniably good at cheering people up, and you guys have been close since.
You’ve talked with them since Monza, of course, but not about the article. They want to talk to you about it, you can tell, but Charles and Lewis aren’t the type of people to just come right out and ask if you’re feeling okay about your history with your abusive parents being exposed to the world.
They also don’t want to pressure you into talking about something you clearly don’t want to talk about, so if all they can do is help distract you from the media, they’re going to.
Your night out with the Mercedes and Ferrari drivers does distract you; Lewis leads you and Charles to different shops and restaurants all over Suzuka, talking and laughing the entire time. You take a few photos along the way, and you go back to your hotel still smiling.
You kept your good mood until qualifying on Saturday, and are brought back into the reality of racing when you only manage P11. It’s technically not bad of a result for your car, but P9 or P8 would’ve been better right now, because all you can think about is what your parents would’ve said if you finished P11.
They’re paying you millions of dollars to race for them and the best you can do is eleventh?
You think you deserve to be here?
They are hundreds of other drivers that would do so much better than you
You are nothing compared to the other drivers
You’re lucky if you keep you seat next season, I know I wouldn’t let a P11 driver on my team
You go quiet at the thought, and get through post-race media stoic. You leave with your trainer as soon as you can, avoiding Lewis and Charles’s eyes on your way out. You have a week before you have to leave for Qatar, and spend a countless amount of hours on your simulator, hoping this time it’ll make a difference.
You flew into Lusail not knowing what to expect other than hot weather, and unfortunately you were right. You felt the heat as soon as you got in your car for FP1 on Friday and was already dreading the rest of the weekend.
You qualify P11 for both the race and the sprint, and end up in P12 for the two. You felt terrible after Sunday’s race, both physically and mentally, and you’re already berating yourself for your performance by the time you get weighed.
Charles and Lewis are in your post-race press conference group, and you can see them exchange a look after every cold and detached answer you give. You only stop to talk to your friends for a few minutes afterwards before you excuse yourself to go cool down, and leave minutes later with the defense of needing rest.
You fly back to the UK with Lewis, and you’re glad the two of you are asleep for most of the trip so Lewis won’t ask you to talk about why you’ve been so quiet.
The 10 days you have until you fly out to Austin are spent mostly on your phone, looking at all the comments people have been making about you since the article came out, saying how you probably deserved the treatment that you got, and how Alpha Tauri needs a more “stable” driver if they want to advance in the championship.
You don’t do much except exercise and train on the sim in those days, finding neither the desire or energy to do anything else.
Even though everyone is happy to be in Texas that week, you can’t find the energy to truly smile once that weekend. Charles and Lewis are practically stuck to your side, and even though you can tell they’re dying to ask you to talk about it, they only ask a few times if you wanted to tell them something, and when you denied, and simply offered companionship through silence.
It’s another sprint race, and you only pull off P12 and 13 for qualifying and the shootout, and drop a place by the end of both races.
You feel more frustrated with yourself than ever; you don’t understand why you can’t work with the car like you once used to, and you can’t even figure out how to again. You were doing so well until that fucking article came out, and all the sudden you don’t know how to drive.
The worst part about it is that every race, more and more people are realizing how you’ve been under-performing, and how people are starting to question your ability to drive for the junior Red Bull team.
You aren’t stupid, you know how things work at Red Bull, so you know that if you don’t pick your pace up soon, you could end up without a seat for the 2024 season.
This thought alone starts to destroy you, and soon you can’t even deny how burnt out you are. You pick up on the forced habit of not eating much, and making yourself to do nothing but train and look for ways to be better.
You spend the days before Mexico with data analysts and strategists, looking for any and every way to go faster. You dedicate too much time looking at successful F2 drivers, hearing Liam Lawson’s name come up too much for comfort, thinking about how Dennis Hauger had been looking fast in F2.
It’s a terribly unhealthy time killer, one that makes you look sick and go quiet. Charles and Lewis aren’t the only ones exchanging concerned looks now; multiple other drivers on the grid, friends with you or not, notice the change in your behavior and quickly grow worried when they hear Yuki’s description of you.
The drivers aren’t stupid either, they all know about the article that was published in September, and most of them would be lying if they said they hadn’t looked at it in curiosity. They’d also be lying if they saw their eyes didn’t widen in concern or eyebrows didn’t furrow with worry when they read how terrible your parents treated you.
The grid saw how the comments got nastier and nastier under your lessening social media posts every day, and even asked your PR officer multiple times to make sure she was managing your accounts and making sure you didn’t see what people had to say about your background or yourself.
They saw how you got quieter every race, how you stopped hanging out with Yuki and Charles and Lewis, no matter how many times they offered. They saw the rumors of you and your 2024 seat, how apparently Helmut Marko was paying close attention to you and the clauses in your contract.
They asked a lot, if you wanted to talk or if they could help in any way. It was always the same response; a weary smile, a small shake of the head, the words,“No, I’m fine, just tired” and an excuse that you were needed in your garage or media pen.
So they try to help in more discreet ways; when Yuki is asked about your position on Alpha Tauri or your future with Red Bull, he calmly assures that you are working hard with the team, and is doing everything possible to understand the car.
Charles, Lewis, and a few other drivers make a routine of coming to your driver’s room, most of the time just to sit with you as you look at data, or talk with you when you’re feeling up to it.
Mexico goes somehow worse than Texas, and you finish with your lowest result in F1 yet, P15. You try to be as approachable as possible in post-race media, but your sullen face gives you away.
You leave with Ally and your trainer to catch your flight to Brazil mere hours after you passed the checkered flag, and spend most of your time in Sau Paulo alone in your hotel room, replaying every hurtful comment either your mother and father or fans have said about you, and debating whether or not it was true.
You walk into the Brazilian paddock Thursday morning more grateful than you thought possible that this was the third-to-last race of your season.
And according to over twenty media sources, your third-to last race of F1.
After a public statement made by Marko talking about how Red Bull was “considering your future with their junior team” every journalist in the F1 community has decided that it means this was your last season in F1.
And honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Whether you raced in 2024 or not, you just wanted to go home and avoid the press for three months.
It was another sprint weekend, and another terrible qualifying and shootout. You placed 15th in both sessions and kept your place in the sprint, and spent a quiet Saturday evening in your hotel.
You could feel almost every journalists eye’s turn to you as soon as you walked into the paddock on Sunday. You arrived early that afternoon to get some extra data-stuff done, only now realizing that it gave the growing group of reporters behind you more time to ask you questions.
“Y/n! Can you tell us about your future in F1?”
“Will you have a seat next year?
“Y/n, what does Helmut Marko think about your decrease in performance?”
“Does your past with your parents have anything to do with your recent race results?”
You try to keep your face emotionless as you make your way into the Alpha Tauri garage and to your drivers room. You prepare for the race with your personal trainer and look over the arranged strategies for Sau Paulo while you wait for the go-ahead to get in your car.
Due to all the crashed-out cars, you ended the race in P12 in front of Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo. Statistically speaking, it was one of your better 2023 races, but everyone knows if it wasn’t for all the DNF’s, you’d finish in the bottom five.
You know that everyone knows this because just before you walked into the media pen after your race debrief, you saw Christian Horner and Marko speaking to your team principle, and after Yuki’s P9 finish today, it didn’t take you even a second to understand who they were talking about with disappointed faces and multiple shakes of the head.
Sure, this could mean nothing. This could just be a conversation between the three people that control the top team and it’s junior team. But you also like to think you’re a bit smarter than that.
You walked deeper into the crowded area before the three could see you, and walked to the first open journalist you saw, in hopes of leaving early.
“Y/n, hi! Not too bad of a race for you today, I guess?” The man asked, pointing his microphone towards you
“Yeah, not too bad. The car felt pretty okay and there was a bit of pace, but not enough to overtake or anything, clearly” You reply.
“Can we expect more race pace from you in Las and Vegas and Abu Dhabi?”
“I mean, it’s a bit too early to tell, but we’ll hope and see what comes out out of the practices” The man nods before looking down at his notebook.
“And your seat for Alpha Tauri next year, we know you’re apart of the confirmed driver lineup for 2024 but Helmut Marko states that there are attainable clauses in your contract, what do you think about that?”
You’re caught off guard by the question, but right when you’re about to respond, the man continues.
“Surely, Alpha Tauri isn’t really considering keeping you for next season, are they?”
You’re standing in front of the man speechless now, your brain barely comprehending what’s being spoken.
“Because I know the last thing a team wants is an incapable driver that is too emotionally effected by her “traumatic” childhood to race,” the volume of his voice starts to increase, and other drivers are starting to focus on your one-sided conversation.
“I mean, c’mon, no one even believes that even happened to you, and if it did, your parents were probably right for doing it-”
Your hands are shaking, eyes are wide with shock, body suddenly freezing, and you don’t even think you’re breathing. All you can do is listen as this man goes on and on about how you’re a shitty driver and deserved how your parents treated you.
You’re only broken out of your trance when an arm clad in red wraps around your shoulders and pulls you through the paddock. You’re not even aware of the yelling from a certain Mercedes drivers gets quieter and quieter as you’re brought into your driver’s room.
You’re being sat on a couch, and suddenly Charles Leclerc’s face is right in front of you, hands on your shoulders and eyes filled with concerned. “Y/n? Y/n, look at me, please, Y/n-” Your eyes dart to him and in an instant, everything from the past five minutes comes rushing through your head, and you can’t stop the tears that start to fall down your face.
“Oh, Y/n” The Ferrari driver moves to comfort you, but stops as you begin to cover your face and move away.
“No, Y/n, it’s okay, please, let me help you, Y/n” Charles wraps his arms around you in a hug as your body begins to shake with uncontrollable sobs.
“I can’t- I can’t do this anymore, Charles” You say in between breaths.
“I have to quit or something, I can’t keep doing this Charles, I can’t” You let your head fall on his shoulder, as the man tries to calm you down.
Charles’ heart is breaking as he comforts his friend; he remembers loving his first few years in Formula 1, how everything was so new and exciting to him, he could never not want to race, not then and not now. But to hear one of his closest friends breakdown because of how much she hates being there, makes the man’s heart shatter.
The door abruptly opens, and for a moment, all you can hear is the low angry cursing of Lewis Hamilton, until he sees you and Charles, and his face immediately softens.
“Love, I’m so sorry. That guy is a complete arsehole, don’t listen to him” The British man says as he takes a seat beside you and wraps an arm around your shoulders.
“I don’t know what to do anymore, I feel so stuck in this place where everyone is always talking about what happened and I don’t know how much longer I can go through it” You say, your voice breaking off with another sob.
Charles hushes you once more, exchanging a worried look with Lewis as you pull away from him again. “I’m sorry, I know I should be doing better and everything but I just can’t-” You say, voice shaky through the tears.
“Don’t for one second be sorry that you’re not competitive right now. Y/n, thousands of people are talking about the one thing that hurt you the most, and I understand why you feel this way, just please, love, for your own good, let us help you. I promise it will make you feel better” Lewis assures, grabbing your hand.
So for the first time, you do. For over an hour, you tell Charles and Lewis everything that happened when you were younger, and how the article has made you feel since then. They listen quietly, nodding once in a while to let you know they understand, and gave you a hug when you stopped talking.
“Do you feel better now?” Lewis asks.
“Yeah, not entirely, but better”
“Good, that’s all I wanted to hear,”
“Are you ready to go home now? There’s a plane waiting for us, if you want”
“Definitely. I need to go home” You say as Charles helps pack up all your things and Lewis makes sure there’s a car waiting for you two outside. As you’re all walking through the nearly-empty paddock, Charles turns to you.
“I have to go back to my garage, but please Y/n, if you ever need to talk, call me? I want to help you, I don’t want to see you like this again” The Monegasque brings you into a hug.
“I know, Charles, I will” You promise.
“Okay, I’ll see you before Vegas, yes? Feel better!” He calls as he moves backwards and further into the paddock.
“You promise?”
Lewis asks you hours later in the front of the airport in England, just about to get into separate cars.
“Yes, Lewis, I’ll call when I need” You say to the older man in a hug.
“Alright, text me when you’ve made it home and make sure you get some rest. Don’t be too hard on yourself either, you don’t give yourself enough credit for everything you do” You smile at him.
“Okay, I’ll see you before Vegas?”
“See you before Vegas!” He shouts from his already-closed car door.
When you do see the two next, they make sure you’ve made an appointment with a therapist and are setting up a meeting with your PR manager to put together a statement in regards to your well-being the past two months.
Charles and Lewis make sure the media inside the paddock is severely monitored and checked before being allowed near the drivers, and help you fall back into healthier habits.
These changes don’t happen overnight, and they don’t take affect overnight, but you do use the winter off season to make sure these changes are helpful and working.
The three month break is utilized to mentally and physically prepare yorself in time for your 2024 seat at Alpha Tauri that was re-confirmed after your P8 finishes in Las Vegas and Abu Dhabi.
The media still knows everything, and you haven’t completely forgotten your childhood, you never will, but dealing with it still gets easier.
#formula 1#reader insert#driver reader#f1 grid x reader#formula 1 driver imagines#platonic f1 grid#f1 2023 grid x y/n#f1 imagine#female driver reader#comfort fic#angst with a happy ending#angst#please look at trigger warning before you read#lewis hamilton#charles lecrelc#platonic lewis hamilton#platonic charles leclerc#charles leclerc x reader#lewis hamilton x reader
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INDEBTED
Summary: When your father's scandal threatens your family's legacy, Rafe makes you an offer you can't refuse.
Paring: Rafe Cameron x KookFem!Reader
Strictly 18+ No Minors to Interact
Warnings: Dark!Rafe, Dub-Con/Non-Con, Coercive Behaviour, Choking, Graphic Scenes / Smut.
Word Count: 4.8k words
Author's Note: 1000 followers! Wow, I never thought I'd reach 1000 followers. A part of me believes that half of these are bots, but regardless, to those who are real and have decided to join me in my little corner of the Tumblr woods, thank you. Your love and support, especially during these trying times, means a lot. I had this one shot sitting in my drafts for a while and thought I'd finish the damn thing and share it as a thank you. But heed those warnings : it's a dark one. Much love to you all ❤️
Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Please don’t steal or copy bits of my writing or any writing from other writers cause karma will get ya.
Embezzlement.
What a weird word.
It rolls off the tongue with an unfamiliar bitterness. It's the kind of term you'd see in a crossword puzzle, nestled between "clandestine" and "malevolent." You never imagined it would be splashed across news headlines with your family's name and the face of your father in the centre.
For years, your family was among the shining stars of Figure 8, leaders in hospitality, prestige, and wealth. Your home was the epicenter of elegance, the heartbeat of social galas. But now, news vans line the perimeter of your estate, their cameras hungry for a glimpse of the fallen dynasty. While online vultures, under the guise of investigative websites, sift through every chapter of your family's history.
