Summary: Y/n must be loosing her mind because… she’s kind of enjoying being held captive
Taboo: Stockholm Syndrome
Now Y/n must be loosing her mind … because at some point she’s realised she actually enjoys being held captive
It was terrifying at first. Anyone would be when they’re kidnapped, thinking of being tortured and murdered.
Except your captor didn’t want to do that to you
He was in love with you
… not in any healthy way, but in love regardless
He wanted to keep you in his space, observe you, hold you, kiss you, make love to you whenever he wanted
So that’s what he did
Abducted you from your decrepit apartment, where the bills were quickly stacking up and you were struggling to make ends meet
In a way, this was a blessing in disguise
You had no bills
No dead end jobs to work endlessly
No crippling debts
Instead, you were kept in a basement— but a renovated basement with a kitchenette, living room, bedroom, bathroom and small indoor garden with a goldfish pond… random but cute
Your wardrobe is an assortment of clothes from brands you follow and liked on social media
Your entertainment was endless piles of books you’ve been meaning to read and shows you’ve been meaning to watch
When you grew restless, your Yan built you a hobby room
When you hear him coming to visit you, you race to the door now, excited to see him, and see what presents await for you to open
All of this in exchange of… well.. sex…
Your Yan would give you anything on the condition that you sexually satisfy him
It was confronting at first
But he’s very enthusiastic about your body
You kind of… look forward to it
After all… he always makes sure you finish
These days you don’t even wait for him to initiate
As soon as that gnawing need to be filled hits you, you crawl into his lap and bounce until you have no thoughts left to have
Right now you’re curled up against him, sweating and slightly sticky from your endeavours
DESC: You are a Seraphite who was attacked by WLF soldiers and rescued by Joel Miller, only to find out he has a price for saving your life.
Mature Content !! Please DNI if you're a minor (under 18)
TAGS: Joel Miller x Female Reader, Dark!Joel, Kidnapping, Religious Cults, No Use of Y/N, Reader is Brainwashed, Possessive!Joel, Dubious Consent, Innocent!Reader, Religious Guilt, Religious Deconstruction, (Unspecified) Age Gap Relationship, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Joel Miller Smut, Kidnapping, Captivity
જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴
I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | more coming soon !
Cemetery Girl- Art The Clown x Fem!Reader
nsfw. fem!reader; Use of Y/N; Bondage; Blood Play/Blood Kink; Cutting; Sharp Objects; Slight Religious-Imagery; Alcohol; Non-Con; Repeated Neglect of Consent; Predator/Prey Dynamic; Sex under-the-influence; Hatred for high heels(real); kidnapping/abduction; captive!reader; sadist!art; whipping/flogging- fem!receiving; Art is extremely manipulative; Hard Dom!Art; Spit?; Kinda Gross (he literally drinks your blood...sooo); Art loves tits; Rough Sex; He is NOT Gentle in any way; CNTW for everything (plot reasons); Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
The playlist I listened to while writing this: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3PB2rUNCyFq9t793MlkJdL?si=55dfb6e7e7db4ddc
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Original Kinktober Prompt: Coulrophobia ~Clowns~/Picquerism ~Cutting the Body with Sharp Objects~
After your douchebag boyfriend breaks up with you on Halloween, you make 3 rules for yourself to get through the night, dignity intact:
1. Don't get drunk -Failed...
2. Don't ditch your friends -Failed...
3. Don't hook up with some random stranger -Failed...
...The last one wasn't completely your fault, right?
Word Count: 7,124
Note: All kinktober prompts that I made will be written all throughout the year since I missed kinktober! I will still label them as "kinktober" and put them on that masterlist (linked on my main masterlist)due to them mainly being more "extreme" kinks, or kinks I normally wouldn't write for! I'm trying to get out of my comfort zone with writing (especially nsfw stuff), so please feel free to recommend stuff!!
You and your friends were standing outside of some random house on Halloween night, drunk people, garbage, and decorations littering the yard around your little group.
"But like seriously. What. The. Fuck. Do I have to go back in there and beat his ass? Because I so will, Y/N," your one friend, drunk out of her mind, loudly said.
