you aren't supposed to be here

Playing chicken to see who calls it first when the dom has got a needle and ink and promises to tattoo its name into the sub. Sub who laughs and says please, I know you well enough to know you won’t follow through. It gets three dots of black into the flesh of the sub’s stomach before they tap.

Dom who holds a knife up to its sub’s throat, eyes predatory, hungry. The sub looking up in playful cowardice, batting eyelashes and stifling a smirk. You won’t do it, it’s outside your risk tolerance, they tease, face turning cocky and bold. The dom’s heart skips a beat, adrenaline and excitement rushes from its chest out to its fingertips. Fist in their hair, jerking their head to the side, pressing bladed edge slowly deeper into the thin skin until a single drop of blood forms. It refuses to go further- it’s not sure it could stop.

you think.

they're weird. they have all kinds of strange rituals and routines that they follow, and soon enough you're pulled into them. your entire life is run on their schedule; it's stifling, at first, but the consistency is so much more comfortable than having to make so many choices. you occupy yourself with the tasks they've given you while you wait for their return home from work, and then your night routine starts.

you don't even realize that you've began to wait at the door of your own volition; once they see you so ready and willing, they train you to be a bit more proper. sat back on your legs, hands up in the air and curled against your chest like paws the moment you hear the door unlocking. now, you get to see them smile when they walk in the door. they're proud of your progress, and the sensation makes an uncomfortable warmth spread through your chest.

they change out of their work clothes and decompress while you start on dinner. they have a recipe book you've relied on since day one, and luckily they're not picky about your cooking skill. you've improved, you know, and that fills you with the same sick sense of satisfaction as the welcome-home-posturing. your dear captor never really talks much, but they begin to tell you extra pieces of information, little by little. trivial pieces of their daily life and happenings, and if you're lucky, maybe some news about the world outside.

and after dinner, it's time for your favorite part. they sit down on the couch and pat their lap, and you crawl up and snuggle on top of them. they embrace you and hold you close against their chest, burying their face against your neck. the little bell on your collar jingles as they press their lips against your neck, moving the smooth leather aside for access at the soft flesh. you're their lapdog, you think happily.