Naturally, it caused a ripple, and as the waves of the scandal crashed onto the shores of Figure 8 with relentless force, family friends who once sought your company now wrestled with their association to yours. The 'friends' who once envied your galas and soirées now whisper behind closed doors.
It was the talk of every gathering. At lunches, tennis courts, even the marina; your family’s name was whispered with a mix of pity and sensationalism. Every disclosed detail, every leaked piece of evidence, threatens to shatter the glass pedestal upon which your family once stood unchallenged.
Yet, amidst the tempest of rumors and glares, your mother remains the eye of the storm. Resolute and graceful, she doesn't waver. The titan of Figure 8's social scene, she's always known how to command a room, and this scandal won't rob her of that gift.
Tonight, at the Midsummer ball, she's an emblem of defiance against the rising tide of whispers. And she does it so effortlessly. She glides through the crowd with that same charismatic charm. She smiles warmly, asking about children and recent vacations, pets, and passion projects, extending olive branches even when met with frosty receptions and curt replies.
You, however, are not as composed. The weight of judgmental gazes is too suffocating, the murmurs too piercing. The confines of the ball, with its glittering chandeliers and faux smiles, become a prison. With each passing moment, the walls seem to close in further. You need air. A moment of solitude. An escape from the suffocating pretense.
Whispering a quick excuse to your mother about needing the powder room, you slip away. The soft hum of the party fades behind you as you venture down a paved stone path, leading to the beach. The cool breeze and rhythmic waves provide solace, a stark contrast to the stifling ambiance of the party.
You had taken off the flower crown your mother had insisted you wear and were about to remove your shoes when you heard it: the soft crunch of footsteps on sand, drawing closer.
Hesitantly, you turned, finding him. The one whose eyes often sought yours in a crowd. Whose lingering gazes you'd always felt but habitually ignored. The same person who continually asked you out, oftentimes rudely and crudely. The one you had rejected, rebuffed, and shut down more times than you could count.
Rafe Cameron.
"Came to rub salt in my wounds?" you asked, unable to mask the bitterness in your voice.
"Now why would I want to do such a thing?" Rafe murmured. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, placing it between his lips. The soft flicker of the lighter momentarily illuminated his face, revealing a brief smirk before the darkness cloaked him again. "I thought you might appreciate some company instead."
The word 'appreciate' ricocheted around your mind, sounding almost absurd in this situation. Company? From Rafe Cameron? The notorious Kook King of Figure 8, a classic case book narcissist who, you were certain, had probably raised a toast to the scandal engulfing your family. At this moment, you'd rather eat glass than accept his sympathy. Rolling your eyes, you turned back to the sea, barely acknowledging his presence.
“I'm not in the mood to talk, Rafe," your voice steady but seething with restrained frustration. Your eyes remained locked onto the undulating waves before you. The smell of sea-salt filled your nostrils, and for a fleeting moment, you felt at peace. It lasts all of two seconds before Rafe opens his mouth again.
"Fine, I'll talk. You listen," he asserts, as he settles against a rock. He leisurely inhales from his cigarette before blowing out a plume of smoke into the night air. You can feel his contemplative gaze on you; it becomes evident in the softened timbre of his voice when he speaks again. “You know, it's downright shitty what they're doing to your dad. To your family. To you... I can't stand by and watch."
A scornful laugh escapes you as you finally meet his gaze. "Well, life's not exactly handing out fairness certificates, is it?"
He shook his head, "No, it isn’t. But, it still doesn't make it right. It doesn’t make it fair when your dad claims he’s innocent—”
“My dad is innocent,” you assert fiercely, standing tall, arms crossed defiantly over your chest.
“Oh, I believe he is. But the world? Not so much. Your dad’s always been good to my family. My old man took it hard when he heard. I mean, of all the people on Figure 8 to be arrested for embezzlement, your dad was the last person anyone would suspect—”
“What's your point, Rafe?” You snapped, clearly about to lose the last shred of patience you had.
"I’ve been thinking about it alot, and maybe my family can help.”
Skepticism etched itself clear as day on your face. It seemed ironic that Rafe felt his family could help when Rose and Ward shunned your parents the moment the news broke.
“And how do you propose to do that?" you asked, your voice tinged with mistrust.
Rafe shrugged, a casual gesture that contradicted the gravity of the situation. "My dad, he's got connections—”
“So do mine,” you shot back.
“But did yours play golf with Senator Whitfield every Saturday? Rain or shine? Nah, didn’t think so.”
You felt a moment of silence envelop you both, the distant murmurs of the sea a constant reminder of the world moving around you.
"Alright, I'll bite," you said with a lick of your lips. "What do you want in return? You're clearly not doing this out of the goodness of your heart."
Rafe flicked his cigarette onto the sand, extinguishing it with a deliberate twist of his shoe. As he stepped closer, moonlight illuminated his eyes, giving them an almost predatory glow.
“You've got me," he admitted, his smirk devoid of warmth. “I do want something in return. Something that has been on my mind. Something I’ve wanted for a long time now. You."
A shiver raced down your spine, a cocktail of revulsion and trepidation. Retreating a step, your voice quivered but remained defiant.
"So, you're after a date?" You clarified, eyes narrowing. The same date he'd pestered you for, relentlessly, over the past year. The same date you'd denied him repeatedly, because despite being handsome, Rafe Cameron's moral compass seemed nonexistent.
Rafe scratched his ear as he moved slowly toward you, his expression pained as though what he was about to reveal would hurt him far more than it would hurt you.
"Yeah, see, a date won't begin to cover what I'm risking for your old man, given his rap sheet is longer than my arm. No, what I want is far more... rewarding," his voice sank to a sultry whisper as he towered over you.
"And what would that be?" you asked, tension crackling in the air between you.
"I want to be able to fuck you whenever and however I want—for a month, maybe two, perhaps even a year..." he shrugged slowly, "The specifics are negotiable, but doesn't that sound fair? A little pussy in exchange for your dad's freedom?”
The slap was instinctual. Swift. The sting on your palm matched only by the shock on Rafe's face. For a split second, everything was still.
Rafe's eyes turned to steel, his demeanor shifting chillingly in a heartbeat. He closed in, his voice a venomous whisper slicing through the salty sea air. "You must have a death wish," he hissed, an unmistakable dangerous edge to his words. His hand gingerly brushed his reddening jaw, his piercing gaze never leaving yours. "Your dad's freedom? It's dangling by the thinnest thread... The right words from a senator could decide whether he walks free or becomes someone's bitch behind bars."
He paused, his gaze falling to the flower crown in your hand. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out to touch it, his fingers lightly tracing the delicate petals, an almost gentle gesture that was jarringly at odds with the tension of the moment.
"If you want to help your dad, having a friend like me might be your best bet." he murmured. "Think it over, yeah?" His gaze lifted back to yours, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Fuck you, Rafe," you whispered, disgust fueled your retreat as you stormed away, his chilling laugh echoing ominously in the night air.
"You will, princess. When you come to your senses, you will."
Rafe's lingering words pressed on you, growing heavier with each breath. The looming possibility of your father's life behind bars became ever more ominous as Rafe presented a potential solution—a solution with an inconceivable price tag.
How could he even insinuate such a thing? The mere suggestion repulsed you, igniting a fury at Rafe's audacity. Yet the unease gnawing at your belly made you question: to what lengths would you go to save your dad? With your family facing disgrace and teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, Rafe's proposal offered a faint glimmer of hope, even if it took the ugliest of forms.
In the solitude of your bedroom, the pristine walls seemed to close in, just like the midsummer ball. Picking up your phone, you stared at the screen, the bright white light harsh against the dim setting. The contacts list stared back, an overwhelming list of names, none of whom had reached out during your family's time of need.
You scrolled, hesitating briefly before landing on Rafe's name. A whirlwind of emotions — from anger to desperation — consumed you as you pressed on it. Trembling fingers typed, deleted, and retyped a message multiple times, finally settling on the simplest of words.
"We need to talk."
Almost immediately, three dots danced on the screen.
"Tomorrow 7pm, Tannyhill.”
Was Rafe’s curt response.
You could barely sleep that night, as your mind raced, forming what you hoped was a semblance of a plan. You needed to negotiate on your terms, to retain some shred of dignity. It wasn't a detailed strategy, but it was enough to at least get through Rafe's offer with your sanity.
The next day as you approached Tannyhill, you whispered silent affirmations to yourself, reaffirming your resolve, your worth, and the necessity of your mission.
And then, there he was. Rafe Cameron, leaning casually against the frame of the ornate door, a picture of wealth and arrogance, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you in the impending darkness of the evening.
Rafe opened the door for you, his face betraying a flicker of something you couldn't quite read, but there was no turning back now. You stepped in, ready to negotiate with the devil himself if it meant saving your family.
"Where's everyone?" you asked, there was no point in exchanging pleasantries. Nothing about the situation was remotely pleasant.
"Movies. You know, I hadn't expected a text from you so soon." his voice dripped with condescension, "I was betting on at least a week or two."
"Yeah well, it is my dad's life on the line," your footsteps echoed with purpose as you followed him into the living room, eyes steeling for the battle ahead. "The sooner we finalize our agreement, the quicker you can pull whatever strings you have, right?"
Rafe spun around, his gaze locking onto yours. The sly curve of his lips unsettling. "Sure, I’ll make a few calls,” he stated, voice dark and sardonic, "but it'll depend on the terms we agree to."
"Alright…” you braced yourself, your arms folded trying to regain control. "Let's start with how lon--"
“A year,” Rafe cut in, not breaking eye contact.
"That's out of the question. A month," you shot back.
His chuckle resonated with an underlying seriousness, his eyes narrowing in focus "Sure, we can say a month. You willing to fuck me at least twice a day? No? Then eleven."
You straightened your back, your resolve hardening. "Two months, tops."
His eyes gleamed as he considered your counteroffer. "How about this, we keep our little arrangement going until your dad's free. It could be a month, maybe two…” he shrugged nonchalantly “It might even be a year. It depends on how soon he’s out. What do you think?"
You hesitated, visibly weighing the implications of such an open-ended commitment. Your dad’s charges were serious. The chances of those charges disappearing and him being released in a month seemed like a miracle. "What if it drags on for years?" you whispered.
Rafe’s grin grew more pronounced, relishing your distress. "Well, princess, that's for you to decide. You can always walk away whenever you think it’s unbearable. Does that seem fair?"
"Okay, fine. Now about condoms--”
“Not using them--”
“Oh, we’re using them. I’m not interested in having your kid, Rafe, and I’m certainly not interested in catching anything from you.”
“While I should be fucking insulted” he said dryly “I always glove up and get tested regularly too.”
“Okay, so why are you suddenly against using condoms with me, then?”
“Because I promised myself…” he said slowly, his voice lowering as he made his way towards you, “If I ever got the chance to fuck you, I'd do it raw.”
Your jaw clicked, your hands itching to slap him again. “Weren’t you fooling around with Letizia a couple of weeks back?”
“Yeah, so? I was gloved up.”
“I don't care. You've slept with half the girls on figure 8. I want you fully tested before we even think about doing anything. Condoms every time, no excuses.”
“Alright. I’ll get tested. Condoms while fucking, no condoms for blowjobs.”
"Yeah, about that, I'm not doing oral.'” you said folding your arms in resignation.
Rafe's eyes bore into yours, annoyance coloring his features.
"No. No. You don’t get to dictate how I fuck you." he snapped, his voice taking on edge of authority. "Look, i’m willing to let you negotiate a few terms, give you some semblance of control but it’s got to be worth my while, and for it to be worth it, I get to fuck you how I want, when I want.”
You swallowed, feeling your resolve waver.
"Now, here's what I want to make this deal work: when I call, you answer. No matter the place, no matter the time. You show up. Clear?" Rafe said.
You paused before giving a hesitant nod, the magnitude of your agreement dawning on you.
"And if I ask you to wear something specific, you will. No questions. We have a deal?"
Your throat tightened as his demands began to overwhelm you, but you managed a brief nod in response.
"Remember, fail to meet my terms, and our deal ends. Understood?"
Another nod.
"Anything else?"
“When will you make the call?” you asked quickly.
“After our first session,” he proposed, his smile revealing a hint of anticipation. “After that I’ll do whatever I can to make sure your dad’s free”
" I want proof. I want proof that you’d stick to your part of the deal.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it.”
“Good." you said as you took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Get tested and send me the results," you responded, you're tone neutral, treating it as a standard business transaction. "I'll do the same. We can then choose a time and date."
Rafe nodded in agreement, his gaze intense and piercing.
You extended your hand towards him.
"What's that for?" he chuckled lowly.
"A handshake. To seal the deal."
Rafe reached out, his arms enveloping you in a firm yet tender grasp, pulling you against him. It took everything within you to not push him away. "How about we seal this deal with a kiss, hmm?" he murmured, "Especially since we'll be doing a lot more than kissing very soon."
Rafe leaned in, letting his lips graze yours. But you stiffened, instinctively tilting your head so that his lips met your cheek instead. A soft chuckle escaped him as he retreated just a fraction.
“Ah ah” he chided. With his fingers gently but firmly cradling your jaw, he directed your face back to his, an unsettling tension growing palpable between you.
"Play. Nice.” he whispered, his voice considerably smug. "Kiss me. Like you mean it." It wasn't a mere request; it was a command that left you feeling completely cornered.
A battle of wills ensued; neither of you making the first move, both of you waiting for the other to blink first. Rafe's eyes never left your own as he leaned in once again, his determination clear.
His tongue gently pushed past your parted lips, and you allowed it, setting off a delicate yet conflicting dance between your tongues and lips.
Groaning into your mouth, his eyes shut as the kiss deepened, carrying an undeniable intensity. He sucked on your bottom lip, nipping at your tender flesh until his tongue lashed hungrily against yours sending a peculiar mix of tingles and dread coursing through you.
Finally, you pulled away from the kiss, catching your breath while your chest heaved. Rafe remained close, his lips just a whisper away from yours, his breathing matching your intensity.
"I'll get tested first thing tomorrow," he whispered, his voice thick with urgency and desire. "Make sure you do, too."
"All clear."
That was the message Rafe sent you two days after your heated conversation, accompanied by a screengrab of his test results. Without hesitation, you replied, sending him your own results in return.
As your fingers tapped across the screen, a surge of disgust washed over you. The very idea of being intimate with Rafe was anything but appealing; it fact, it made you feel sick.
You'd never choose Rafe of your own volition. Sure he was handsome but his excessive drinking and drug habits were repellant, and his disdain and bullying nature towards the Pogues was disturbing. None of his qualities were remotely attractive, let alone fuckable.
But then, the stern, resilient part of you asserted itself, urging you to focus on the goal at hand.