She started stumbling towards the front door, forcing you to stop her.
"It's fine. I mean, it's not, but I'll get over it, ya know?"
Your boyfriend of two years, since your freshman year of college, just broke up with you because you two were, I quote, "at two different places" in your relationship. Which was total bullshit, and he knew it.
Which is why you were standing in the front lawn of some Halloween party, in a stupid Angel costume, with tears running down your face.
You know, the perfect Halloween.
Now, however, instead of crying in someone's lawn, you were attempting to drown your sorrows with a milkshake and fries at a nearly empty diner nearby, your friends shit-talking your now ex-boyfriend.
The place was run-down, only two guys working there. The only other people there were a pair of girls in costumes -a scarecrow and a skeleton- and two dudes -also in costumes- who were walking out. The fluorescent lights were overpowering, which might just be because you had been attempting to get drunk enough to forget your shitty night before your friends dragged you out of there.
You were staring at the sticky table-top when you heard the bell attached to the front door ring, indicating another probably-drunk patron entered the diner. You looked behind you, towards the door, expecting someone dressed in some stereotypical shitty costume stumbling through the door, but you were actually impressed.
The dude who walked in was dressed as a clown, or maybe a mime? Or a mixture of both? You couldn't really tell, but it didn't matter. His costume, whatever it was, was impressive. His makeup was flawless, like his skin was actually paper white with black accents around his mouth, nose, and eyes. His costume looked handmade -only because you hadn't seen anything similar in any costume store you've been in recently- and he was carrying what looked like a big black, filled, garbage bag. He was also wearing an adorably small top hat.
You smiled to yourself. At least someone is taking the holiday seriously. Halloween had always been your favorite, even since you were a kid. You always went all out with your costume, even now. Yes, you were a stereotypical Angel, given the group costume you and your friends were doing was "Angels and Devils", but you had put more work into yours. You hand sewed your costume, using actual -ethically sourced- swan feathers for the wings, and a mixture of lace and silk fabric for the bodice and skirt. The halo around your head was also made with the feathers, and was attached with wire. It took you almost five months to complete, including the designing stages of the costume. Two of your friends -out of the five of you- bought their costumes before meeting to get ready at your place.
This guy looked like he took the same amount of care when it came to Halloween. You almost wanted to go up to him and ask about his costume. Almost. There was something...off... about him. The way he carried himself, maybe? Or was it the angry expression he wore as he sat at the table, staring at the girls in the booth behind you?
Whatever it was, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong with him. Like, seriously wrong.
It felt like he was a predator, and everyone in this diner, in the world, was his prey.
Maybe you really were drunk.
You turned back around, peeling your eyes away from menacing clown, and focused back on what your friends were saying.
"God, I wish we could just skip finals. Maybe you could sleep with the professor and get us out of this, Y/N," Your friend to the left said, chuckling to herself.
"Screw you, she just got dumped, you ass," The girl across from you said, trying to defend you.
"I was just bullshitting, you know that, right Y/N? I wasn't being serious... kind of." The girl across from you slapped her in the shoulder.
"I get it. I know you're just fucking with me. I mean, Mr. Jones is hot, but if any of us were to sleep with him it would be you and you know it," You laughed, motioning towards the girl next to you.
Everyone laughed and agreed, and you finally felt like you were starting to get over this breakup crap. Maybe it wasn't such a big deal. Maybe your Halloween wasn't ruined, after all.
"Hey, what's that dude's deal? The clown," One of the girls across from you whispered.
A chill ran down your spine, all of your careless laughter being ripped out of you, your air being grasped from your lungs.
"What? What's he doing?" You whisper-yelled back.
"He's like, staring at us. No, he's staring at you. Oh my god I think he's staring at you!" She whispered, grinning as if this were funny.
"Wait, now he's getting up. Shit! He's walking over here," Your friend said, causing you to stiffen up.
All of a sudden you felt a tap on your shoulder, causing you to almost jump out of your skin. You whipped around, seeing dirty, black and white fabric. You looked up, seeing the clown staring you in the eyes, a large grin on his face, one that might ordinarily look funny or comforting on a regular clown, but looked rather creepy on this one.
