Chapter Text
You are a dutiful wife. Dinner is on the table. It is hot and fresh—just the way he likes. The house is clean. There isn't a single thing out of place. You are dressed in a white flowy dress. He likes you in white. He says it makes you look pure and sweet. And you know he will be home soon, so you wait for him. You know he doesn't like it when you don't.
You are standing by the door, head bowed, thinking about everything you had done that day.
Was it enough?
Would he be satisfied?
You would do anything to make him happy, you just don't want to see him angry.
The door swings open, and you don't look up. You could hear his heavy breath, his boot steps against the floorboards.
"Sweetness. I'm home." He coos, your heart stutters, and then you know you can look at him. You smile. Smoke wafts your way, from a cigarette that is hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
"Leland! I'm so happy you're home! I've been waiting for you!" The words come out easily, like a script you have been mulling over for hours. Your voice is sweet and tender. He has trained these things into you with the sharp end of that cattle prod. His grin is wide, from cheek to cheek, cancer stick wedged tight in between his incisors.
"Come give your husband a little sugar." There is an awkward pause as you hesitate, but you know you can't keep him waiting. You rush into his side, pressing yourself to him completely. He removes the cigarette from his lips and chuckles. His other arm fastens itself around your waist. You don't want to set him off.
Your lips graze the reddened, burnt flesh of his right cheek. You shiver in disgust at the contact. You should be used to it now. He has made you do it so many times that you could almost feel the serous liquid sticking to your skin in his absence.
You can't think about it.
"Where is the children?" He grumbles lowly, the words are a shutter in your ear, and you pause. You don't recall that being part of this. He never mentioned it before. Why mention it now?! You know he is trying to catch you in your lies. He wants you to mess up so he has an excuse to abuse you. He likes to pretend that you deserve to be punished. It is in your nature, he says, because that's all you are and what you'll always be.
"I sent them off to my mother's house..." You equip the lie so smoothly, that you almost are surprised at your cleverness. A small victory. "I figured we could have the night together. You and I. It seemed about time." You fiddle with the lapel of his leather jacket, waiting to see if this explanation is to his satisfaction. You know the uncertainty within your eyes tells all. He reaction is in the shape of a grin that spreads itself over his sharp teeth.
"You is such a good wife. Know everything to say, don'tchya'?" He flicks the still-lit cigarette away. You have spent hours picking up abandoned cigarette buds and you know that in the next few hours that one will be with them.
"I would say anything for you, my love." He goes smug at your remark, only because he knows the alternate meaning it carries. If you were to ever say the wrong thing, he would kill you. Your life is in his hands. Literally. His arms are wrapped around you like ropes, his palms flat to you, fingers squeezing and molding with flesh.
"Urgh, and look at you, honey..." You don't need to see his eyes to know that he is dissecting you with them. His hands caressing and grabbing what he so pleases. He presses his growing bulge into your pelvis, gently humping into you. His voice reaches a pleased growl, low and rough against the skin of your neck. Goosebumps form on your flesh. There is a guilty desire that lingers after he touches. It still makes you sick. "We'll barely make it to dinner wit' you lookin' so p'erty."
Like every night that he comes through that door, you are faced with two choices: you can either give into him or play hard to get. You never know which part of you he wants. There is always a fifty-fifty chance that you might get it wrong.
If you play hard to get, he might throw you around and beat you, claiming that you are disobeying him. If you give in, he might call you a slut, throw you around and beat you. There is no winning anymore.
But if you are right, if he is in a good mood, if he likes what you are doing, then the night will carry on all the same. The charade of a dutiful wife will continue.
Now is the moment of choice.
"Leland, please." You try your best to sound submissive and soft, adding a little giggle that's all too forced. "You're so naughty. I made dinner just for you, honey pie, we can't let it go cold." You realize you might have laid it on too thick. But you know how much he likes being called naughty. You know how it makes him tingle and buzz. An officer of the law being naughty, every antonym for which order and justice is in contest to.