This was not about you or Rafe; it was about orchestrating your father's release from prison, a critical mission where failure wasn't an option. With this clear objective ingrained in your mind, you steeled your resolve, preparing yourself for what lay ahead.
When he proposed meeting up that same night, you didn't find it strange given Rafe's impulsive nature. However, the location he suggested did catch you off guard.
It wasn't Tannyhill, the somewhat familiar and comfortable place you had anticipated, but instead, an unfamiliar address. The randomness of the location set off tiny alarms in the back of your mind, making you wary but you took a deep breath, quickly typing out your response-
"I'll be there."
It wasn't just any random address, as you initially thought.
At the front of a gated tree-lined drive stood a prominent sign declaring, “Cameron Developments.” The freshly poured concrete and stacks of lumber clearly indicated that it was a home under renovation.
As you made your way along the winding path, unease gripped you, but the sight of Rafe’s truck haphazardly parked near the entrance reassured you that you had indeed reached the right place.
The estate was draped in an unsettling darkness, punctuated only by the soft chirping of crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, and the sporadic glow of work lights from inside, hinting at the ongoing renovations.
Exiting your car, you took a moment to absorb the scene before approaching the house. With each step towards the porch, your heart rate quickened. But before you could even announce your presence, the heavy door groaned open, revealing the looming presence of Rafe.
His expression, obscured by the shadows and dim work lights from within, gave away nothing. Without a word, he stepped aside, allowing you to enter, then closed the door and locked it.
A knot formed in your throat, a cocktail of dread and adrenaline. Pushing the mounting fear aside, you gathered your voice, attempting to sound braver than you felt. "Alright, let's get this over with," you said.
A wicked grin tugged at the corner of Rafe's lips. You felt an icy dread settle in your chest. "Oh, we will," he murmured, "But first, I want to play a game... to make things... interesting." The atmosphere grew heavy, oppressive.
"One minute" he said, as he cracked his neck from side to side, his eyes boring into you. "You get a one-minute head start and after that, after that--" he sighed happily "I'm coming for you. Run."
Panic gripped you. "Run? What? What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean run?" you stammered, your voice edged with rising panic.
But his eyes were cold, devoid of humor or empathy. He leaned closer, his voice a menacing hiss that left no room for interpretation. "Run."
A rush of adrenaline hit you, and without another word, you sprinted past him as if your very life depended on it.
You had no clear destination in mind, only the primal instinct to run and hide. Every fiber of your being was attuned to survival. Heart pounding in your chest, you sprinted up the grand staircase, taking the steps three at a time, feeling the weight of your own desperation in every leap.
At the top, a maze of doors and hallways stretched out before you. You lunged for the nearest one, finding yourself in a dimly lit bedroom freshly painted in white. Shadows danced on the walls from the solitary work light, and your gaze immediately snapped to a closet on your right.
Without hesitation, you slipped inside, gently closing the door behind you. The smell of paint and cedar filled your nostrils. Placing a trembling hand over your mouth, you tried to muffle the sound of your heavy, ragged breathing.
Gently, so as not to make a sound, you nudged the slatted shutter doors of the closet closed, leaving only thin slivers of the room visible – distorted, but enough to keep watch.
The ominous sound of footsteps reached your ears; they were methodical, unhurried. Rafe was searching, savoring the hunt. You watched in horror as his elongated shadow, cast by the work light, drifted across the closet. A cold sweat formed on your forehead, and you had to fight back the urge to gasp as the shadow paused momentarily by the closet doors.
After what felt like an eternity, the shadow moved away, and you heard his footsteps retreating. Letting out a silent sigh of relief, you gave yourself a moment to gather your bearings. But you knew all too well you couldn't remain hidden for long; he would inevitably retrace his steps and find you.
Gathering your courage, you carefully eased the closet doors open and quickly scanned the room for an escape route. Your heart pounded violently in your chest as you made your move. Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you tiptoed across the room, avoiding the creaky floorboards that might betray your presence. But the moment you stepped out of the bedroom, you collided with a solid mass.
Rafe's eyes pierced through to your soul, pure hunger reflected in them as he stared down at you. His hand clamped around your throat, pulling you close as the smell of your fear and his cologne filled your nostrils in a nauseating mix. His lips crushed against yours, ravaging your mouth with an intensity that nearly made you faint.
As your fight-or-flight instincts kicked in, you frantically writhed in his grip. Your fists relentlessly pounded against his arm, trying to get him to relinquish his hold on you, but it was no use. In one swift motion, Rafe backed you into the bedroom and forcefully dragged you to the floor, your fingers wildly clawing at his arm as you searched for any type of leverage you could find.
Rafe ravished your neck with unbridled hunger, his other hand violently tugged at your skirt and panties, scraping the skin of your thighs until finding your moist center—the slippery wetness signifying your surrender to pleasure. Rafe groaned as his fingertips slid through your slick folds and into you causing you to gasp at the white-hot jolts of pleasure.
"For someone who's only doing this to save their dad, you're soaked..." Rafe laughed breathlessly, trailing a line of wet kisses up your throat. "All that sanctimonious bullshit about what you will and won't do and look at you, fucking dripping for my cock—”
"Fuck you!" you screeched, a potent mixture of embarrassment and venomous rage coursing through you has you writhing beneath him, your determination to push him off almost frantic.
"That's it—fight back," he jeered, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Fight back. It'll make this all the more satisfying."
You kicked and screamed, only for Rafe to capture your lips in a bruising kiss. His hands connected your wrists together over your head. In a single move, he flipped you onto your stomach and straddled you from behind, his erection pressing against your ass.
One of Rafe's hands tears off your panties, your screams in protest seize immediately as Rafe stuffed the flimsy cotton into your mouth.
"There" he taunted with a sinister chuckle, pressing you down further as you desperately attempted to wriggle free. You strained to let out a scream, your voice stifled by the makeshift gag.
That same hand worked feverishly to free himself from his pants. You could feel the throbbing heat of his erection at the cleft of your ass. Could hear him tearing open the condom packet with his teeth, the necessary prelude to satiating his ever-growing hunger.
Not too long after he was grinding the head of his cock against your wetness while you fought to express your protests through the gag.
"No, no, this is what we've agreed to. What you agreed to..." Rafe's breath hitched as his cock slid over your weeping slit. With one hard, raw thrust, barely allowing you time to adjust to his girth, he plunged himself deep inside you.
He wasted no time, immediately beginning his relentless thrusts, utterly indifferent to your muffled struggles behind the gag. Your body writhed beneath his weight, your movements punctuated by desperate grunts, the hardwood floor beneath you offering no mercy.
After a brief moment, Rafe released your wrists and drew you closer, his grip on your hips unwavering as he continued to drive into you with unrelenting force. Your head spun as you gradually surrendered to the powerful cadence of his movements. His hands clung to you possessively, guiding both of you in a desperate, synchronized dance. Every nerve in your body ignited, primal heat surging from deep within.
Your eyelids fluttered shut as your body succumbed to his unyielding force. Despite the freedom of your hands, you found yourself paralyzed, incapable of resisting or offering any form of resistance. Instead, you relinquished control, allowing Rafe to claim you entirely.
"I'm gonna fucking cum. I'm gonna cum. Cum with me," he growled through gritted teeth, his tempo increasing to a punishing pace.
You weakly shook your head, 'no,' your determination unwavering as you fought to maintain control over your desires. The mere thought of your pleasure becoming entangled with his, sullied and exploited for his depraved fantasies, was something you could not bear.
"Oh, you'll cum-" he sneered.
In a sudden, ominous gesture, he swiftly removed his leather belt from its loop around his pants and coiled it around your neck, pulling and winding it tightly around his fist.
"If you want to breathe, you'll cum," he snarled, pounding you with relentless force. The room was filled only with the sound of your choked gasps for air, Rafe's ragged breaths, the creak of the leather as he tightened his grip, and the rhythmic punishing slap of his hips against your flesh. You fought with every ounce of your being not to succumb to your impending orgasm, tears streaming uncontrollably from your eyes as you waged a futile battle.
The room reverberated with your agonized screams as your orgasm overtook you. Your muscles tensed and quivered beneath you, each wave of pleasure crashing over you like a violent tsunami drowning you. Your fingers clawed at the belt constricting your throat, the leather biting into your skin and to your abject horror, you were gushing around his cock as you climaxed.
Rafe fucked you with a feverish frenzy, burying his face in the back of your neck. With a triumphant roar, Rafe's orgasm struck, and he shuddered against you, muffling his moans of pleasure into your skin as he stuffed his cock deep.
Sated and content, he collapsed on top of you, his breathing heavy and labored, the condom filled with his cum. After a moment, he withdrew and shifted to lie beside you.
Summoning every ounce of strength you had left, you managed to free yourself from the tight confines of the belt and the stifling gag that had cruelly silenced you. Every fiber of your being, every muscle in your body, screamed with raw pain as you gulped in fresh air, each breath feeling like a hard-won victory. Tears of relief and anguish streamed down your face, and with a shaky hand, you hastily brushed them away.
The room seemed to sway, a disorienting blend of fear, relief, and vertigo threatening to drag you into terrifying darkness.
Yet, slicing through the fog of your distress was the haunting sound of Rafe's laughter. His voice was breathless, yet unmistakably gleeful. His fingers, dampened with sweat, raked through his messy hair, highlighting his heightened state of manic exhilaration.
"Next time," he grinned, a chilling promise lacing his words, "Next time, we'll use rope."
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Thanks for reading x If you enjoyed it please like/reblog/drop a comment would love to know what you think. Until next time ❤️
#rafe cameron#rafe x reader#rafe cameron x you#rafe fanfiction#rafe imagine#rafe fic#rafe smut#rafe outer banks#outerbanks rafe#rafe obx#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron smut#dark!rafe cameron#obx fanfiction#obx#18+ read#dirtytomatoedwrites#dark rafe cameron#smut warning
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I’m sorry. I’ll see you again. I think. I hope.
wearing thin by @sparxwrites
#grian fanart#grian#third life#3rd life#third life fanart#AAAA#I LOVE THAT FIC OMFG JDJDNDJ#drawing that was a pain#but fun!#DIES#jdjssjdj#lalalaalalalala#ok imma sleep now its 1am snork mimimimi snork mimim#samgatinho#also WARNING IF YOURE WILLING TO READ THE FIC it has hermitshipping#uhh idk some people dont like that!!#i personally dont care#IM HERE FOR THE ANGST MWAHAAHAHAH#ok byee thank u for reading#scoots away
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This is the Masterlist for my story "With You"
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
Part 9a Part 9b Part 10 Part 11 Part 12
Part 13 Part 14 Part 15
Part 16: Conclusion
My Masterlist
Pairing: Established relationship. Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley x gn!reader. Reader is engaged to Marc/Steven. Jake is new. So elements of slow burn/idiots in love. No use of y/n
Summary: Your fiancé is 2 years sober, so what could have possibly upset him enough to challenge that? (It's Khonshu and Jake). A look at how the system learns about continued servitude to Khonshu and a new alter, with you - their fiancée - by their side
Overall fic content/warnings: Angst, drinking, alcoholism/addiction, hangover, cursing, hurt/comfort, references to past abuse, longing, feeling inadequate, some banter/bickering, mentions of food, domestic fluff, slice of life, nightmare, crying, romance, violence, injury, blood, implied sex, some sex but the language remains vague and gn - more erotic than explicit, not beta'd
Immersibility: Reader is gn, is somewhat shorter than Marc/Steven/Jake and able to wear their clothes around the house
#with you fic#moon knight#steven grant#marc spector#jake lockley#mcu#marc spector x reader#steven grant x reader#jake lockley x reader#marc spector x you#jake lockley x you#steven grant x you#marc spector x gn!reader#steven grant x gn!reader#jake lockley x gn!reader#oscar isaac fic#deals with addiction#read the warnings#moon boys#moon knight system
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the art of breaking (dark!joel miller x f!reader; dead dove do not eat)
very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader
Word Count: 10k
Summary: Your meeting is happenstance, but everything that follows? Well, that’s all Joel. He just knows you’re going to be his perfect little toy. He just has to show you how.
written for the #deaddovedecember2023 event hosted by @romana-after-dark | also on ao3 | dedicating this to @kewwrites, who is a master and icon of unsettling-but-still-romantic dark fic & whose incredible vibes made me feel brave enough to write this. love you ty 🖤
dividers by @saradika-graphics
NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.
Seriously, I am saying this as clearly as I can: read the warnings carefully. If anything listed is something you don’t want to read, don’t. The working title for this was “the darkest joel” for a reason (and I actually tamed it down/cut out some of the intense scenes). It’s modern-day/no outbreak, but Joel still lost Sarah and went off the deep end. He was probably a good dom at some point, but now he’s just fucked up.
If you're worried it'll be too dark, it probably will be.
Warnings under the cut:
Warnings: dead dove do not eat, non-con, dub-con, very dark!Joel, BAD bdsm etiquette, not SSC/RACK compliant, sadist!Joel x masochist!reader, coercion, corruption, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, semi-permanent damage (a bone is broken, I’m not fucking around), whipping, spanking, face slapping, tit slapping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, anal, vaginal, degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, edging, denial, dacryphilia, bastinado (mentioned), restraints, very brief knifeplay, tiny drop of blood play, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare
Again, I cannot say this enough. This is a dark fantasy and should not be taken as representative of a good d/s relationship—it’s abuse masquerading. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I’m condoning it.
Please read responsibly.
I. in media res
-the fracture
There’s one comfort Joel almost never denies you.
Well, never denies himself.
Unless you’ve been real bad, you always take your place in bed with him at the end of the day. You think it’s so he has easy access to you if he wakes up horny, but honestly, that happens a lot less than expected. He works hard all day; he needs his sleep.
No, he likes the comfort of your warm body next to his. The way you curl up and press kisses to him, no matter how bad he hurt you during the day. His sweet little pet, desperate for every bit of his affection you can earn. He’s always gentle with you here.
It’s part of what makes The Pit so effective.
It fucks with your brain on so many levels, exposes you to so many fears, and then you have to reconcile that you were bad enough for Joel to deny himself the comfort of you in his arms at night. That you’re so undeserving of his love.
Of all of the ways he punishes you, this will be the worst. You can take the humiliation, the pain—not easily, but you can, and there’s usually immediate care after.
But a night in The Pit will tear you down completely.
You hadn’t known what to expect when he said you’d have to spend the night alone, but it wasn’t this.
“No, please,” you scream, stumbling to keep up as Joel pulls you by your hair.
“Shut up,” he snarls.
The soil is loose, clinging to your sweat as you try to right yourself. It’s a futile effort. When you reach The Pit, he holds you down with his boot on your chest while he unlocks and opens the bars.
“Get in,” he says.
You’re sobbing and shaking, skin already gone cold. Somehow, you manage to obey.