"Um, hi? Can I help you with something?" You politely asked, trying your best to put on a comforting smile.
All of a sudden the clown pulled his hand out from behind his back, shoving a cheap, plastic ring in your face, startling you yet again. The ring was obviously for children, and you didn't want to take it, but the look on the clown's face, the mock eagerness, drew your hand to the ring like a magnet. Before you could grab it, he grabbed your hand, his grip strong, and slipped the ring on your ring finger, as though you were now engaged.
He jumped up, hand over his mouth in surprise. He began jumping up and down in mock excitement. Your friends began to laugh, the girl sitting next to you, now behind you in the booth, shaking your shoulders, mocking you.
"Already over that dick, huh Y/N?" One of the girls across in the seat across from you teased.
"Well, she's engaged now, so she better be!" The girl who was shaking you previously exclaimed.
Your face blushed. You didn't mean to make such a big deal about it. All you wanted to do was be polite, grab the ring, and go on with your Halloween. Now? Your friends were being obnoxiously loud. The guy at the counter was shooting your group, including the clown, dirty looks. And a clown was miming excitement and pretending to giddily giggle, towering over you. Literally towering over you. You hadn't noticed how tall he was, since when he came in he was hunched over carrying his bag.
The clown finished "laughing" and offered you hand, bending over so that his face was in front of yours looking you in the eyes expectantly. You flushed again, this time not out of embarrassment, but because there was a guy, a somewhat hot guy, staring you in the eyes after making you feel more wanted than your now ex-boyfriend had in a while. Fuck, were you falling for a fucking clown? Is this what your life has become, you blushing because a clown, a mime, was probably making fun of you and your friends by maybe flirting with you.
This is so pathetic.
Apparently you were taking to long to grab his hand, given he pretended to sigh in an expectant manner, pulling his hand back just to put it back in front of you in an overexaggerated manner, tapping his foot with impatience.
You giggled, in spite of yourself, and placed your hand in his, looking back at your friends, almost begging them to stop you.
This was the first time you had a genuine smile on your face all night.
Nobody stopped you from standing up, nor did anybody stop him when he lead you back to his table, sitting you down across from his booth at the table. He quickly ran over to the ordering counter and grabbed a flower that was sitting in a vase, running back to slide into the booth across from you. He, very exaggeratedly, offered you the flower, leaning over the table, grinning widely.
Your friends were laughing again, mass "aww"s coming from their table.
Before you could take the flower, which you were actually planning on grabbing, the guy from behind the table stomped over, yanking the flower out of his hand.
"Look, guys, I have been pretty lenient so far. You have been loud and obnoxious, and now you are treating the place like you own it, taking stuff that doesn't belong to you. I think it's time I ask your little group to pay for your food and leave," He sternly said, mainly in the direction of the clown.
The clown who's whole demeaner has switched in the blink of an eye. The clown, who was once giggling and offering you rings and flowers, now had a dark, terrifying look on his face. His eyes looked as though they literally darkened. His playful demeaner turned to a murderous one. It was almost... hot?
"Hey, sir? We don't want any trouble. We've been drinking a bit tonight, so we're a little rowdy. I'll pay for our food, then we'll get out of here, alright?" You said, trying to resolve the situation quickly.
Honestly, you were scared of what the clown would do if you didn't.
The man nodded to you, walking back to the counter. You got up, taking a small glance at the clown, noticing him following the man with his eyes. Until you stand up, then his dark gaze shoots to you, locking his eyes on yours. Even as you turn away to go and grab your purse, you can feel his gaze burning in the back of your skull. Yet again, you felt like prey before him.
This time, however, it was almost a good feeling, being his prey. This time, you were almost willing to be hunted.
Again, what the fuck is wrong with me? He shouldn't have this effect on me, should he?
You went over to your friends, grabbing your purse and making your way over to the counter. You could hear them muttering about how creepy the clown now looked, and that they probably shouldn't let you leave with him.