"Argh." He withdraws from you, a sneer on his lip. You messed up. You know you did. Your heart jumps in your chest. Your eyes squeeze shut as you wait for his fist to meet with your cheek. All you feel is the cold press of his lips to your skin, and then you hear his noise of approval. "You's is right, baby girl..." He agrees in a rumble, "Dinner," He ruts into you a bit more firmly this time. "And then dessert." He must be in a good mood.
You're going to assume the reagents didn't make it this time.
You used to be one of them. There was once hope that you would make it home, or that you would wake up in your bed, safe and sound. The reality is that you wake up next to this man. You wake up next to in his world every day and you go to bed in his world every night.
And Murkoff, the fuckos, that they are, feed this routine.
They even agreed to let Coyle keep you. They removed your rig, took away your ESOP, and now you have become a permanent fixture of this place.
There is no home anymore.
Only him.
So you make the most of it.
"Baked chicken, green bean casserole, and mashed potatoes. Your favorites." You say as he roughly shoves you toward the small kitchenette area of his suite. Your legs are so drained from standing around all day, not giving yourself a chance to sit, that you almost fall over from the force. Even in somewhat nice accommodations, you can't imagine relaxing for even a moment. Your heart is always racing, you are always waiting for the worst...
That is correct. Leland Coyle was given a suite.
It sickens you at the privileges that people like him are given in this place. Murkoff treated them like gold. They were even called Prime Assets.
As a reagent, you were eating slop and barely getting by with a glass of water. Leland Coyle had the luxury of fizzy soda and fresh deli cuts.
"Hmm." He swats your ass as he passes you on the way to the dinner table and you give a little squeak.
"You must be..." You exhale a breathless laugh. "So famished after a long day at work, honey."
"Starving." He places his aviators on the table, then unceremoniously drops into one of the wooden chairs. It creaks under his weight. In the low lamplight, you can make out the silver of his eyes, they rest on you before he flicks his head. He is silently commanding you to sit across from him.
You are about to sit down when he raises a palm. You freeze beside your chair and swallow. He glares at you, there is a coldness in his stare, it curls up the length of your spine to the nape of your neck.
"You forgot somethin'." Your eyes frantically search the table, you imagine-
Oh. Oh no. You force a smile.
"I can't believe myself sometimes. So forgetful." You walk over to the fridge at the corner of the kitchen area, knowing his gaze is following you. You sway your hips more, hoping he might be endeared by your movements. You reach into the fridge and remove a can of beer. Murkoff allowed Coyle to have as many cigarettes as he wanted, but the beer was limited to one can a night. You bring it over to him and place it alongside his plate. You feel relief that he doesn't say anything else. You walk back to your seat.
"Ya'know, sweetness," He sighs, almost in defeat, almost in disappointment.
No. You were doing so well.
"That lil' stunt you jus' pulled ain't gonna' fly, hmm?" He likes begging. He wants you to beg. He also likes it when you cry. But sometimes, doing either can upset him. So you just stand there, your back facing him. "You still got that malefactor in ya'? So darn' hard to cut out."
What do you say next?
You turn to face him. You're shivering. You can see the twinkle of delight in his eyes. He doesn't even have you in the worst position you've ever been in. He's done much worse. This is just the beginning.
"I promise, baby. I want to be better. It was a mistake."
"Look at ya," He smirks, "You's is already shakin' in yur' boots. You already know what I'm gonna' do, don'tchya'?" You shake your head, the truth is that you never know what he is going to do to you. The beatings keep getting more and more creative. You are not sure if you can handle another.
It already hurts to walk sometimes, breathing is a chore, and bruises and cuts and jagged brands mar your flesh. You don't even recognize yourself in the mirror.
"Leland, please..." You find it in yourself to beg. You couldn't help it. "I just wanted a good night between us. I'm real sorry for forgetting your beer. You know I would never do that on purpose. Please." His eyes slide shut and he leans back in his seat. Music to his ears.
"Yur' right, sweetness..." You can't believe that he even agreed until, "Why don' you take yur' clothes off?" He phrases his demands as questions to confuse you.
"W-What?" You blink at him. "Leland-" He slams his hands on the table and snarls like a vicious animal.