The Pit is exactly what it sounds like. It has an open wooden frame with mesh on the side walls to keep the dirt in place. The bottom is bare soil. Mounted to the top of the beams is a grate of bars that sit flush with the ground.
It’s big enough for you to curl up at the bottom—which is what you do now.
“I’m sorry,” you cry.
He shuts and locks the gate.
II. from the start
-intact
It was kismet, really, that he was there that night. He didn’t usually go out for drinks with the guys, not wanting to be the boss who was always cramping their style. But Tommy had dragged him out tonight, and so he was witness (with the rest of the pub) to your relationship falling apart.
And okay, maybe he went outside for a smoke after you moved the fight to the alley so he could eavesdrop. But it wasn’t his fault. How could he not?
You had said, “Maybe you’re just not man enough for me,” to the brawny but pathetic prick across from you in the booth. “Wanting you to be rough doesn’t make me a freak.”
“That’s not rough; that’s fuckin’ abuse. You’re sick,” your boyfriend had practically shouted.
The discussion evolved into a screaming match in the alley, where Joel had been pleased to be right. It was about more than just a little rough sex or spanking.
At the end of it, your boyfriend stormed off, and you went back in the pub. Joel found you at the bar, throwing back another shot and wiping your tears away.
“You did good back there,” he says.
You startle and look at the stranger. The very handsome stranger. Rugged, with a salt and pepper beard and a scar across his nose.
“What do you mean?”
“Standin’ up for yourself. Not a lot of people woulda been confident enough. ‘Specially not a girl lookin’ for that.”
You glare at the bar counter. “M’not a weirdo.”
“Nah, you’re not. Shit like that is perfectly normal. He’s just pathetic.”
You look back up at him, and he sticks one hand in his pocket, trying to adjust himself discreetly. The tear streaks on your cheeks are getting to him.
“I don’t know. He’s probably right. It’s not your garden variety shit,” you say. The tequila and his gentle eyes have loosened your tongue.
“I doubt that. Try me,” he says.
“What?”
“Try me. Tell me what he freaked out over, and I’ll tell ya if it’s weird. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.”
You hesitate, but he looks genuine and kind. “I asked him to hit me. Like, in the face. And to, y’know, pin me down and—” you trail off.
“And make ya take it?” he guesses.
You nod. “He thought I like, I dunno, actually wanted to be raped,” you whisper the last word, eyes darting to the people around you.
Joel laughs. “Honey, that’s so normal, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve helped ladies out with that little roleplay more times than I can count. If that’s your deepest, darkest fantasy, and he couldn’t take it, then you’re better off without him.”
“It’s not,” you mumble.
“Speak up, honey.”
“It’s not my deepest, darkest fantasy. It’s probably one of the least of them.”
He grins. “Then you’re definitely better off. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with likin’ things on the darker side, sweetheart.”
You’re feeling hot all over and are about to ask him more when your phone rings. It’s your idiot boyfriend, who’s realized you have the car keys.
“I better go. Thank you,” you say, standing and offering him your hand.
He gives it a firm shake, tipping his head. “I’m Joel. And if you’re ever so inclined, I’d like to take you out sometime.”
You laugh. “Let me break up with my boyfriend first, Joel.” But you dig a pen out of your purse and write your number on one of the tiny bar napkins.
Your first date was so normal. You’re not sure what you expected. To jump right to hardcore sex?
But no, he turns up at your door in a neatly pressed green button-up, black slacks, and an ostentatious belt buckle. He greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a bouquet of wildflowers, lavender stalks nestled between pink honeysuckle and red salvia. Not a traditional arrangement, but it reminds you of a summer sunset.
“From my garden,” he says a little sheepishly, but you like them a lot better than some generic store display. You tell him as much and his cheeks flush a little.
You return the kiss and pop the flowers in a vase of water before he sweeps you off in his pickup. You aren’t surprised, really, but it’s more charming than some of the other men and their gaudy trucks.
Joel’s is older but well-kept, with minimal rusting around the wheel wells. The bed is open, and you can see streaks of grease and paint spills. A silver tool chest is mounted against the back of the cab. Everything inside and out has a light coating of sawdust.
He isn’t some insecure man with a truck big enough to make up for what isn’t in his britches, that’s for certain. You’d hazard a guess that the corded muscle of his forearms and the breadth of his shoulders are well-earned.
He holds the door open for you, which you tease him for as you slide onto the truck’s bench seat.
“Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause you’re incapable,” he drawls. “Or because you’re a lady,” he adds when he sees the glint in your eye.
“Oh yeah, cowboy?”
His grin is lopsided, a little dark. “Nah. I just think you deserve to be taken care of, s’all.”
You flush, the back of your neck burning, but you don’t fight the smile that threatens to break out. “Thank you, Joel.”
He shakes his head. He’s pretty sure, now, that if he plays his cards right, he’s found somethin’ special.
He waits three whole dates to take you to bed, and even then, it doesn’t start dirty.
“Let me get to know your body first, baby,” he urges when you ask him to fuck you rough. Instead, he takes you apart piece by piece. First with his tongue, and then his fingers. He brings you to the edge over and over, but never lets you fall.
After a while, you’re a broken record, pleas and sobs spilling from you.
“That’s music to my ears, darlin’,” he says, pulling his fingers out abruptly to see how your cunt throbs for him. He spits on your clit and watches it drip down to join the mess between your thighs.
“Please, please, Joel,” you beg.
“Please who now?”
“Please, sir,” you try, and are rewarded with his sharp grin. But not with an orgasm.
He slaps your cunt. “That’s more like it, baby. You remember who you’re talkin’ to, alright?”
You nod. “Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”
He shakes his head, sucking on your clit for a moment before pulling back to get a good look at you. “You do like a little pain, huh?”
“Would like more,” you say.
“Oh yeah? What would you let me do to you?”
“Anything, please, sir.”
He clicks his tongue at you. “Don’t go sayin’ that to someone you barely know. It’s okay to mean it when you trust somebody, but you’re gonna end up in more trouble than you bargain for if you pass that out like candy.”
“I do mean it.”
“Yeah? You’ll let me do this?” His open palm smacks across your face, leaving a sting tingling on your cheek and a lightness to your brain.
Tears spring to your eyes, but you nod frantically.
“What about this?” he grabs a nipple in his calloused fingers and yanks, twisting.
You yelp, but it trails off to a moan, and you nod.
“Goddamn, baby. S’good. But what about this?” He flicks open the switchblade he keeps in his pocket.
You jerk and whine, eyes wide and wet as he brings it to your breast. Your breathing falls shallow as you try to hold still, the point scraping the delicate skin as he circles it. But the look you’re giving him almost has him cumming in his pants like he were twenty years younger.
“Fuck, you weren’t kidding. I mean, you’ve gotta have limits; everyone does. But you just want me to hurt you, huh?” He digs the tip of the blade in a little on the side of your breast, cock throbbing as you gasp, and you both watch a tiny drop of blood bead and trickle down the blade.
He puts it away. “No,” he says when you whimper. “Not today. I ain’t prepared for all that.”
Joel doesn’t like to break his toys. Not permanently. Just enough that he can put them back together how he likes and then do it all over again.
“Don’t need to be prepared; just do it,” you whine.
He slaps you again and wrenches your head up with a hand in your hair. “First of all, I fuckin’ told you no. Second, I know you want to be a stupid little cunt for me, but I’m not about to cut you open without any goddamn first aid shit.”
He leans back and smacks the breast he had cut. He hits you over and over, alternating sides, until your chest burns, and you’re sobbing.
He looks you over briefly and then shoves his hand between your thighs. “You’re wetter than a slip ‘n slide, baby.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says, and wipes the tears from your cheek with his thumb. He feels your cunt twitch when he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean.
It’s the last straw for him. He’s not opened you enough, but he has a feeling you’ll like it better this way anyway.
You cry out, back arching when he shoves into you. He meant to go slow, he really did, if only to drag out the anticipation. But you’re so warm. So wet. So he just stuffs himself inside.
It’s not that he doesn’t believe you love the pain; it’s just that he can’t resist feeling the evidence for himself. He slaps you across the face while you’re still processing his cock, and the resulting clench and jerk of your body drag a moan from him.
He holds back, regulates his urge to pull each whimper and scream from you, but it’s still so fucking good. It’s been a long time since he’s doled out real cruelty to a slut like you who loves to suffer.
When he finally lets you cum, it’s when he’s about to. He pulls out and spanks your cunt, granting his permission. As your pussy flutters desperately around nothing, he cums on it, watching the way it gets prettier as he paints it.
You black out for a minute. When you come to, he’s wiping you down gently with a warm washcloth, wicking the sweat off your face and chest before cleaning his cum from your curls. You whimper, and he grins, leaning over to steal a kiss.
Even after that first night, he goes slow. He can’t scare ya, not while you still have someplace to run. Plus, it’s so much easier if he starts planting the seeds for your training now.
He knows you’ll beg for it, anyway. He’s been getting the nastiest text messages from you. Part of it is the dopamine; he’s not stupid. But part of you really wants this shit. And the rest? Well. You’ll get there.
It’s the little things. He orders you a black decaf at the drive-thru when you ask for a latte. You start to correct him, like you think he’s made a mistake, but he gives you a look, and you shut your mouth immediately.
When he pulls away from the speaker, you look over at him again. “Sorry,” you mumble.
“Sorry…?”
You squirm a little, heart pounding, unsure if he’s really doing this at the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Sorry, sir.”
He smiles and rubs his hand on your thigh where it peeks out from your skirt. “Thanks, baby.”
And that’s all it takes. You take the cup when he hands it to you and you’re quick to say, “Thank you, sir,” even though the kid at the window is still passing things through to Joel and can clearly hear you.
-fissured
It goes on like that for a couple of months, but it doesn’t all go so smoothly. One night, he picks you up from work and takes you to a restaurant, saying he wants to treat you. Halfway through the meal, he asks for your panties.
“What?” you say, shocked at his vulgar language in the dining room.
“Take ‘em off and hand ‘em to me.”
You go to stand, probably thinking you can go to the bathroom to obey.
He shakes his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Right here, right now, baby.”
“Joel,” you hiss, sitting back down, “I can’t do that.”
He fixes you with a calm smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, raising one finger in the air. “I’ll give ya three choices. The first one, the one I’m going to advise you pick, is that you do it right now, and I’ll only punish ya for talkin’ back.”
“The second one,” he holds up another finger for emphasis, “is you can go to the bathroom to take ‘em off, but you’re gonna pay for it when we get home. The third one is where you don’t listen, we leave right now, and you learn to fuckin’ regret it.”
Your breathing is shallow, and your pretty eyes are shining. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now.
“I-I can’t,” you whimper. “Please, sir.”
“You got about thirty seconds to make up your mind.” The softness is gone—from his voice, from his face, from the set of his shoulders.
“Fuck,” you whisper, and you stand up. You’re only in the bathroom for a minute, and when you sit back down, you try to hand them to him under the table.
“Nah, that was only a choice if you were good,” he says, smirking and laying his expectant hand on the white linens.
Mortified, you ball them up tight in your fist and press them into his hand. He slides them into his pants pocket.
He doesn’t say anything else about it for the rest of dinner, asking instead about your projects at work and your visit with your parents over the holidays. You feel sick, barely eating a thing, and biting your lip to stave off the tears.
As soon as you’re in the truck, you start to cry. “I’m sorry, I was just scared and—”
“Shut up. You made your choice. You’re not sorry. You’re just afraid of the consequences.”
“N-no, I am sorry, I mean it.”
“You’re gonna have to prove it.” He doesn’t look at you on the drive home, doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t even turn the radio on; just listens to you sniffle.
When he parks, he sets his hand on your thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I know you can be my good girl. All you gotta do is take your punishment and learn from it, okay?”
You sniffle again and nod, blinking through tear-laden lashes at him.
“So pretty when you cry for me,” he murmurs. He gets out and comes around to open your door, offering a hand to help you step down from the tall truck. You take it, and he holds on, leading you inside his house.
He sits sprawled on the couch, thighs parted wide to make room and waits until you’re comfortably kneeling between his legs. You’re sat in silence, head bowed, arms folded behind your back.
“Tell me what you did wrong today.”
This is a first, but not a last. Even on days when nothing egregious has happened, you will follow this ritual. He’ll ask for your sins, and you’ll confess. There will always be something you’ll owe him for.
“I argued when you gave me orders. I was disobedient.”
“Anything else I need to know about, baby?”
“No, sir.”
“Why’d you argue?”
“I was afraid. I’m sorry.”
“Save your grovelin’ for after, baby. Why were you afraid?”
“I didn’t want people to see. I didn’t want to get kicked out or arrested.”
“You think I’d let anything happen to you? You think I would have given you an order that put either of us at any kinda risk?”
Your face burns. “I—”
“I thought you trusted me.” He sounds hurt, and you’re a little nauseous when you look up to see his eyes wide and sad, lips turned into a wounded scowl.
Your shoulders slump. “I didn’t think. I panicked.”
“Hmm. Okay, I can work with that.”
You look up at him, brow scrunched and lips pouting as you try to parse his words.
He smiles. It’s cold, and his eyes are steel.
You swallow hard, and his grin widens, quirking into a smirk.
“Alright, baby. I got just the thing.”
He leads you into the ensuite. You kneel on the little rug by the tub while he fills it. You’re too afraid to ask what’s happening, so you just sit quietly. He leaves the room and doesn’t come back until the tub is nearly full, and you’re starting to worry that you were supposed to be monitoring it.
He comes back in, and once it’s nearing the lip of the tub, he turns off the faucet. He has you kneel on the top of the three steps leading up to the edge. It’s the most luxurious thing in this house, and you suspect he installed it custom so he could soak his aching muscles.
He bends you over the edge so you’re leaning close to the water and crouches down behind you. It’s a pleasant surprise when he spreads you wide and licks from your clit to your asshole.
He stays there for a few minutes, indulging in your wet cunt and the cries it draws from your lips. After he’s had his fill, he stands up and lubes up his cock before pushing his way into your ass. He’s generous with the lube but rarely preps you, since you both like it better when it hurts.
You’re writhing a little beneath him, wriggling your hips to try to ease the passage. Once he’s fully seated inside you, he grabs the back of your head and shoves it under the water before fucking hard into you.
You thrash, displacing water from the tub, until he yanks you back up.
You gasp for air and scrabble to get a grip on the wet tile, but he pushes you back down and groans at how tight you get while you’re struggling.
He pulls you roughly back up. “Gonna keep going until you stop makin’ a fuss.”
You go to protest, to panic, and he pushes you back down.
The next time he pulls you out, he spanks you until your skin is burning. “Fuckin’ trust me. You think I’m gonna let you drown?”