First of all, you thought, how dare they think they can just tell me what I am/am not going to do? If I want to go home with the weird, kind of violent-looking, clown, I fucking will.
You finally find your card, shoving it into the chip reader, glancing up at the guy and giving him an "I'm sorry my friends are shitty and loud and that the stranger clown stole a flower for me" look. The machine beeps, signaling you to take your card away, and you put it back in your purse, turning back you your friends, sparing a glace at the clown. He was still glaring at you, which almost made you hesitate. Almost. You, and everyone else in there, knew that whatever he was thinking while looking at you like that probably wasn't good.
"Ok guys, I think we need to get out of here before that guy throws a fit," You said, just loud enough for the clown to hear you.
Your friends grabbed their purses and coats, scooting out of the booths, and began to file out of the building, muttering their thanks for you paying the bill.
As you walked out of the building, you didn't even glance back. You knew that, eventually, he would catch up with you.
About thirty minutes, three pee breaks, and two "I can't find my phone we need to go back"s, you all finally made it to the two parked cars, one of which being yours, outside of the house party from before. You would have all probably spent more time talking if the late-night, fall breeze hadn't picked up half way on your walk. Everyone but one could fit in your friends car, so you always offered to take yours too. It fit everyone way more comfortably, and you could leave whenever you wanted. Win-Win.
"So who's going with who? Same as earlier, or...?" Your friend asked, glancing between the rest of you.
You began rummaging around in your purse for your car keys, "Um, that works for me. Just need to find my stupid keys."
You rummaged around some more, the lack of keys becoming more and more apparent the harder you tore through the contents of your purse. What the fuck? "I know I put them in here guys, hang on a sec," You said, getting more and more worried by the second.
All of a sudden, you crouch down, dumping the contents of your purse on the ground, looking for these damned keys.
Wallet? Check. Phone? Check. Chapstick? Makeup? Makeup wipes? Check. Literally every. single. fucking. thing. but my keys? Fucking check.
"I- I don't know guys. I don't know where my keys are. I must have dropped them at the diner when getting my card out? I guess? I'll have to go back," You said, shoveling your belonging back into your bag, defeated.
"Do you want us to walk you back? We probably should, it's really dark, and it's Halloween. And you're drunk, so," Your friend, the one with the car, asked, worried.
"No, guys it's fine. It's really not that far if I walk fast. Plus, I have my phone, so if I get nervous or anything happens I can call you guys, and you can pick me up. No sense in all of us going back with class in the morning," You reassured everyone, and yourself, that this would be fine.
Of course you were nervous. It was Halloween, for starters. Everyone around here was drunk or high or both. Drunk and high dudes mixed with a drunk-ish girl, all alone, on some random street in a revealing costume was a disaster waiting to happen. But given there wasn't any room, you would've had to ask someone to either wait out here alone while you were driven to the diner and back, which was a shitty thing to do and equally as dangerous, or asked someone to walk all the way back with you, which was equally as shitty of a choice in your mind. So, your friends waved goodbye to you as they climbed into the car and sped off, leaving you alone.
You began to walk back, stumbling here and there due to the remainder of alcohol in your system and the tall white heels you just had to wear. You would've taken them off and walked barefoot, but who knows what was on the ground of these streets.
As you walked, the chill of the wind forcing goosebumps to raise on your skin, you began to hear a second set of footsteps behind you. You stopped, freezing in your tracks, your heartrate picking up.
You whipped around. Nothing but an empty street, the flickering of the streetlamps lighting the way, and a few parked cars.
It's just my nerves. Nobody is following me.
Either way, you picked up your pace, every so often hearing the second set of footsteps following your path. You repeated the pattern of quickly turning around, scanning the street behind you, and continuing your progress to the diner quicker than before.
Before too long, you were practically jogging to the diner, the second set of footsteps following your pace to a tee, jogging with you. You were panicking, your eyes darting around until you finally saw the lights of the small diner pop up in your vision, not 100 feet ahead. Tears almost made their way to your eyes. You didn't give a shit if it was just "nerves", you were really fucking glad to be so close to a crowd again.