"What did I say, you pinko slut?!"
"Okay. Okay." You whimper, grab the skirt of the dress, and swiftly bring it over your head. There is no back to it. The neckline is too small to let it fall down your figure, so this is it. All at once. No hiding it. Not that there is anything to hide, Leland has seen you naked before. He's done a lot more than just see you.
"Gosh, such a shame you is all full of rot, because on the outside you's is fuckin' gorgeous." You hate the way his words make you ache nowadays. In his absence, you're thinking about the way his cock slides into you and how his lips slot perfectly into the junction between your throat and shoulder.
He likes to bite.
You wrap your arms around yourself, but not to cover up-you would never-you just don't know what to do with them. You want to cover up, but he doesn't seem to want you shy, and you don't want to aggravate him.
Your underwear is all you have on. It is a plain white cotton that had been assigned to you when you were a reagent. You are surprised you still have them. Leland has a tendancy to rip things off of you.
"Kneel." He gestures at the floor beside him.
You don't protest. You can feel tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. You want to cry. He likes it when you cry.
"Good girl." Beside him, at this angle, his fingers pinch your chin. The leather of his glove glides across your bottom lip at the same time his tongue is swiping across the bottom of his. "Now you is gon' stay there for me, while I eat this lovely meal. Understood?" You nod. "What was that?" He crooks his ear toward you in one animated motion.
"Yes, Sir." He snorts, shaking his head.
"Too willing a slut are you, baby girl." So he wants you to play hard to get, but then he wants you to do everything he says.
You're exhausted.
He is just toying with you. You've long concluded that even if you do what he wants, he'll make you suffer.
"Tell us about our children, sweetness." He shovels a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth. He hums his approval. The beer can wheezes as he opens it, taking a sip.
"Uh..." You clear your throat into your fist. "Leland Coyle Jr. is a smart boy."
"Damn fuckin' right he is. He's my son."
"Always does the right thing. Believes in the law."
"I raised him right. Ain't no nancies in this fuckin' household." You cringe, what was he trying to get at with this story? Did he want children?
You lost focus then. All you felt was immediate dread. What if he wants kids? And what if he wants you to be the one to give them to him? You can't do that. You would never survive. The children would never survive.
Murkoff would get off on that kind of shit. The fact that a baby would be born into a world like this.
"And our daughter," You can see Leland tense up, he sends you a side eye in between chews. "You named her Justice, remember? She's tough. Just like you." There is a long quiet after that. All you hear are the sounds of Leland's obnoxious chewing. There are pieces of food on his beard when he looks at you again.
"We have a little girl?" Oh, of course, he wouldn't want a daughter. It just made sense. The man was a misogynistic psychopath. He would want a male heir, not a female one. "Bet she's..." He briefly pauses in thought, "Bet she's as p'erty as you, sweetness." You didn't expect that. You sit up straighter, bringing a hand to rest on his knee. You think you might have a good chance here. This is a line of conversation that he seems to be intrigued by.
"And you're good to her. She asks for you all the time."
"She does?" He is staring at you now and you are wondering why this out of everything else would be the one thing to affect him.
"She wants to be just like her daddy one day." It was almost like a buzzer had gone off. Buzzz. Wrong answer. Mother Gooseberry was laughing at your failure. You could still hear her drill bit puppet at the back of your mind sometimes.
Leland scowls, he backhands you across the jaw so hard that your head hits the floor. Your eyes roll as you attempt to get your bearings. Your head feels thick and the side of it throbs with the bruise that's forming on your cheekbone. The chair screeches as Leland stands and you can hear the jingling of his belt.
"I'm going to replace that rot inside o'ya' wit' somethin' that is a lil' more law-abiding." Your vision finally focuses on his image. He is hovering over you, the belt falling open after some effort. He unzips his pants. "But first, apologize to Daddy." Daddy. That was a new word for him.
You feel like you are about to throw up. You manage to sit upright, tears blurring your already fuzzy vision.
"Well?" He snapped expectantly.