“No, sir,” you cry, but it’s garbled as he pushes you back down. You’re still fighting him each time.
He pulls you back out and repeats the beating. “Relax, or we’re gonna be here all night.”
He continues the process a few more times and then gives you a reprieve, letting go of your hair so you can rest your cheek against the cold edge of the tub while he pounds into you. He reaches and rubs featherlight circles around your clit until you’re softly moaning.
“You gonna trust me?”
“I’m trying, my body panics,” you pant.
“I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya. You hear me? You know you’re panicking, so focus on me instead.”
“Yes, sir.”
It shouldn’t make sense, but you think he’s long warped your brain anyway. The next time he pushes you underwater, you clench your fists tight and focus on what oxygen you do have, even if he knocks a little out with each thrust.
His hand in your hair is your anchor and buoy. You tense when you feel your body start to jerk, trying so hard to control it.
He pulls you up. “Just like that, baby. Again.”
It gets just a little easier each time. He leaves you under longer, until your lungs are burning, and you’re on the edge of gasping in water, but he pulls you out in time.
“Fuck, you’re doing so well.” He’s a little fascinated. He hadn’t really been sure it could be done or if your survival instincts would go into a frenzy. But here you are, letting him almost fucking drown you.
Not that he would.
Despite being balls deep in your tight little asshole, he isn’t trying to reach his orgasm. Not yet, staving off his pleasure so he can keep a clear head.
He keeps it up just a little longer. You’re getting tired and tolerating less and less time underwater. The last time he pulls you up, he pinches your clit and tells you to cum while he fills you.
He dunks you again while you cum, and you clamp down on him tighter than you have before, convulsing on his cock. When he pulls you back up, you’re gasping and sobbing. He pulls out and wraps you in a towel, easing you to the wet floor while he cleans up.
When he comes back to you, he helps you stand and dry off, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“So?”
Your brow furrows. It’s not what he usually asks after a punishment, but you think you know what he means. “I’m sorry. I trust you, I promise.”
“I know. M’so proud of you for taking that. You’re turning out so nicely, sweet thing.”
In the morning, you’re almost late to work after sucking him off when you should have been getting dressed. He’s about to walk out the door to head to the site when he hears your frustrated voice from the bedroom.
“Joel, where are my underwear? I need to fuckin’ leave.”
“I told you, baby. There was a price to pay when you picked the bathroom. Y’ain’t wearing ‘em anymore.”
“What?”
He doesn’t need to see you to smirk at the shocked expression he knows is on your face. “We’ll talk about it more tonight; I gotta run.”
-avulsed
“Y’know, baby,” Joel says, leaning forward to rub your shoulder. “They just don’t fuckin’ appreciate you.”
You’re bent over, elbows on your knees, crying with your face buried in your hands. You sit up and sniffle, wiping the tears. “It’s fine; it’s not like I need to be coddled at work.”
All the stress of the PR world is getting to you, and you hate it, you fucking hate it, but you dropped 50k on a degree, so now you’re stuck.
“But they make you work all this overtime, cut your team in half, and then berate you when you can’t meet the client’s deadline? You do not deserve that, baby.”
You let him coax you into his lap, facing him so you can bury your face in his soft, worn tee. He rubs your back and holds your head to his chest.
“You’re too good to me,” you mumble.
“Nah, darlin’, I’ve told ya a thousand times. You deserve to be taken care of.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I, well. I was thinkin’...”
You wait, but when he doesn’t pick back up, you sit up and look at him.
“I dunno. It’s nothin’,” he says.
“Please tell me?”
“Alright, fine. Now, I don’t want ya to feel any pressure. It’s just a thought. But maybe you should just quit and stay with me a while, ‘till you can find something better?”
You can’t tell if he’s joking. He must see something on your face, because he tips your chin up so you’re looking into his eyes.
“I know it’s sudden, but I mean it. Let me take care of ya while you figure shit out. We don’t gotta treat it like living together if y’ain’t ready. But I’d be open to that conversation, too.”
It doesn’t take much more than that. The first couple weeks, he lets you give it a try—searching for new degree programs, applying for jobs you know you’re overqualified for just to try something different.
After nothing pans out, he suggests you both take a week off. Him from work and you from the burden of trying to escape unemployment. Just relax, like a little staycation.
It’s bliss. You go on dates, eat pizza and marathon the “Jurassic Park” movies, and fuck like crazy.
On the third night, he sits you down. On his cock, of course. While you’re bouncing and brainless, he cups your cheek. “Baby, you’ve been too damn stressed still. What if we… well, what if we tried out a day or two like we’ve been talking about?”
Sometimes, you whisper to him in the darkness, usually while he’s balls deep, how you wish you could be his all the time. His good girl. His pet. And he whispers back, lures you right in with promises of taking care of everything, of you not having a worry or care in the world. Just him.
Now, he fondles your tits while he murmurs to you. “We can just wake up together, and I can take care of ya. Everything you need, baby. All you’d have to do is be good for me, yeah?”
You moan and grind down harder on his cock. “Please, sir. I want it more than anything. Just to be yours.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
Joel had no patience for brats, so he usually broke his toys in sooner into the training process. He liked ‘em nice and obedient—scared, if that’s what it took, but devoted. But you had been from the start—you wanted to be good in all the ways you could never seem to be to other people. Your family, your job, the world seemed to just demand more and more.
Joel was the first person to make you feel like you had actually, really, truly pleased him. There wasn’t a higher mark you should have made. There wasn’t any expectation for you to give more and more.
His orders were complete, always. You learned that very quickly. Attempts to go above and beyond were rebuked.
“If I wanted that, I woulda said so,” he told you. And like everything else, you committed his words to memory.
It helped that he gave praise freely. You didn’t have to wonder if he was satisfied, if you should have licked him differently, if you should have made prettier faces while you came. He reassured you until you believed him, and then kept going anyway.
It made it easier for him to slowly peel you away from the ungrateful world.
“You don’t have to take that,” he’d say after watching your face fall further and further while on the phone with your mom. “Family ain’t supposed to make you feel like shit.”
They made it too easy, really, and your relationship with them would have likely just fizzled out. But in the end, he had to step in and snap it off.
You asked him to come with you to dinner at their house. He was hesitant. He wasn’t really the boyfriend type. He wasn’t really even your boyfriend. That was too weird a word for either of you, not when he owned you.
But he knows you didn’t want to go alone, and he has a feeling he’ll be cleaning up the mess anyway.
You want to give them a chance. Things have been so tense, and they said they missed you. But they didn’t even make it through the entrée without ridiculing you.
When your father asks how work is going, you quietly confess to quitting, hastily reassuring them that you are looking for a new position. Though, and you keep this part to yourself, you maybe haven’t been trying that hard.
“What do you mean you quit? How are you paying your bills? You better not have come here to ask for money,” your father says, setting down his fork to glare at you.
“Well, I’ve been living with Joel,” you mumble to the tablecloth.
“I didn’t raise you to be a gold digger,” your mother chides.
Joel tries to bite his tongue and let them dig their own graves. But your father calls you a “fucking whore,” and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand the way you’re cowering in your chair, fighting back tears.
“You watch your mouth,” Joel snaps at your father.
You look up, mouth agape, eyes darting from Joel to your parents.
“Mind your business,” your dad tells him.
Joel stands up and throws his napkin on the table. “She is my fuckin’ business. I wouldn’t stand by and let anyone talk to her like that. You’re not an exception just because you managed to get it up long enough to cum in your wife.”
“Joel,” you whisper, tugging at his sleeve. You’re burning, melting on the spot, from the vulgar way he’s talking to them. For him, someone who’s always strict about manners and proper hospitality, to talk back like this? God, you think, he must really love you.
He puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds firmly as you lean into it. He rounds back on your parents. “You treat her like fuckin’ dirt beneath your feet, and I’m tired of it. You don’t deserve the fuckin’ dirt beneath her feet.”
He shoves his chair back and grabs your hand. “C’mon, baby; we’re leaving.”
You take it and stand up, letting him pull you along. Your father follows you into the foyer, and you try not to look at him while you shove your shoes on.
Joel holds your coat out while you slip into it, and you tune out whatever your dad is yelling now. You don’t want to hear it; you know it’s nasty, and your whole world has narrowed to Joel anyway.
He holds out the key. “Go wait in the truck, baby.”
And you do.
He comes out about five minutes later, red-faced and huffing with fury. He doesn’t say a word when he gets in; just throws the truck into reverse and pulls away. You both ignore the blood on his knuckles.
Once you’re on the road, he looks over at you and sighs. “C’mere, sweetheart.”
You unbuckle and slide over to the middle seat, tucking your hand between his warm body to curl around his arm. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Whaddya sorry for? None of that was your fault.” He kisses the top of your head and cups your cheek at the stoplight. “It was gonna happen eventually, anyway.”
“Thank you.”
The rest of the ride home is silent while you breathe in his comforting musk and try to relax. But the tension is unrelenting, the horrible rotting feeling eating away at your spine.
He knows. Knows what you need, knows what he can do to seal this moment forever. He waits until he’s unzipping the pretty little cocktail dress you’d stressed over.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, breaking away from where he was sucking his claim down your neck to swap out your delicate necklace with his collar.
He unhooks the bra and kisses the marks he left behind with the cane, your penance for being allowed to wear it. It leaves you bare to him, and his hands turn greedy. He presses biting kisses against your lips while digging fingers into your bruises, swallowing your whimpers.
He grabs you by the neck and squeezes the sides of your throat, holding you to him while your vision blurs. When he lets go, you stumble, but his arm around your back holds you upright. He slaps your face with quick, sharp blows in rapid succession to keep you unsteady.
“Knees, hands behind your head,” he says, and lets go.
You fall but are quick to right yourself and take the position. He wastes no time, giving you another harsh smack before grabbing your hair and shoving his cock into your throat.
You choke and gag but keep your hands in place even as your head spins. You feel limp and grateful that he doesn’t seem to require any effort from you as he uses you without mercy.
“Look at you. You’ve got my whole cock down your throat. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”
Your eyes are already glazed over, and you moan your appreciation around him.
He pulls out and hauls you to your feet. “I know what you need, sweetheart. Get your ass downstairs.”
He fucks you, beats you, uses you wherever he wants. But the basement is where he keeps the heavy equipment and where you know you’re about to have your mind and body pushed to the absolute limit.
You’re ready, he thinks, when he gets down and finds you waiting perfectly in place for him, eyes wide like he’s descended from on high. He jerks a thumb to the wooden post, and you meet him there.
“Forget about what they want you to be,” he murmurs as he closes the steel cuffs around your ankles. “You know what you want, baby. Right?”
“Mhm,” you nod, already slipping away into that safe place only Joel can get you to.
“What do you want to be?” he asks, binding your arms up over your head to the eye bolt at the top of the post.
“Yours.” It’s half-whisper, half-whine.
“Yeah? You just wanna be mine? You don’t want to get a new job?”
“No,” you finally confess. “But—”
“But what, baby? If you say somethin’ about money or bills, I’m gonna be mighty unhappy.”
You bite your lip. “I’m scared one day, you’ll wake up and not want me anymore.”
“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, sweetheart. You think I put all this work into helpin’ you, into teaching you how to be mine, just to toss ya out? You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”
“I’m sorry,” you say automatically.
He slides a silicone cock into the bracket lined right up with your mouth. It’s a fairly standard size, since he knows you’re going to thrash around and doesn’t want you gagging too much and throwing up.
Your torso gets tied to the post by your tits, the wood nestled between them and rope woven around. Securing you there forces your head onto the toy, but he doesn’t make you take it all the way. You keep your mouth open and don’t move closer or further, waiting for his command.
“Suck on it whenever you’d like. You’re going to need it.”
Your eyes roll back a little at his promise. If he thinks you’re going to need something in your mouth to self-soothe, you’re in for an absolutely amazing time.
“Focus on me. That’s all you’ll need to do from now on, baby. No more worries in that pretty little head, okay?”
The first strike is a warm-up. When you feel the lash of his favorite whip lick your ass, you moan. It’s a moderately short signal whip that he wields like a fucking pro. His warmups are quick but thorough, and you’re squirming when he moves on to your thighs and shoulders.
“Already?” he says, laughing when you whine around the silicone cock.
You’re absentmindedly sucking on it when he starts a harsher assault. A particularly sharp strike stings at the valley where your ass meets your thighs, and you yelp, jerking a little and gagging yourself on the dildo.
His smirk burns into your back as the cry melts into a moan, and you writhe a little, trying to get friction where you need it most. What you get, though, is the tip of the whip against your cunt.
By the time he moves around to your tits, they’re covered in spit, heaving with the effort of holding back your orgasm. He comes up to you first, and pinches at your nipples.
“Aw, does my dumb little cunt want to cum?” He croons, tugging and twisting until you moan. He laughs when all you can get out is a muffled “mhm.”
“Tell ya what. You can cum all you want while I hurt you tonight, okay?”
He punctuates it with a particularly cruel pinch, and that, combined with his permission, is all you need to let the pleasure shudder through you.
“Yeah? You gonna get off to being my little toy? Gonna let me do whatever I want?”
You moan around the fake cock, easing it further into your throat.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He doesn’t give a warm-up on your tits, figuring you’re already so far gone it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.
He’s right. The first lash is harsh, a welt blooming across the top of your breast in its wake, but you groan, trying to press your cunt up against the post for any relief.
You don’t need it, though. He brings you to your peak again with the skilled flick of his wrist, landing blows across the fat of your breasts. He waits until you’re mid-orgasm to bring the whip hard across your nipples.
The resulting wail almost makes him cum in his pants. He does it only twice more, relishing in your agony, but restraining himself from just letting loose. Not with the whip, as much as he’d like to. Maybe later with a flogger.
Once he’s taken it as far as he’s willing to risk, he moves back around to give the rest of you the same treatment. The hardest hits push you over the edge, and by the time his arm is getting tired, you’re sobbing and writhing in your restraints, overstimulated in every way.
He unlatches your ankles first, helping you find steady footing before untying your wrists and torso. You drop to your knees and open your mouth, throat aching for his cock after the tease of the toy.
He doesn’t have the willpower to torment you by denying it tonight. Instead, he nearly pops the button off his jeans in his urgency to pull his cock out and shove it as far down your throat as he can.
Your arms find their place behind your back, and you just take it. He fucks into you without restraint. It’s filthy, from the mess you’re making to the wet choking sounds he pushes out of you with each thrust.
You’re shaking, and he pulls out abruptly.
“I said while I’m hurting you. You don’t get to just cum from getting facefucked.”
“Then hurt me, please,” you sob. It’s right there; you’re so close.
He slaps you across the face and laughs as you cum, shoving back into your throat while you’re still riding out the aftershocks.
He pulls back out, and you whine until he yanks you up by the bicep and pushes you over to the padded bench, bending you over it and shoving into your sopping cunt.
