Chapter 15 #2
But the thing about owning someone is you actually have to maintain it if you want it to last.
“What’s going on in that overeducated head of yours?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says too quickly.
“Bullshit,” I say. “Try again, baby.”
He stares at a point over my shoulder. “I just… realized what I did,” he mutters. “And how, if my parents ever found out, they’d probably have a stroke and then try to exorcise me themselves.”
There it is, sliding in under the joke. I can almost see him starting to shrink from the inside out—mentally backing away from his own body, wanting to climb out of his skin.
“Hey,” I say, and I tap his chin with two fingers until he looks at me. “Stay here with me. Don’t go crawling into whatever shame cave you’re building in your head.”
He swallows. “Kind of hard not to. I just… I’ve never… done that. Or called someone…” He trails off, face going scarlet. “You know.”
“Daddy?” I supply.
“Yeah,” he mutters, visibly cringing. “That.”
“You said it very pretty,” I say. “Ten out of ten. Five-star review. Would absolutely love to hear it again.”
“Dominic,” he groans, tipping his head back against the cabinet, mortified. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I ask. “Don’t praise you? I told you, I’m not letting you walk out of here and decide the narrative by yourself.
I know what subdrop looks like, Brendon.
I’ve seen people leap off a high and crash so hard they forget which way is up.
I’m not having you ruin this for yourself in your head. ”
His brows draw together. “Subdrop?”
I nod. “You went into a headspace where you gave up a lot of control. You did things you’ve never done before.
Now your brain’s catching up, and your body’s coming down, and everything feels too big and too wrong—big spike, then the dip.
But it doesn’t mean you did anything wrong; it just means your system’s recalibrating, and that’s normal.
That’s not God smiting you, or the universe punishing you, for calling me Daddy. ”
His eyes widen, color draining a little. “You… can see that?” he whispers.
“Yeah, I can see it. You’re shaking, and quiet in the wrong way. Your eyes keep doing that thing.” I wave a hand vaguely near his face. “That out-of-focus thing, where you’re replaying shit and rewriting it worse than it was.”
“I’m just…” He swallows and looks down at his hands. “I’m thinking.”
“Yeah, and that’s the problem. Your brain is not a reliable narrator right now.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “It’s not usually, either.”
“Fair, but right now it’s worse. Listen.
” I lean in a little, enough that he has to look at me or stare at my collarbones.
“What we did was intense. You let go harder than you ever have and handed me the reins in a way your body loved and your Sunday school teacher would faint over. Your system flooded you with all the good shit to get you through it—plus a healthy dose of fear because, hi, serial killer—then it yanked the plug.”
He’s really listening now. The panic in his eyes eases a fraction, replaced by interest, as if I’ve just named a monster he didn’t know had a label.
“That yank,” I continue, “feels nasty, empty, and wrong. Your brain hates empty space, so it fills it with whatever it’s got lying around.
For you, that’s Bible verses, your dad’s voice, every ‘don’t’ you’ve ever heard from church or family, and every lecture about purity and self-control.
All of it rushes in to cover the silence, and you start thinking the low feeling means you did something wrong. ”
His throat moves around a hard swallow. “Doesn’t it mean I did that?”
“No,” I say. “It means you had a big fucking experience and now your chemistry’s being a drama queen. You’re not being punished, and you’re not disgusting: you’re crashing.”
He stares at me like I just told him gravity’s optional. “How are you so sure about that?”
“Because I’ve been living on high and crash cycles since I was old enough to understand what a pulse is.
Games, fights, kills, sex—big spikes, big drops.
I know what they feel like. I know what I tell myself when I’m in it, too.
That doesn’t mean the shit I tell myself is true.
” I flick his forehead lightly with one finger.
“You? You’re wired for submission and shame.
That combo is going to try to eat you alive right now. I’m not letting it.”
His eyes shine, not quite tears, but close. “Wired for submission,” he repeats.
“Yeah,” I say. “You think most people fall to their knees and call a man Daddy for the first time with that much enthusiasm? No. That button was already there; I just pressed it.”
He groans quietly. “Don’t say it like that. I’m trying not to spontaneously combust,” he mutters, and I can’t help but smirk. His lips press together, and I can tell I’ve hit every thought he’s already had in the last five minutes. “I feel…”
“Say it,” I coax.
“… dirty,” he finishes, voice breaking.
“That’s good.”