"I'm so sorry, Daddy." You mutter in a trembling voice. You don't notice blood going down your nose until you feel the trickle on your upper lip. Leland grins, his hand cups along your jaw, his gloved thumb brushes the red, paints it across your skin. He will use it as lubricant for his cock.
"Go on then." His hips tilt forward, he watches closely with that sharp gaze. Your fingers are vibrating with fear and anticipation. There is a fucked up part of you that likes the way he treats you. That fucked up part of you has been fostered by this man. You know it's one reason why he keeps you around.
You unbutton his jeans and roll down the zipper. You've done this hundreds of times before. He is a lazy son of bitch, he likes to make you do it for him.
He doesn't wear underwear. When you reach in, the heat of his cock touches your hand. You can feel him twitching, growing with each passing second. You pull him out, fingers wrapped around the base of him.
He is average as far as length, but his cock is thick and bulky. There are veins that pulse, bulging, red, expressing a need for release. You know when he chases his victims, it must press insistently against the zipper; a majority of his day is probably spent having a boner.
You barely have a moment to get your bearings before he grabs the back of your head in a vice grip and directs you toward his cock. You open your mouth around him, and taste the sweat and pre-cum that has been layered on him after a day's work. It's not unpleasant, but not welcome either as he jams himself as far down your throat as he can go. You moan in protest, tears spilling down your cheeks.
"That's it, wifey. Jus' like that." You are down to the base of him before he pulls you back and forces himself in again.
He gets an easy rhythm because you don't resist. You let him use your mouth, you let him fuck into you. Slobber collects around your lips and you can feel a warmth bloom at the apex of your legs. He is not being as aggressive as you are used to. So you suppose this isn't the worst outcome for your night.
He is breathing heavily, panting. You are trying to remember to breathe through your nostrils. Your hands are squeezing his thighs. He thrusts harder and faster. He might reach his peak and then leave you be for the remainder of the night, you wouldn't mind that.
"Keep going." He commanded, releasing the back of your head. You suck him off of your own volition. His hand moves to his hip, the other reaches for his beer on the table. He takes several big gulps of it, withdrawing with a sigh that falls into a groan. "You're like a fuckin' Electrolux over here." He chuckles deeply at his joke, not without resting his palm on your head. "Bet you'll take everythin' I give ya', won't ya'?" His voice is husky and pensive. He has some horrible idea stirring in his brain. You're not sure if you have the energy to fear what. "Fuck..." He heaves, and then all so suddenly he is shoving you away. You fall back, drool spilling from your mouth. You quickly wipe it away with the back of your hand, keeping your head down.
"Dinner was good, but I'm still fuckin' hungry." He shoves away the items on the table with a sweep of his arm, food goes flying and glass shatters across the floor. The distant clatter of his fork falling out behind them. His beer still in hand, he finishes it with a few chugs and tosses it over his shoulder. "Get up 'ere, you sexy slut. Don't make me say it twice." He is breathless.
You don't make him say it twice. You struggle to stand, but once you are on your feet, you feel steady. You climb onto the table, dangling your legs over the side.
"Good girl. See. You can take orders." He pinches your cheek like you're his sweetheart again, but you aren't a fool.
"Leland," Your voice cracks, "I don't know if I can take it anymore. Please. Just go easy on me. Just tonight?" Nevermind. You are a fool, to think that he even cares. In his eyes, you are simply a thing. You're as much a thing to him as you are to Murkoff.
"What was that you's jus' said? Go easy on you?" He mutters this as his lips press against your cheek. You are shaking. "Do you think the law picks and chooses who it punishes? You's gotta' be rehabilitated."
"Leland?" You cry in question, he sucks your earlobe between his teeth.
"Just shut the fuck up, baby. You ain't gonna' stop the inevitable." He shoves you as he ducks between your legs and you just allow your back to hit the table. You can't fight him.
He takes a vicious bite from the inside of your thigh, almost as if he truly did mean to chew on a chunk of your flesh. You shriek, but the noise dissolves into a moan when he tastes the bitten skin with his tongue. His lips fall to the fabric of your panties. His tongue licks at the thin slip, he is trying to smell and taste you through it. You moan when he grips it in his finger, sliding it to the side, and his tongue makes contact with your wet folds.