All of a sudden, the second set of footsteps stopped, and you heard a loud crash to your right, causing you to jump out of your skin. It sounded as though a large trash can was knocked over or something. Then the sound of glass shattering sounded behind you, causing you to start running towards the diner.
Next thing you knew, you were on the ground, your ankle throbbing in pain, small rocks and pebbles engraved in the palms of your hands and your knees from the fall. Tears pricked your eyes. Stupid. Fucking. Heels.
The sound of metal clanking together sounded ahead of you, causing you to look up from the ground. There he was, shaking his stupid fucking bag to get your attention. Then, seeing that you looked up, he slung his bag over his shoulder, waving and pulling out a small horn from behind his back, honking it in your direction.
Had he been the one following you? He had to be. He was fucking with you instead of helping you now, so it was the only explanation.
You tried to push yourself up off the ground, making your way to a standing-position before you fell back down, the stabbing pain in your ankle causing you to cry out.
You glared at the clown in front of you, "The least you could do is fucking help me, you creep!"
The clown made a point of looking all around him, looking for who you were talking about, before pointing at himself in a "Who? Me?" motion.
"Yes, you, asshole. This isn't funny, I'm really hurt and I can't stand on my own," You said, annoyance overtaking your rage at the situation.
The clown grinned, skipping- yes, skipping- over to you, before putting his horn back in his sack. He put his hand out, waiting for you to grab his hand.
You knew it was a bad idea, having any interaction with this clown, but you couldn't walk, and you certainly couldn't wait here with the clown while your friends drove all the way here to find you, so what other choice did you have? Plus, even though he was creepy, how bad could he actually be? He was just some guy, right?
You grabbed his gloved hand, which was warm and slightly... wet? He pulled you up, forcing you to lean on his shoulder, then started walking in the opposite direction of the diner.
"Hey, wait, I need to go back in the diner. I left my keys there, which is why I was walking in the first place, you know? So if you could help me that way, that would be great," You explained, panic rising in your chest.
You made eye contact, and he slowly began to shake his head no, walking faster, practically dragging you along the pavement at this point.
"Hey! Put me down! I want to go to the diner! I need to go to the diner. Put me down!" You screamed, pushing against the clown, trying to escape his grasp.
He made an overexaggerated sighing motion, shoving you to the ground, causing you to whimper in pain. Your arms, legs, and hands were covered in scrapes, and your ankle was throbbing. You tried to crawl towards the diner, yelling for help.
You heard him walking slowly behind you, rummaging in his bag. You, focused on the diner ahead of you, noticed the man from the front counter walk out the front door of the diner, spotting you. That's when you heard a loud crack, a sharp pain shooting it's way though your skull, and you fell unconscious.
The light was bright, and you had to squint to see anything. Your head was pounding, and you could feel something dripping down your forehead. You tried to move your arms to shield your eyes, but they were tied down with something. Your vision was blurry, so you couldn't make out exactly what. Your legs were tied to the chair you were sitting in, as well. You could move your head, so you looking around the best you could with your vision the way it was.
You could see someone, it must be the clown based off of the black and white clothing, sitting at a table across the room. Or maybe it was a workbench? You couldn't tell. Ahead of you, there were bright lights, like the kind on construction sites, and a tarp covering the floor.
Your vision began to clear a bit, and you moved your head to the other side, seeing if you could make out any way out or anything that could help you. There was another tarp covering what could be a doorway, but who knew what was beyond it? You couldn't make any moves yet, whether it was an exit or not. You were in no shape to try and make your escape.
All of a sudden, a gloved hand gripped your chin, whipping your head to your left, towards the maybe-workbench. A sharp pain tore through your skull, causing you to cry out. It sounded more like a croak, however, due to your apparently-dry throat.
You could tell he was enjoying your pain, given his wide, toothy grin and the arousal pooling in his eyes.
He dropped your face, walking in front of you, then crouching down, eye-level with you. He was gripping a blade in one hand, an exacto-knife. He rubbed his hand up and down your bare-thigh, his finger tips brushing against the hem of your small skirt. Shame and arousal rushed through you.
How the fuck were you getting off to this?