“Still disappointed?” he teases.
“N-no,” you pant. “Please hurt me.”
“Beg me properly, greedy little cunt.”
You clench around him just at the words, but obey. “Please, sir, please hurt me so I can cum. Please.”
“I’ve been hurtin’ you all night, baby,” he says, voice thick with false pity. “Don’t you want me to be gentle with you now?” He can feel how hard you’re trying not to cum as he mocks you.
“No,” you sob. “No, love me, hurt me, please.”
It’s got an edge of desperation and heartbreak to it that he just loves.
He smacks your already bruising ass until you sob harder, shaking uncontrollably as you cum. He wraps his hands around your throat and fucks you through it until he cums, hips stuttering, and filling your cunt with his spend.
He lets himself collapse a little on top of you, pinning you with his weight against the bench with his softening cock still buried in you. “Feel loved now?”
You’re still crying, and when he folds his arms around your chest, elbows resting on the table, you cling to him. “Love you,” you murmur over and over, pressing kisses up and down his forearms.
He nuzzles his face into your neck, kissing and sucking at you. “I know, baby. You know I love ya.” He’s half-hard—not something that happens a lot anymore at his age, so he’s not gonna waste it. He pulls out just to manhandle you up onto the bench on your back, climbing up between your legs and shoving back in.
It’s a little sloppy until he’s fully hard again; your combined cream making things a little too slippery. Once he’s erect, though, he sets a punishing pace, folding you in half with your legs up by your ears. He works your clit with his hand, relishing in the way you’re fucking exhausted and overstimulated, but your poor clit’s been neglected. It means he can twist and pull on it, tugging until you give him more and more, until you’re sobbing for mercy that you know you’ll never get.
He doesn’t ease up until he pulls out to cum over your tits and face.
“Mine,” he snarls, shoving his fingers into your swollen cunt and feeding you what’s left of his first orgasm and your… well, he’s not really sure how many. A fuckin’ lot. “You’re all mine. Little fuckin’ toy to do whatever I want, right?”
You’re still gasping for breath, having been half-suffocated in that position, but when you look at him, it’s like he’s a fucking god. “Yes, sir.”
-broken
The day had started out fine.
He’d laid out a dress for you to wear. Sometimes, he made you go around bare for a while, just to fuck with your head a little, but he prefers to unwrap you like a present.
Plus, the sight of you crawling around in nothing but a slutty, barely-there dress is picture-fuckin’-perfect. He’d know; he’s got a bunch of ‘em on his phone.
And crawl, you do. You haven’t been allowed to walk further than a couple of feet in a long time. There’s penance to be paid if you can’t avoid it.
Joel collects your penance whenever possible, gathering what’s owed for your sins and dealing out forgiveness when it's settled. It’s how he shows his love.
And he does love you. How could he not? Such a perfect little toy. He’s spent so much time training you right to be his prized possession.
He knew it’d happen eventually, so when you commit one of the worst offenses, he has to make it count. You were testing your limits, of course; he had expected it. He had expected it months ago. It was worse now, after you’d been so good and earned so much trust. But now that you’d been nothing but his for two months, you had finally fucked up.
Your punishments were never painful. Okay, they weren’t pain-focused. Sometimes, he had to put you over his knee to let his frustration out before he could give you a proper punishment. But the pain wasn’t the point—you both liked it too damn much. No matter how much farther he took it than a regular session, and no matter how sick you were with guilt, you were always a soaking wet mess after a beating.
This time would have to be different, though.
It was time to finally break you.
He knew as soon as he got home. Not the particulars, but that you’d made a huge mistake.
On the surface, nothing was amiss. You were knelt by the door in your pretty little dress, a short number in navy blue. You had your head down and arms folded behind your back in perfect posture.
But something was off. It didn’t feel like you were happy he was home. And he was pretty sure there would only be one reason for that.
He hung up his keys but didn’t bother to take off his shoes, coming to stand in front of you. “What’d you do?”
You flinch and have to re-tense to hold the position as a sob escapes you. Your hands are balled into fists to fight the urge to cover your face. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked what you did.”
If it were still the early days, when this shit usually happened, he might have been just a little softer. At least until he coaxed the confession from you, anyway. But you were in too deep, now, too entangled in this life that he had little patience for your reticence.
“I—”
“I recommend you spit it out. You’ll tell me in the end, anyway.”
You start to cry. “I can’t say it.”
“You better figure it out pretty fuckin’ fast, little girl.”
“I had an orgasm,” you blurt, whimpers escalating to sobs.
He pauses. It’s worse than he thought. The rush of disappointment and anger sends his heart racing, and his fingers flex in longing for a cane.
“Did you enjoy it?” he says.
It catches you off guard. “No, I promise.”
“That’s too bad, ‘cause it’s the last one you’re gonna have for a while.”
You aren’t surprised; you’re actually relieved. Of course, of course he’ll fix you.
He finally takes his shoes off and sets his phone on the counter, beckoning you to follow him to the living room. Taking his seat on the couch, he waits until you’re settled at his feet.
“Why’d you do that, baby?”
“I-I didn’t mean to. I was edging for the last time today, and I don’t know what happened. It was just there, and I knew it, I knew it was coming, and I—” You choke on the guilt, the grief.
“You what?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t convince myself to stop. I kept thinking ‘no, you stupid cunt,’ but I couldn’t pull my hand away.”
He regards you for a moment. He’s burning inside, but trying to calculate the most effective approach.
“Thank you for telling me right away,” he says, but even though he means it, the words are cold and clipped. “Which hand?”
You look at him, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What?”
“Which hand did you use? Give it to me.”
You lift up your right hand, and he cradles it in his.
“Listen close.” He waits until he’s sure you’re focused on him, on his words.
This is where things have fallen apart in the past. No amount of training and manipulation can get someone across this hurdle; they have to mean it. The last thing he wants is someone running to the police because they don’t fucking understand how serious he is.
“This is going to be your last chance to back out. I will stop right now and let you pack your shit and leave. But if you stay, you’re agreeing to anything I do to you past this point.”
You bite your lip, stomach churning. “You’re scaring me,” you whisper.
“Good. You should be scared. What you’ve done is one of the worst things you could have. That’s got some serious consequences, baby.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I gotta hurt you. Bad. Y’ain’t going to like this; I can promise you that. I can’t punish your cunt because you’re such a stupid pain slut; anything short of permanent damage is gonna make you wet. And I’m not lookin’ to do permanent damage.”
Your lip trembles, heart pounding. You’ve never been so afraid, but you’re also enthralled. Lured in by the timbre of his voice and the salvation it’s promising.
He squeezes your hand where he’s still holding onto you. “I’m going to break one of your fingers.”
Your heart falters, blood rushing. “Oh god,” you whisper, shaking your head. Instinctively, you tug back on your hand, but he grasps it tight, tight enough that you feel the bones grind under his large fingers.
“It’s up to you. That’s half the price for forgiveness. The rest is gonna be spending the night alone.”
Somehow, that sounds worse. You can’t breathe.
“Gotta choose, baby. You wanna go? I’ll pay for a cab. You can walk away, but you can’t ever come back.”
You think you might be drowning. Leave? How could you leave? There’s no debate in your head; you have nothing without Joel. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. And the idea of losing him feels catastrophic.
You’re crying again, and you’re vaguely aware of his soothing voice trying to coach you through breathing. When you focus on him, just like he’s taught you, you start to calm down.
It’s Joel, you think. He’ll take care of you. And he said he didn’t want permanent damage. You just have to suffer for your betrayal and he’ll forgive you.
“I think I might throw up,” you warn him.
He sighs, the fear of losing you flooding away, taking some of his anger with it. “We’ll do it in the bathroom.”
He stands up, and you follow, albeit slowly, as the wave of nausea rises. You do throw up as soon as you get in the bathroom, thankfully making it to the toilet. He holds your hair and rubs his hand across your shoulder blades.
“It’s okay, baby, get it out of your system. You’re being so brave for me,” he croons. He helps you up to sit on the edge of the tub and gets you a little cup of mouthwash.
“I’ll help you brush your teeth after,” he promises. “I’d do it now, but, well. You’re probably going to puke again.”
When you’re done swishing the mouthwash, when it’s all turned to foam and you’ve spit it back in the cup, he swaps you for water. You rinse and spit that, too.
He’s laid a few things out on the counter. You feel dizzy all over again. Something tells you the comfort you feel is wrong, but he’s prepared an ice pack and medical tape, and has four little ibuprofen out next to another cup of water.
The other, louder part of you is whispering, see? He’ll take care of you. The act of wondering what’s wrong with you feels like a farce. You’re thinking it because you think you should, just going through the motions.
He takes off his belt and brings it to your mouth. You clench it between your teeth, letting a shaky breath through. His hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the warmth.
“I knew you were somethin’ special,” he whispers. You’re not sure he meant to.
Your whole body is shaking uncontrollably. He watches you for a moment, worried you’re going to faint, and then sits on the floor with his back against the tub, pulling you into his lap. He lays you back against his chest, caging you in with his arms and thighs. The ice pack sits to his right, already popped and frozen. Waiting.
Gently, he lifts your hand and brings it in front of your chest, taking it in his left. It’s a macabre mockery, the way he cradles it in his palm, fingers wrapped around the sides. In his right hand, he notches his thumb on the knuckle of your middle finger, bringing the other fingers in below it.
He doesn’t drag it out, doesn’t take pleasure in your terror. When he moves, it’s faster than a gunshot. Your scream is raw, breaking free from the spaces between your teeth and the belt. The taste of leather will remind you of this moment for the rest of your life.
He has the ice pack on it before you mentally register that it’s over. You’re sobbing. Horribly, he’s right, and you are sick again. He holds your hair in one fist, holding the ice pack to your mangled hand in the other.
When you’re done, he pulls you back against him, wrapping his limbs around you in a perverse embrace as you shake harder. With his free hand, he brings a damp, cool cloth to your face, cleaning you of the viscera of your sickness.
He’s shushing you, head bent close to your ear. “It’s alright, baby, it’s over. You did so good. I’m so proud. I love you so much.”
It’s good that he doesn’t expect an answer because he doesn’t get one. You’re too lost in the pain and shock.
When it’s time to take a break from the ice, he grabs the medical tape and wraps it around your index and middle fingers. You cry out again as he jostles the break. Once he’s splinted it, he lowers your hand gently to your lap so he can grab the medicine.
“I can’t; I’ll throw up again,” you say, voice cracking.
“Don’t have a choice, baby. Gotta keep the swelling down.”
He feeds you each pill, one by one, chasing them with sips of water.
You look so sad and precious that he almost feels bad. Unfortunately, he’s also rock fucking hard, so he shifts you a little to pull his dick out.
You don’t say anything when he lifts you to lower you on it. He’s careful, trying not to shake you around too much. He was right; you didn’t enjoy this pain. You’ve never been this dry for him before, and you whimper pathetically at the pinch and sting of his girth.
You may be worn out and in agony, but your cunt doesn’t get the message. He grins when he feels you getting wet and clenching around him. He doesn’t push it though, doesn’t torment you, just fucks up into you gently until he fills you.
You’re limp against him now, and he presses a kiss into your hair. “You may have to walk for a bit,” he muses. “But I’ll cap your penance at ten.”
You wince. Ten strokes with the cane on the soles of your feet every day until your finger heals? You usually only owe enough for two or three. It is a mercy, though, so you nod and thank him.
Joel can hardly contain the way his chest is flooding with warmth. You’re so close; he can feel it. So close to being completely his to put together just the way he likes.
He can’t wait to take you to The Pit.
-kintsugi
You’re cold. So cold. You’re curled in on yourself, tucked into a corner in the hopes that you’d be able to keep warmer. Your whole right hand throbs.
Moonlight only cuts across the corner, but it’s a comfort still. The soil is loose and you keep shuddering, feeling the tickle of a dozen phantom insects.
Worst of all, your chest aches, like he may as well have hewn you open. Dry sobs work their way free every now and then, leaving your mouth tacky and your throat full of cotton.
The only rest you get is when you blessedly pass out. Every time you close your eyes voluntarily, you see the heartbroken look on his face when you begged him not to leave you there.
“I wish I didn’t have to. I wish you hadn’t broken my trust and I could keep you close, baby. But you’re never going to learn how to be good if I don’t show ya.”
Bad, I’m bad, he doesn’t want me anymore, you think to no end.
When the sun starts to rise, you’re limp, still in your corner. You barely turn your head when a shadow falls over The Pit, but your heart starts to pound when the lock clicks, and Joel raises the gate.
“Oh, baby,” he says, soft and sorrowful. “C’mere.” He reaches out a hand, and you scramble to him, letting him take your left arm in his grasp and pull you out. You move immediately to your knees, body bent forward as your knotted muscles protest. He scoots his boot out of the danger zone near your broken finger.
You keep whispering, a broken record of “Sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”
He picks you up and holds you to his chest, shushing until you fall quiet. It doesn’t take longer than a few seconds as your brain desperately clings to any scrap, any way you can be good for him.
He brushes the loose dirt from you before going inside and upstairs to the ensuite. He sets you on the little rug next to the full garden tub, and he tests the water with his fingers before peeling his clothes off.
You flex your left hand, balling it in and out of a fist. You’ve never been particularly ambidextrous and wonder how you’re going to wash him without falling in or hurting your hand.
Before he gets in, he feeds you four more little red pills. Once he’s settled, he reaches out and guides you carefully by the waist, pulling you into his lap in the warm water.
That’s all it takes for you to start crying again. He doesn’t try to quiet you; just holds you there against his chest and lets you sob.
By the time you’ve calmed, the water has cooled, but instead of getting out, he just drains a little and runs more hot water.
Joel tips your chin up gently with the knuckle of his index finger. “You ready to be my good girl again?”
You nod, lip trembling.
Joel does nothing you hadn’t asked for. The trouble for you was that you asked for too much. Gave him too much. And it was far too late to get any of it back.
He gave what he could, though. Couldn’t replace what he’d taken, so he pours himself in the cracks, puts you back together with a firm hand and loving care. Sure, his love doesn’t look like what you’re used to, but he knows you see it for what it is.
“I know, baby. You took that all so well. Don’t worry,” he pauses to kiss you, “I forgive you. My perfect little toy.”
pls be nice, I'm so nervous about this.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic#dddne#tw noncon#non con#dark fic#tw abuse#seriously heed the warnings#don't like don't read#deaddovedecember2023
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Hello! Not exactly sure what’s all covered under “dark stuff” but I thought I’d shoot my shot.
Do you have any ideas or head canons concerning how badly the turtles might um…. Mark someone up during a close encounter? Like how badly the animal instincts might take over, or if they were even aware of it happening?