You moan.
Your back arches off the table. He doesn't hold you down, not this time. Your eyes slide shut as you fall prey to the pleasure coursing through your body. You take those gaps in pain and suffering that you can get. Pleasure is the only good thing that happens to you nowadays.
He removes your underwear and toss it. His tongue is molding into your folds, fucking into your wet hole. His breath fans across the flesh for a moment:
"Found me'self a little surprise for ya'."
And then that pleasure is cut through by the sound of a horrifying crackle. Your eyes widen and your torso lifts off the table, but you're too late to react. There isn't much you can do anyways.
You can feel something metal connect with the area below the cleft of your ass, electricity runs through you. This must be what a live wire feels like. It burns and you can't control your limbs and your ears hear nothing but static.
The buzzing stops and you only then register that Leland was still eating you out the entire time. He withdraws from your pussy with a maniacal laugh. Wetness has collected on the bristles scattered across his jawline and the mustache above his lip. You are panting and your vision is fading in and out. But the burning sensation remains behind the coils of sting that wrapped you in its embrace. You are overlooking a steep edge. Your body is just there.
Leland zaps you again. You don't even know where it's coming from, only that his tongue is on your clit and moving and you are blistering with energy that feels like a violent prickling from thousands of needles. There is no line between pleasure and pain.
Leland must be feeling it too. He is jerking around as he stubbornly presses his tongue to you. But he likes this and gets off on it. You couldn't count on your hand how many times he had bit himself with that baton of his while he was balls deep inside of you.
The zapping stops and you fall hard over that edge. It didn't seem like there was hardly any build-up, just straight to that exploding and blinding pleasure. And god does it hurt so good. The inside of your legs feels sticky and wet and hot and Leland keeps going. Your hand reaches for his head, you can't control the shaking and his hat tips off. You think he is going to punish you for this, but he just keeps going. You cry out, and both your hands slap down on the table.
Zapp! Crackle! Buzz!
"LELAND!" You scream because it is the only thing you can do. Black is filling the edges of your vision. This will be the last thing you know. Pain that went so deep you could feel it in your bones and overwhelming pleasure so burning hot that you couldn't even think straight.
The zapping stops.
You came again. Now you are being yanked to the edge of the table.
His cock glides into you like a knife through warm butter. You clutch for his leather jacket, gripping at him. Your face is soaked, your cunt is soaked, and you can feel the layer of sweat oozing from your skin. Everything burns. It is searing.
His hips piston against you. He is holding your legs upright, squeezing his arms around them as he fucks into you. He doesn't look away. He is breathing so heavily you can feel the pants of his exhales against the calf closest to his mouth.
"Gon' put a fuckin' baby inside you." He murmurs to himself. "Gon' fill you up and rehabilitate you like you deserve, mama." You sob, your body gives in and you come again, but all you see are stars. Your body spasms. The rubber band inside has been wound tight so many times that it snaps altogether.
"Argh! YES! FUCK!" He hisses through clenched teeth, completely unhinged, and his hips stutter. His fingers claw into you. You grunt in response, clinging for whatever you can reach. His head is thrown back as his cock twitches inside of you. Spurt after spurt of warm seed is pumped into you, your body betrays you by welcoming it, and your walls squeeze around him like a vice. You can feel it spilling out around his cock.
He is coughing as he tries to catch his breath, cock still fastened deep inside. Chest heaving as he comes down from that high. You are a mess on the table, a ball of goop, a puddle. You hope to seep into the wooden grooves and never come back.
"Sweetness..." He pants. He snatches his hat that had been discarded somewhere beside you. He places it on his head and then adjusts it to his liking. Next, he places his sunglasses on. "Sweetness?" Then, he waits for you to weakly lift your head. You can't feel your legs, everything is sore. You can't even register the wood beneath your back. He pulls out with a wince, keeping eye contact with you, he zips himself back up. "Clean this fuckin' mess up."