He got a serious, dark look on his face, and gripped your waist with one large, gloved hand. The other hand, the one holding the blade, made its way to your thigh. The clown glanced between your face and the bare skin of your thigh. If it were any other situation, you would have thought he were asking for your permission, your consent to cut into you. But you knew better, he was waiting to see your fear. Your terror.
'Wait. Wait. Before you do whatever you are going to do to me, can- can you tell me your name? Why are you doing this to me? Why me?" You asked, tears beginning to run down your cheeks.
The clown nodded, then turned his gaze to your leg, his arm and hand moving before you had a chance to register what was happening. The exacto-knife pierced your flesh, slicing deep-not deep enough to do serious damage, but deep enough to scar- into your thigh. You cried out, trying to squirm away. The clown tightened his grip on your waist, slightly stilling your movements long enough for him to finish carving into your skin. Tears poured down your face, your makeup effectively ruined, not like you cared at this point. Warm blood oozed down the sides of your leg, pooling on the seat of your chair, staining the once-pristine white fabric of your costume.
You must have been taking too long to focus on the wound, given the clown gripped your chin again, forcing you to look at his work.
You hadn't noticed he was carving a phrase into your skin.
It read, "Art the Clown".
"Wh-what? Art the Clown? What does that- Is that you? Are you Art the Clown?" You stumbled over your words, connecting the dots, resulting in an ecstatic Art enthusiastically nodding his head.
Art let go of your waist and face, patting your cheek as though you were a child who had learned something new which was common sense to everyone else. His confidence, no, arrogance, filled you with a mixture of rage and arousal. How dare he treat you like a child? You fought, and you fought hard.
Abruptly, he stood up, excitedly walking back to the table of tools from earlier. He rummaged around, clanking tools around, seemingly searching for something specific.
You looked down at your leg, tears welling in your eyes, and prepared for the worst. What would he do next? Gut me? Slit my throat? He's obviously deranged so who fucking knows?
He pranced back over to you, holding a large pair of shears in one hand, and a what looks like a...whip of sorts... in the other. You had jokingly, or not so jokingly, tried to introduce your now-ex to floggers previously. He wasn't a fan, berating you for even thinking about the idea of whipping him with anything, which is why you played it off as a joke.
Art gripped the hair at the base of your skull, ripping your head backwards, towering over your face. He looked down at you, no longer grinning, and began to caress your face with the whip before dropping it to the floor, and letting your hair go, your head bobbing back down. Your chin hit your chest with a groan. You didn't even have the strength to fight against it anymore.
He walked in front of you, shoving your head out of the way as he grabbed the front of your tight, white shirt. He pulled, forcing a gap between the fabric and your skin. He slid the shears in between the fabric and your chest, beginning to cut through your hand-crafted costume. Your hand-crafted costume which, as you now realize was a fatal flaw, didn't have a bra underneath it. You didn't like the way a bra looked with the fabric, it was too thin, so you added some thin padding to the inside. A brilliant idea at the time, now, however, it was proving to be an oversight, to say the least.
As Art's shears slid through the last bit of your top, he pulled the fabric back, hesitating when he realized you weren't wearing anything underneath. Your head was angled towards his lower half, and you noticed he was fairly...excited. His large length was practically busting through his jumpsuit, the thin material clearly showing his twitching member. He was bigger than your ex had been, you could tell that much. To be honest, he was bigger than anyone you had ever been with. It was enough to make you question, for a split second, whether what he was doing was so bad. That split second of doubt happened to make your thighs rub together, just for a moment.
A moment was enough, enough for him to notice anyways. Your eyes met his, arousal pooling and swirling in his gaze. He dropped the shears to the ground with a small clang, rushing forward to rip the rest of your top off your arms and shoulders. His gloves were rough as they rubbed against your bare skin. Your breasts shook with the force of his movements, causing him to hesitate once again, seemingly enthralled with the way they moved.
He threw your top, or what remained of it, to the ground, leaning over to grab the whip. He stood back up, caressing your arms, your chest, and your thighs with the tasseled-material. You noticed that it wasn't just a whip. On the ends of each tassel were small, metal bits. Not sharp, but would sting, and probably bruise, if hit with them. As he brushed against the gashes on your thigh, you whimpered, subconsciously moving your body as far away from Art as possible. Which wasn't far enough.