18+ /NSFW / Leo's the oldest with 29 / Everyone is susceptible to leaving marks at one time or another. In this essay, I will—
Leo is more susceptible to this act during his rut, when you're having angry sex, or those nights when he feels like acting a little mean (just because you love it). He sucks on your skin, and it's that suction that leaves the mark—most of the time reddish, almost purple. Always heals fast, for which he's gotta keep making them.
Raphel adores biting you. His marks are always deep purple and borderline black. Looks more like you had an accident, which makes them extra hard to hide under makeup or clothing. They take forever to heal, and he kind of gets offended if you cover them up.
Donatello is respectful while marking you. If you request him not to place his love bites in visible areas he'll listen. There's a catch, however. No neck marks? Perfect. How about splattering your entire torso with multiple different-sized hickeys? Sounds fair, right? I swear he'd be the most smooth talker, and yet somehow has an absolutely ravishing mischievous smirk.
Mikey uses them more when he's feeling slightly more possessive of you. Typically, the urge to mark you intensifies as his mating season comes close to its peak. My dude goes feral. He loves it when you mark him too (I mean if somehow you could go through that hard surface of his skin). And you can bet he shows them off proudly!
#what's covered under dark stuff? *insert mean girls meme “the limit does not exist”#don't be afraid to request what you wanna read#as long as it isn't horribly specific (as in you want me to write you a full fic with oc and all lol) it's all good!#If I do not want to do smt then I won't#don't worry too much about that#and always mind the warnings in the stuff I post#tw dark content#tmnt bayverse#tmnt dark content#tmnt dark turtles#tmnt bayverse leo#tmnt bayverse raph#tmnt donatello#tmnt bayverse donnie#tmnt michelangelo#tmnt mikey x reader#tmnt leo x reader#tmnt raph x reader
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Small painting to go with one of @heart-cores 's amazing fics ♡
#lawlu#lulaw#ロール#ルロー#トラファルガーロー#my art#fanart#trafalgar law#one piece#monkey d. luffy#luffy x law#there's a spicy version on twitter#cause I'm in the mood for drawing butts#I kid you not#I have so many wips#anyway#go read Core's fics#do beware the tags and trigger warnings thou
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Little things - Miguel O’Hara x reader
Warnings/tags: Vauge shit but it’s implied reader has issues with people taking out their anger on them- whatever that means to you. I’m gonna be completely honest- my father used his angry voice at me and now this exists because I have issues. This is probably triggering so dear god please don’t read this if you have/had a bad relationship with your parents or an ex or whoever. TW’s to the max.
I mean it’s technically hurt comfort.
Miguel starts to notice the little things.
He starts to notice how you react to even the slightest hint of frustration in his voice. How, despite his annoyance being directed at situations or objects, you always seem to take it as if it’s directed to you.
He notices that you go into spirals where all you can say is “sorry”. He notices that any attempts at reassurance and comfort are met with guarded wariness, like you’re expecting him to
He notices how if you get it in your head that you messed up- even if you, quite plainly, did not- then you’ll spend the rest of the night walking on eggshells around him.
He starts to notice how you flinch, and how you either speak faster or get quiet. He can’t quite decide which he hates more.
Sure, when you get panicked and speak faster, it pains him to see how down right desperate you are to please him and fix whatever is bothering him. Like you’re scared his frustration over traffic or incompetent subordinates will somehow end up being taken out on you. And yes, he hates that, he hates the idea that you’re scared of him.
But he hates even more when you’re quiet. When you find some excuse to run to the grocery store- even when you already have everything you two need for dinner. When your voice turns soft and meek, when you grow distant and dissociated. When you go off to bed hours early, a simple excuse of “I’m just tired” doing nothing to ease his worries.
Because you can’t imagine that his frustrations aren’t going to end up being taken out on you in some way.
On nights like that, Miguel always makes sure to pay extra attention to you. To not let you slip away and stew alone in your thoughts for too long. To make sure to hold you extra tight and give you extra kissing as he does. To make sure that whenever you excuse yourself to go to bed early, he follows you up, climbing into bed with you and holding you tight against his chest.
He’ll hold you like that till you fall asleep, stroking your hair and telling you how much he loves you, making sure to reassure you that you were in no way the cause of his frustrations, and that you, if anything, made them all melt away once he got home to you.
He makes sure to squeeze you extra tight, to hold you extra close if you start to cry. He’ll let you tell him about your ex, or your parents, or whoever hurt you in the past to make you react like this to even the slightest bit of frustration in someone’s voice. And he’ll listen as much as you need, and he’ll make sure you know you’re loved.
#y’all I’m being so fr rn read the warnings#stay safe because just- yeah#hurt/comfort#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel x reader#miguel spiderverse#miguel spiderman#miguel ohara#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara#miguel x you#miguel x y/n#atsv miguel#miguel o’hara x you#miguel o’hara x y/n#miguel o’hara fanfiction#miguel o’hara fic
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baby boy 🧸
WARNINGS: smut (MDNI) , seonghwa x afab reader, reader is called mommy, reader is a gentle dom, mutual masturbation, cunnilingus, intercourse, cream pie
1,300 words
~♡༚✧˳⁺⁎
in the middle of the night, a knock at your door awoke you from your dreams. you heard a small whimper, and even in your hazy, half-awake state you knew it would be your roommate seonghwa up and needy again.
you sat up and glanced at the clock. 3:40. then you turned your head to the tall and thin shadow in your doorway. “seonghwa?” your groggy voiced whispered. “do you need mommy time again?”
“mhm,” a small voice replied, softly reverberating in the still, moonlit bedroom.
you patted your sheets. “alright, c’mere, baby.”
the shadow stepped into your room and you first noticed that seonghwa was naked save for a pair of briefs. you were then shocked to be met by a pair of puffy, red eyes. your spine shot up straight as you were suddenly fully alert. “honey, are you crying?”
seonghwa sniffled and rubbed his nose. “i was…a little while ago.” he sat beside you and you placed your hand on his shoulder. “i…um…i just…need you to make me feel better. please.”
“okay,” you said, your own mouth sinking into a pout. giving seonghwa a side hug, you told him, “i’ll make you feel better, i promise.”
“can…can you…get yourself off first?” he asked meekly, rubbing at his nose again. “i wanna watch.”
“of course, baby.”
when you first opened your legs for him, he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. “you’re so pretty,” he would say, eyes glued to your pussy. the frown on his face was already fading, and he had stopped sniffling.
seonghwa let his hand rest idly over his crotch as he began to stiffen. he was completely transfixed your pleasure instead of his own. you moaned softly as you traced circles over your sensitive clit. “mm, mommy feels so good.”
“all for me?” seonghwa asked, finally returning to your eyes.
“all for you, baby boy. just for you.”
as you got closer, seonghwa became more and more exasperated. still only palming himself, you took pity on the poor, desperate man. you asked, “do you wanna take your pretty cock out, hwa?”
“mhm,” he nodded, lip between his teeth.
“you can do that, baby,” you assured him, “touch your pretty cock for mommy.”
he did as told, sliding his briefs down his thighs, exposing his tall, erect cock. he wrapped a hand around himself and began slowly pumping. immediately his stiff posture softened as he embraced the pleasure stemming from his cock and soaking into his tired body.
“how does it feel, baby boy?”
seonghwa whined, his eyes closed tightly like he would cry again. “it feels good, mommy.”
your stomach did a backflip at the sound of his sweet, needy little voice. not to mention, the sight of his frustrated, leaking cock in his delicate hand. you moaned louder as you felt your muscles tighten.
“good boy, seonghwa,” you panted out, “mommy’s so close for you."
seonghwa whimpered, his hand picking up its pace. “want mommy to cum,” he said, lips in a pout.
just then you did, a string of long moans escaping your lips as you closed your thighs around your hand. your body shook as the waves of orgasm overtook you. seonghwa stared all the while, savoring the sight, the sound, the smell of your pleasure.
he practically collapsed onto the mattress with a sob, landing on his stomach, cock still out and in need of attention. “mommyyy,” he whined, “you’re so pretty when you cum… thank you for letting me watch.”
you brought your fingers away from your clit and let your legs open again for seonghwa’s viewing pleasure, his face only inches away. “you’re always welcome to watch me, sweetheart. now, how about we get that cock of yours-“
“can i taste you?” he interrupted, eyes shining up at you like a puppy.
caught a little off guard, you asked, “do you want to?” although you should’ve known he would make such a request. seonghwa’s hunger was seemingly never satisfied.
“yes, mommy,” he answered.
“go ahead, baby boy.”
without wasting a second, seonghwa began lapping up your orgasm before wrapping his eager lips around your swollen, sensitive clit. he sucked diligently on your little nub, moaning against your pussy like a starved man. seonghwa had always had a way with his tongue, and he was always happy to use it.
soon, when the pleasure got to be too intense, you gently pushed seonghwa away. “too much, baby, it’s too much.” he wiped his mouth as he continued to stare at your helpless nub. "seonghwa," you whispered, giggling when his big, round, sleepy eyes finally met yours. "do you want me to take care of you, pretty boy?"
seonghwa simply nodded sheepishly, too shy to answer with his voice.
"do you wanna have mommy wrapped around your cock?"
he bit his lip. "mhm."
"lay back, baby," you instructed, gently pushing his bare chest into your mattress. you slid his underwear fully off, tossing them to the floor. then you straddled him, your dripping core hovering over his. seonghwa's hips bucked a little as he grumbled impatiently. you gently shushed him, petting his rosy cheek. "relax, baby, mommy's gonna take good care of you."
you lowered yourself onto his length, groaning as he parted your plushy walls. being filled was just what you needed. seonghwa did it so perfectly, the curve of his cock rubbing all the right spots like he was made just for you. but that wasn't what was important right now; you were taking care of him.
seonghwa stared down at where your bodies melded until he was fully inside when he dropped his head back and closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh of relief. he groaned greedily as you began to slowly rock on top of him, your soft muscles squeezing just right.
your pussy drooled at the sight of the slender man beneath you and between your legs. with just the tiniest coat of sweat, his skin glowed in the cool light of the moon. you watched as his chest expanded and compressed at an uneven rate, each time accentuating his abs. you followed those abs down to the light strip of hair that lead to the part of him you were most focused on; where he became a part of you.
you rocked your hips faster, grinding your clit into his pubic bone as you started to pant. you paid close attention to what seonghwa wanted-what he needed-and did your best to comply. at some point, his hands found their way to your ass and he held on tightly, encouraging further movement from your hips.
it didn't take long for him to come completely undone, his mouth agape as he let out every beautiful sound that arose in him. his eyes were closed tight as he begged for more. "yes, mommy, don't stop, please..."
even sooner, his moans became high-pitched and hoarse and his hips began to shake. "where do you want to cum?" you asked, not slowing your movements.
all seonghwa responded with was a series of whimpers and moans.
"use your words, baby boy," you reminded him.
"in...side..."
your heart fluttered at his words. he had never asked to cum inside of you before. were you really going to let him? to take that risk? in your sex-drunken haze, those questions left your mind as soon as they arose.
"cum for me," you said shakily, "cum for mommy."
with a choked sob, he did just that. his hot, thick cum filled you to the brim, and it felt amazing. not only to completely let go of any fears that had prevented it in the past, but also to give a friend what he needed. it made your heart warm and brain fuzzy. and pussy happy.
without letting his cock go, you laid your head on seonghwa's chest, feeling his heart beat on yours. he held you close, beginning to stroke your hair. "feel better, baby?" you asked.
"yes, mommy."
#i did not proofread this for one second just a warning#i wanted to get it posted before my class started lollll#feel free to point out errors and thank u for reading!!!!!#seonghwa#seonghwa ateez#seonghwa smut#seonghwa x reader#ateez#ateez smut#ateez x reader#ateez blurbs#ateez imagines#ateez fanfic#ateez hard hours#smut#kpop#kpop smut#kpop fanfic#ateez fic#mdni#18+
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9-1-1
buck + near death experiences
#911#911edit#evanbuckleyedit#evan buckley#buck buckley#911 abc#911 fox#usercam#usernolan#userknight#.gfx#flashing gif#flashing tw#flashing cw#flashing lights#gif warning#listen. idk if this is anything its been sitting in my head throughout this one fic i was reading#something something all of the times buck dismissed how close he came to death + the 1 time he actually died and isnt fine about it#something about characters who view themselves as expendable and then they actually die and come back a little wrong gets to me ok.#also sorry i havent made a gifset in like??? 3 fucking weeks??? idk. im going thru it
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gently grabs you by the chin hey. if an author selects “chose not to use archive warnings” on a fic, they’re allowed. even if you don’t like it or disagree.
#tired of seeing people mad at authors for correctly using the tagging system#if you the reader don’t want to risk seeing a tag that wasn’t warned for#then filter out those fics or use your best judgment#do not yell at the authors#please#as seen on tiktok several times this week#ao3#ao3 etiquette#don’t like don’t read#archive of our own
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"You had no idea where you'd come from or what direction you were going. You couldn't remember a turn even a moment after Moon had made one. The turn did not exist, because this whole place did not exist. Your map was resolute on that front."
Recently read @eyndr-stories fic I think I smell a rat! Such a wonderful read and super cute fic 💕
#skizabaa scribbles#fnaf daycare attendant#moondrop#fnaf moon#moon fnaf#fnaf y/n#fnaf au i think i smell a rat#fnaf sb au#fnaf sb#dca#fnaf dca#I never noticed the symbol on the back of the dca's faceplate... the little moon with a warning sign... so i added it here💕#Also!! this fic is so cute!! such a delightful read 💕💞💕
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With You part 3
<- prev next -> || Fic Masterlist || My Masterlist
Summary: Jake Lockley has finally met you. What does he think of you, and will he, or Marc, give you any answers?
Pairings: Marc Spector x reader, Jake Lockley x reader (implied Steven Grant x reader). Gender neutral reader. No use of Y/N. Reader is engaged to Marc and Steven.
Word Count: 3k
Warnings/notables: Angst, comfort, references to drinking and alcoholism but it doesn’t happen here, sex but the language is not explicit and no gender-specific body parts mentioned, nightmare, brief crying, cursing, assumptions, longing, feeling inadequate, Khonshu is mean here yall, somebody hug marc spector. Let me know if I missed a warning. Probably inaccurate DID, based on the show.
Dividers by saradika
PREVIOUSLY, on “With You”...
Jake could live without Marc and Steven knowing about him. He’d lived that way all this time, but you were something else. He hadn’t wanted to meet you like this. He had screwed up, and now you were only worried about Marc. He was worried too, honestly.
Now you would never want to know him.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Jake decided, by which he was effectively deciding to do nothing. He may be able to eliminate the vilest creatures under night’s shadow, but trying to explain to you that he was the reason your fiancé obliterated his sobriety...