His eyes snap to mine. “Good?”
“Yeah,” I shrug. “Dirty’s not bad—dirty’s honest. You know what happens to something dirty? You wash it. You don’t burn the whole fucking house down because there’s mud on the floor.”
He stares at me like that thought has literally never occurred to him before. “You sound very sure of yourself,” he says.
“I’m good at managing monsters. Yours are just smaller versions of mine; I know their tricks.
” I tap the side of his head lightly. “That one in there loves to use God, and your dad’s voice, and all your professors’ expectations to kick you when you’re down.
Don’t believe it when you’re in the dip. It lies.”
“So it’s… not God punishing me,” he says, and the way he says it tells me exactly how much that thought had already sunk its claws in before I named this.
“No,” I say immediately. “It’s not God.”
His fingers toy with the cuff on his wrist, the leather dark against his skin. “What do I do when it hits?” he asks.
“Exactly what you’re doing now: Eat. Hydrate. Sleep. Text me if your brain starts running the greatest hits of ‘I’m disgusting and going to Hell.’ I’ll tell you to shut the fuck up and remind you what actually happened.”
He snorts, a real sound this time. “You’re going to be my subdrop tech support?” he says, a weak attempt at a joke.
“Pretty much,” I say. “Perks of the job. I get you all pretty and kneeling and calling me Daddy, I can handle a phone call where you’re freaking out that you’re broken.”
“I am broken,” he says instinctively.
I shake my head. “No. You’re bent in ways that suit me perfectly. That’s different.”
He laughs then, a small, genuine sound that eases the tightness around his mouth. The anxiety’s still there, but it’s not chewing through him as fast now. Good.
“Eat more,” I say, nodding at the plate. “Then I’m driving behind you to your place. Not negotiable.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I said not negotiable,” I cut in. “You’re wrung out and floaty. You go home, and you text me ‘inside’. You’re going to feel weird tomorrow—maybe still a little wrung out, maybe a little low. That’s still a drop; It lingers sometimes. If you start spiraling, you text me again. Got it?”
“Got it,” he says quietly.
“Good,” I say, as I reach up and brush my thumb along his jaw, feeling the faint roughness of stubble, the heat still in his skin. “One more thing: you don’t offer yourself up like this again.”
Confusion flickers. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you don’t drive out here at night because you’re scared I’m going to kill someone, and decide the best way to handle that is to kneel and tell me to use you instead,” I say.
“You’re not my emotional punching bag or a martyr.
You don’t manage my violence for me by throwing your body in front of it. That shit stops tonight.”
His shoulders tense. “But I—”
“I know what you were trying to do,” I say.
“You wanted to divert me, and I’m telling you now: no.
I’m not indulging it. When I decide to put you on your knees, or against a wall, or wherever the fuck else I want you, it’s because I want you there, not because I’m trying to avoid killing someone else.
You’re not a fucking substitute victim, Brendon. You’re mine.”
His eyes darken, breath catching. “I thought you’d… like it,” he says, voice small. “Me offering myself.”
“Your offering sounds noble in your head,” I go on. “In practice, it’s reckless and self-harming as fuck. You came here tonight ready to be hurt. That’s not the energy I take you with. You understand the difference?”
He swallows. “I… think so.”
“Let me make it clear,” I say. “You want to be used by me? Fine. You made that pretty obvious. You want to take what I give you? Good. I want you to. But those scenes, those choices, happen on my terms and your consent—not your desperation—and not when my head’s in a place where I can’t take care of you after. ”
He absorbs that quietly, the lines around his mouth easing a little as the framework settles. It’s easier to be calm when someone tells you the rules; I know that from both sides.
“So…” he says slowly. “If I… want… something, I…”
“You tell me,” I say. “You don’t show up like a martyr and ask me to use you as a punching bag.
You say, ‘I want to kneel, Daddy.’ ‘I want to be your good boy tonight, Daddy.’” His cheeks flare, but I keep going.
“And then, I decide if I’m in a place to give it to you safely.
If I’m not, I’ll tell you no. If I am, we’ll discuss it, and there will be a safe word.
That’s how this stays ours, and not some fucked-up, self-sacrifice ritual. ”
He nods, more firmly this time. “Okay,” he says. “I can do that.”
“Good,” I say, and I reach up and cup the back of his neck again, thumb stroking the soft hair at his nape. “Because if you pull that shit again, I’m going to be pissed. And not the fun kind.”