Art, in a flash, drew his hand back and struck your chest, causing you to cry out. The whip alone stung, leaving red lines all over your chest, but the metal bits hurt. They were freezing, and significantly harder than the material of the whip, which seemed to be made of a slightly-thick fabric. Not leather, like you would ordinarily see, but still similarly painful. It almost looked handmade.
You were quickly torn from your thoughts as Art whipped you again, this time hitting your bare stomach.
"Fuck! Fuck you, you piece of shit!" You yelled, impulsively.
He tilted his head, putting his hand in front of his "O" shaped mouth, as if to say he was surprised or confused by your language. He then looked stern, waggling his finger in front of your face, teasing you.
He pulled back again, causing you to flinch. But nothing came. No sharp sting, no crack of the whip hitting your skin. Nothing. Nothing except a cold, wet tongue meeting your thigh. The wound Art had left over had began to bleed again, probably from a stray tassel hitting the bare flesh of your thigh, and Art was... lapping it up. Like a dog.
He met your gaze, his previously-stern expression turned to that of a submissive puppy, lapping up milk from its mother. It was pathetic. It was sick. He was slurping on your blood covered thigh, and it made you...aroused?
Seeing the man who was once so terrifying, so dominating, immediately become so submissive, so needy, was a switch you hadn't seen coming. Your body didn't know what to think. The thought of someone drinking blood made you nauseous, but the thought of someone needing you so much that they would drop to their knees in front of you, forgetting everything they were doing just to have a piece of you. Well, it was exciting. You could feel your face and chest growing hotter, your thighs clamping together. You couldn't break eye contact with him.
Your arms strained, attempting to fight the restraints. His tongue slowly licked its way towards your upper thigh, getting closer and closer to the hem of your skirt, which laid right below your core. Your hips bucked slightly.
Why were you getting off to this? Why was this so, fucking, hot?
All of a sudden, Art stopped, standing up and pretending to laugh at you. Hysterically. As if your pathetic display of neediness was the most laughable thing in the world. Fuck, maybe it was.
"Fuck you! You're getting off to this more than I am, you sick fuck! I mean, look at your tiny little hard on ripping through your pants before you make fun of me!" You yelled at him, glancing down at the hardening length on his thigh, which happened to be anything but "tiny" or "little".
He stopped laughing, glaring at you, before stomping over. He gripped your chin with his hand, tightly. You whimpered in pain.
Ok, good to know. Don't make fun of him.
He looked you up and down, hesitating on your bright-red chest, little welts beginning to form. He grinned, not in his big exaggerated way, but in a subtle, sly way. As though he just got an idea or had a realization of some sort.
He gently lets go of your chin, slowly crouching down in front of you his hands gliding from your thighs to your calves, where your legs were taped to the chair legs.
He glanced up at you before ripping the tape of your left leg, peeling it off your leg in one quick motion.
It stung like a bitch, but the one thing you noticed was how strong Art must be. You tried your hardest and couldn't get the many, many layers of tape to even budge, and he ripped it apart like it was nothing.
Before you knew it, a ripping sound and a sharp sting came from your right leg.
What is he doing? Is he letting me go?
You couldn't tell what was going on in the mind of the man thing in front of you. Did he trust you wouldn't run? Did he think that even if you did, you wouldn't stand a chance? Or did he want you to run? Or was there something else that wasn't crossing your mind?
He quickly gave you an answer, ripping off your little skirt, pulling it, and your thin, white, lace panties, down your legs in a swift motion. You were completely naked, save for your angel halo and, surprisingly, your wings. God's angel, dripping in need for a demon. What a sight.
He spread your legs apart as far as he could in the chair, before pushing them up, flush to your chest. He repositioned until he was able to hold your legs together with one hand by the backs of your knees, scooting your ass forward on the rough chair. Your thighs burned with the stretch, but all of your pain was drowned out by Art's rough, gloved finger shoving it's way into your core.