Jake didn’t fear anything. In fact, as the streets of London descended from depraved men to monstrous supernatural threats, he relished his role as Khonshu’s vengeful fist. Someone had to do it, and Jake was suited to the task.
A creature of the night, he savored the quiet, cool leather interior of his car as much as the dingy London air whipping through his white cape. And the more challenging his vicious foes, the more Jake reveled in it. He protected people. That was his sole purpose.
Including Marc and Steven.
So the fact that he somehow missed Marc tossing back a bottle of whiskey and upsetting you in the process, well - if he couldn’t protect you and his alters, then he had no reason to exist.
So, time for bed. He would fade into darkness and you would get back who you really wanted.
Reaching to scoop up each item of clothing he had discarded, with none of this explained aloud to you, he turned to flee.
“Wait,” you pleaded, blocking his pathway out of the bedroom, your hands reaching out to push back gently against the pile in his arms. His gaze fell on yours - open, yet unreadable. Not menacing, but not to be bothered. His eyes didn’t flicker away like Marc’s. He stared you down, waiting.
“Just wait a second, Jake,” you found yourself whispering, a bit transfixed. “Where do you usually sleep?”
Lips parting in anticipation, your heart did some clichéd somersaulting as he tore his eyes from yours and nodded to your bed.
“You sleep with me?” You clarified, dumbfounded.
Dark eyes flickered momentarily down to your mouth. His tongue swiped over the fullness of his bottom lip before dragging it between his teeth.
“I sleep with you.”
The rich timbre of his voice electrified you.
“Only so you can wake up with them.”
Air rushed out of you in a mildly dramatic exhale. What was this man doing to you?
“Please,” you whispered, unsure of what you were even asking him. Mostly, you didn’t want to be without them. You had waited all night, terrified. “Don’t go. I was so worried.”
Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Jake nodded once. He knew what you needed, and it wasn’t him.
Ten minutes later, after what was, for you, an unbearable silence, Jake climbed into bed with you. Having washed up and making his well-fitting ensemble disappear somehow (where did he keep his clothes?), he decided on Steven’s soft pajamas. The sleeves sagged adorably, covering his hands, but Jake’s fingers didn’t fidget like his alter’s.
How many times had he done this? Pretended to be them? And were you okay with it? Was it even really your business? It was his body too.
The lights remained off from before, allowing you the cover of darkness to ease under the blankets, as if acting in a play.
If Marc were with you, he would pull your back against his chest, folding you close until either your body relaxed, or until his lips breathed salacious words on your ear while his hand slipped between your legs. Either that, or he would bury his face in your tummy, the way he had done that morning. That, too, often ended up with him between your legs.
For Steven, it was the crook of your neck, latched on to you like a koala. After years of sleeping poorly, or trying his damndest to stay awake and not “sleepwalk”, nothing soothed him more than your soft skin and reassuring arms. He marvelously discovered that, with you, he had no trouble falling asleep at all. For Steven, the mornings were when he needed you most. The two of you would race to the bathroom, playfully fighting over who would freshen up first before tumbling back into bed, where he would be sure to end up between your legs.
But here, now, Jake was a statue.
You were Marc and Steven’s whole world. Jake knew he had fucked up enough for one week. There was no way he was moving one millimeter in this bed. Hopefully, the warm surge in this heart would settle to the soothing sound of your breathing. That was his balm - you were his anchor. After the cracking of bones and the wailing of night’s creatures deafening his ears - the gentle rise and fall of your chest in the night was his lullaby.
But he didn’t dare touch you. You weren’t his.
Sometimes you attached yourself to him the night, or maybe he only dreamed that you did. He was never him when sleep ended.
Feeling the tension rolling off you, the urge to somehow alleviate your worries taunted him. But he was certain he didn’t even possess the ability to soothe, only to punish.
So he said nothing. He did nothing. He waited for sleep.
“Jake...” As you turned to him, your sweet voice crawled up his neck, intoxicating him utterly. “Would it be okay if I held your hand?”
The memory of your smooth skin was seared into his memory from the featherlight kiss he’d given your knuckles. He didn’t even hesitate to grasp for you in the dark, tangling his fingers with yours.
Pressing your face to the soft fabric covering his shoulder, you, undeniably realistic you, accepted this real moment. You wanted answers. You wanted a lot of things. He gave you his hand. You took what was here, now.
“I’m glad to know you, Jake,” you whispered, your heavy eyes sliding closed, despite everything. Squeezing his fingers, and swiping your thumb softly along his, you added, “I hope you’ll come back to me soon.”
You woke up to a mess of chocolate curls buried in your stomach.
Marc.
Your sweet, tormented angel.
There was a slight chance it wasn’t Marc, but the familiar whimpers of a nightmare gave him away even more than tummy cuddles.
“Shhh,” you soothed, raking your fingernails through his messy waves. “I’ve got you.”
He squeezed you, murmuring, “No,” brokenly before whimpering again. His nightmares weren’t flailing arms and shouts like in films. They were this: soft, pleading mumbles and anguished pleas.
With a sudden change in his breath, he was awake, eyes darting wildly as he climbed his way up your body, hands checking you frantically.
“Right here, baby,” you murmured, eyes soft and full of love. He looked so broken, you wanted to cry, while desire simultaneously ripped up your spine. Whatever this man of yours needed, you were going to give him, likely, to your great pleasure and benefit. Win-win.
“You’re here,” he repeated, gathering you in his strong arms as the weight of his body crushed you in the most delicious way. “I dreamed you were gone. You left, or...or someone took you away from me.”
“Never,” you uttered with conviction, pressing your lips to the corner of his jaw, opening your mouth to breathe hotly before kissing a trail to his ear. “I’ll never let that happen. I’ll burn down the whole world first.”
A choked sob erupted from his chest as he whispered your name. Fusing his lips with yours, his fingers gripped your jaw desperately as if he feared you would quite literally slip through them.
Responding to the press of his body like a partner in a well-rehearsed dance, your legs fell open, ready to feel the heat of him consuming you. His mouth hadn’t left yours, but his thick fingers dragged (his) t-shirt up your torso and over your head.
Only then, when your lips parted, did his dark, desperate gaze lock onto yours. “Need you,” he groaned, his voice tinged with the slight beg you associated with Steven.
Surging forward, you met his furious kiss with equal hunger, pushing under his soft pajamas, pulling, dragging until your naked limbs were tangled, pressing and pulling in desperate passion.
“You’re mine,” he growled, deep inside you, claiming you, as if you had any doubt or desire to be apart from him. “He can’t h-have you. I won’t let him.”
You were oddly turned on by the idea that maybe he sounded jealous of Jake, who had merely held your hand in the dark.
He didn’t mean Jake.
In fact, he wasn’t even aware you’d held an audience with his mysterious alter.
No, he meant the twisted, deceitful, formidable Egyptian god of the moon, to whom he remained enslaved. The one who took you away in his dream.
The things Marc was doing to your body - you could barely think straight. Your back arched in pleasure, your fingers clawing at the sculpted muscles of his back, desperate to somehow bring him even closer to you.
“I’m yours,” you gasped, realizing with the deep moan that followed, that you didn’t really have control over your voice at this point.
“Mine,” he repeated, as you drowned in him, and he in you.
After a long, hot shower together, filled with salacious kisses and some very naughty handiwork, the two of you finally made it to the kitchen. Just like in bed, you danced around one another with practiced ease, as if perfectly executing the blocking of a play. Your hand reached for the coffee grounds, while he readied the filter. He found the bread while you produced his favorite jam.
Shoulders rubbed and soft smiles were exchanged, eyes longingly dancing, locking and flittering away to the tasks at hand.
“Thank you,” he finally said, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple, “for this morning.”
You almost teased him for thanking you for what you two did quite regularly in bed, but you knew what he meant. Whatever anchor he’d needed this morning, you were it.
Still, you were a cheeky one, as Steven frequently reminded you... “I should be thanking you, baby,” you innocently purred. “That thing you did...when you turned me over, holy shit--”
“Okay, okay,” he laughed out, motioning for you to get back to breakfast, as if he would ever actually order you about. “You and your dirty mind, I swear to god.”
You laughed out delightedly. “That’s rich, Mr. Spector.”
One of his dark eyebrows shot up. “Call me ‘Mr. Spector’ again and I’ll take you right back in there,” he playfully warned.
Tempting.
The toast popped up to interrupt the two of you, giving Marc’s thoughts just enough time to drift back to much more serious matters. He wanted to be with you all day today. He knew Steven had class at uni and you had work - he didn’t care. He needed you to know things.
“Hey, um...” he started, before you could make another quip about Mr. Spector or the bedroom, “I...I meant to tell you...” reaching up to rub the back of his neck, he swallowed nervously. “I--there’s another bottle. In the flat.”
Bracing his hands on the countertop, his head dropped. It was hard to look at you when he thought he might disappoint you. “I wasn’t trying to hide it, I just...that night, I...”
Reaching over, you laid your hand over his, there on the counter’s edge. “Thank you for letting me know. Do you want to tell me where it is?”
His eyes darted over to yours and he swallowed hard. “The low shelf, down by the edge of that old table I haven’t fixed yet.”
Ah yes, the ‘don’t throw it out, I can fix it’ project that was cluttering your living room. Steven collected books; Marc collected abandoned, broken things...
“Hm,” you hummed thoughtfully, “Steven’s reading chair is right there. He’s going to figure this out, you know.”
“I know,” Marc quickly responded. “I think I wanted him to. Or you. I don’t know...” He didn’t wait for any sympathy. There was too much to tell you before he completely train wrecked his entire life.
“Something happened,” he pressed on, determined. Then he told you. Head bowed, hands gripping the counter, he explained.
You remained completely still at first, but you noticed that the more you acted normal, the easier it was for him to talk. So you finished the coffee, slathered the toast with jam, and walked everything to the tiny table at the kitchen’s edge, where the two of you loved to share your favorite meal almost every single day.
He had fronted a few days ago. It was dark, cold. He was outside, in an unlit, ominously quiet alley. He didn’t know where he was. Steven wasn’t there with him. He reached for his phone and shook with horror at the white bandage-looking material wrapped around his hands. Realizing his face was covered with a mask, he started to panic when the fabric quickly receded, leaving him gasping.
His body was covered in Moon Knight’s mummified wrap.
“No, no, no, no,” he cried, forgetting, for a moment, that he could simply will the suit away, and clawing at the material instead.
Then he heard it. Him.
“Marc Spector,” the booming voice of Khonshu splintered through his mind, wracking his body with terror.
“No, NO,” Marc shouted, climbing to his feet and pressing his palms into his forehead. “You’re gone. I don’t belong to you anymore!”
He ran, clinging to control of the body, determined not to allow Khonshu anywhere near Steven. Or you.
The old god’s skeletal form appeared on various rooftops, following and taunting Marc, his voice eerie and all consuming, as if the bird were nearly shouting into his ear.
“Run away if you can. This body doesn’t belong to you,” the voice taunted.
“Leave me alone!” Marc shouted, but it came out as more of a whimper, like trying to scream for help in a dream. “We had a deal!” He halted, banging his fists against his head as if it would make the ancient being simply evaporate.
But the spiteful deity scoffed, turning his bony back as if done with the conversation. Turning his menacing beak back toward the puny one in control of his avatar, he replied, “Lockley is mine, and so are you.”
Then he vanished.
Just the relief of the god disappearing urged Marc’s legs forward, stumbling through angry tears until he reached your home. You were at work. He paced the flat, tugging his hands through his hair, desperate to keep Steven in the dark.
“It can’t be,” he gasped, over and over again, trying to convince himself. “We’re free. We made a deal. We’re free.” This overwhelm would normally bring Steven to the front, but Marc held on, pacing himself to exhaustion. He was asleep on the couch by the time you came home.
You woke up to Steven. And while you worked your next shift, he bought the whiskey.
He waited another day to drink it.
“I thought maybe...I wondered if I had completely lost my mind,” he uttered, finishing his story, now seated at the kitchen table.
Easing off your chair, you knelt in front of your fiancé, setting your palms gently on his thighs.
“Don’t say that.”
“No, I mean really,” he went on, his hands covering your own, grasping at your fingers. “I thought...what if all this time, Khonshu was in my head? Like...part of me.”
“Like another alter?” you questioned, peering up at him.
“Maybe. I started wondering about all of this Moon Knight bullshit--if it even really happened. And, now there’s this Lockley...” Trailing off he sighed, defeated.
Okay, progress was happening. Might as well get it all out in the open.
“I met him, you know,” you carefully admitted, smoothing your thumb over his as you waited for his reaction. “Lockley.”
“Shit,” he rasped, gripping your hands desperately. “He was here, with you? What did he say?”
“Not much,” you admitted. “His name is Jake. Jake Lockley. He was here last night.”
“Here in the flat?”
“Yes. Late last night. He came in through the bedroom window like Spider-Man or something. We talked for a minute, he told me his name and then we went to bed. I didn’t really find out that much about him.”
Releasing your fingers, Marc sat up straight in his kitchen chair, his eyes darkening possessively. “He went to bed with you?”
Hm. You could have worded that better. “Marc, I--”
“Did he touch you?” His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck straining as his dark eyes burned turbulently.
“It wasn’t like that,” you protested, quickly climbing up off the ground to stand in front of him. Caressing his face tenderly, you shook your head. “I wanted to talk to him - to see what the hell is going on. He seemed worried about you drinking.”
“You talked to him about that?” Marc pushed off his chair then, pacing across the kitchen and back. “I haven’t even talked to him yet.”
Fair enough.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, it just came out,” you confessed, giving him a little space, while pushing down your urge to grab him. “Jake was about to leave, and I wanted some answers. I wanted you all here with me. He came home so late, Marc, and your phone was dead. I was so fucking scared...”
Your breath hitched as tears clouded your eyes. “You’ve been so upset, and the drinking... Steven doesn’t have any idea what’s going on and then this Jake uses the damn window in the middle of the night and I thought he was going to leave, and go back out in the night, with no phone. I wanted you here, Marc, so...so I asked him to stay. I asked him if he knew what was going on, or why you had been drinking--”
“Okay, baby, okay,” he conceded, reaching for your shoulders to bring you close. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
The two of you held one another in the middle of your drafty little kitchen, the shared answers between you only raising more questions.
“I think you should talk to Steven,” you suggested gently, “if you feel ready.”
Resting his forehead against yours, he rubbed your back soothingly. “Yeah. And maybe...maybe Jake too.”
tags requested @rivalriotrenegade @wordacadabra
#with you fic#moon knight fic#moon knight fanfiction#moon knight fanfic#marc spector x reader#jake lockley x reader#marc spector x you#jake lockley x you#marc spector x gn!reader#jake lockley x gn!reader#steven grant x reader#marc spector#jake lockley#steven grant#moon knight#mcu#oscar isaac fic#read the warnings
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