He huffs out a tiny laugh. “What’s the fun kind?”
“The kind that ends with you over my knee.”
His face goes scarlet. “You’re not serious,” he mutters.
“Wanna test that?”
“No,” he says quickly, then pauses. “Maybe. I don’t know. Shut up.”
I grin, satisfied. “You’re not here to fix me. You’re here because you’re the only thing I like fucking with more than game stats and corpses.”
He makes a face. “That’s… such a romantic ranking.”
“Settle for honest,” I say. “You did well tonight. I’m proud of you. I’m not angry anymore, and I don’t regret it. The only thing I’d change is how we got here.”
He looks at me like he’s trying to memorize the words—store them somewhere he can use later when his brain starts lying. “Thank you… for not just… sending me home like last time.”
Annoying as fuck guilt creeps up my spine. “You’re wearing my cuff now, and you just let me fuck with your head and your mouth. You really think I’m gonna leave you sitting on my counter shaking without at least feeding you first?”
Brendon rolls his eyes, and that fondness squeezes my chest again. “You make it sound so wholesome.”
“Yeah, well,” I say. “Even monsters know basic aftercare, Little Sin.”
He shakes his head, but smiles at me. Even though the anxiety is still there, it’s quieter—wrapped in the warmth of pasta, and water, and my hands, and my voice.
I stay between his knees, close enough that he can feel me, far enough that he knows I’m not about to demand anything else from him tonight.
After a minute, he looks up at me again, more present than he was earlier. “Dom?”
“Yeah?” I answer.
“Was I…” He hesitates, then pushes through. “Did it… Did this… help?”
I stare at him, the honesty of it hitting somewhere I usually keep boarded up. Most people don’t ask me that. Most people never see the before and after.
“Yeah,” I say finally, and the word feels strange in my mouth. “It helped. I’m not… climbing out of my skin anymore. I don’t want to go back out there tonight. I want to keep you right here where I can see you, and not think about anything else.”
His mouth curves into a sweet smile. “So I did something right?”
“You did a lot right,” I correct. “You listened, you trusted, you let me take what I needed, and you let me take care of you after. That’s a lot. I’m proud of you.”
He presses his lips together hard, and lets out a shaky exhale, then leans forward, resting his forehead briefly against my chest.
I wrap an arm around his shoulders and hold him there, my hand splayed between his shoulder blades. His body is warm and heavy against me; not in the sexual way from earlier, but in that boneless, post-drop way that says he’s finally starting to feel safe enough to crash properly.
My chest does that tight, painful thing again. I pull back, then swipe my thumb across his cheek one more time. A tiny smile ghosts across his face, then he bites his bottom lip before looking me in my eyes.
“You… you’ve got me, right?” His voice is softer than anything he’s used on me all night, the kind of tone I’m pretty sure he reserves for prayers and cats. “Like… you really have me. You’re not just saying that because I’m… fuzzy.”
My hand tightens a little on his shoulder. “I’ve got you. You’re mine, and I’m not dropping you.”
“Promise?” he presses, and there’s that tiny tremor in the word again—the one that tells me this isn’t casual. This is him asking for something he never lets himself want.
My chest twists hard. I let go of his shoulder long enough to hold out my hand between us, pinky crooked, palm relaxed: the same gesture I used on my late twin brother before… before life happened.
“Yeah,” I say. “Pinky promise.”
His eyes flick down, widening a little, and he looks genuinely thrown. Out of all the fucked up things I’ve done tonight, this is the one that short-circuits him. Then, his lips curve, small and disbelieving and stupidly fond, and he lifts his own hand, hooking his pinky around mine.
“You’re ridiculous,” he whispers.
“Still binding,” I say. “Too late to back out now, Little Sin.”
A quiet laugh shakes out of him, and I feel it where our hands are linked. He squeezes my pinky once, like he’s sealing it, then brings our joined hands closer to his chest, as if he’s afraid I’ll pull away first.
“Okay,” he says, a little breathless. “Then I’m yours.”
“You’ve been mine,” I remind him, giving his pinky a final squeeze before untangling our hands and nudging the plate back toward him. “Now eat, so my good boy doesn’t crash on me.”
He picks up the fork again, cheeks still pink, and takes another bite, eyes dropping to his food—but that soft, lingering smile stays right where it is.