"Fuck!" You groaned, the mixture of pleasure and pain from the rough texture of the glove and his long, slender finger hitting a spot in you that you had never been able to reach on your own.
You could feel the sweat from your hairline begin to drip down your face, the rough wooden chair digging into your bare ass, his rough gloves gripping you, inside and out.
Your head tipped back as he forcefully shoved yet another long, gloved finger inside you. It went in smoother this time, your wet arousal acting as lubricant. You cry out, clenching around his fingers, and look down to see him mocking you, pretending to silently moan, his eyes rolling back in his head, bucking his hips. Somehow, it turned you on even more.
All of a sudden, his mouth was on you, licking and suckling on your clit, his fingers moving at an ungodly pace. Your hips bucked, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, tears filling your eyes. Your legs burned from the stretch, and the cuts in your thigh stung from the sweat coating your body. You could feel your pussy clenching around his fingers, your core tightening. Moans began pouring out of your mouth.
"I'm going to- I'm going to cum! Fuck!" You moaned, seeing stars as you felt yourself gush around his fingers, coating his chin in your arousal. He pulls his fingers out of you, moving both his hands to cup your thighs, holding you still as he continues to lap up your cum. His tongue inserts itself into you, his mouth sucking up your dripping arousal, overstimulating you.
Tears began to run down your cheeks, the once-nice feeling of his tongue lapping against your folds becoming painful.
"Stop, fuck, please! Please stop it hurts!" You whimpered, trying, and failing, to pull your body away from his.
He paused, glaring up at you before tearing his mouth away from your dripping core. He let go of your legs, letting them fall roughly, your feet painfully hitting the floor and the rough angle of the chair pinching your thighs, causing you to whimper.
He abruptly stood. You couldn't comprehend the look on his face, the look in his eyes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of pale skin where white makeup used to be. It was almost intimate, like you were seeing a part of him that was truly him, that nobody had ever seen before.
Or, at least had never lived to see before.
He abruptly turned, calmly walking out of the room, through a plastic sheet that had covered an opening you hadn't seen before. You realized that you weren't tied up anymore. This was your chance to escape.
What if it's a trap?
But what if he's letting me go?
You decided to risk it, standing on wobbly legs, arousal and sweat coating your thighs. Blood coated and stained your leg from where it had dripped, your head still pounded from before.
Overall, you were worse for wear.
You were still slightly tipsy, completely naked, and were hurt. You needed to get out of here. You needed to get to a phone, to call the police or one of your friends.
You looked around, thinking of all the possible ways you could escape.
You could go out the way Art did, but that would almost guarantee you would run into him. Not ideal.
You could leave through the other exit that was covered with another tarp, but like you thought before, who knew if it was the exit? It could lead even further into the building. But it could also be an exit.
It was your best shot.
You started to stumble your way to the maybe-exit, your legs heavy and sore. Your head began to really pound, the arousal and adrenaline beginning to wear off. The cuts on your thigh began to bleed again, the stretch of the skin as you walked opening the wounds again. They stung, bad, bringing tears to your eyes.
You made it to the tarp, ripping it back to see what looks like a garage of some kind, filled with cars. That filled you with hope, if there were cars, that meant that there had to be some sort of opening, right? How else would they be able to get them in here?
You sped up, fueled with hope. The only sounds you could hear were your feet slapping against the cold concrete floor. You glanced around as you ran, trying to find either somewhere to escape or a phone to use.
Then you saw it, the wall at the far end of the building was actually a garage door. You only noticed it because it rattled as the wind hit it.
You booked it, running towards the large tin door. Closer and closer you got, closer and closer to salvation. Your legs burned, really burned, your feet sore, your body covered in sweat, grime, and blood.
50 feet away, 40 feet away, 30 feet away. Closer and closer to escape. To fresh air. To your future.
20 feet away, 10 feet away. Almost there. You were actually going to make it.
5 feet away. You made it, your hands slapping against the thin metal door, causing it to shake. You got on your knees, seeing if you could lift up the door, even slightly. Your fingers pried against the metal, slowly opening it, inch by inch, until it was open enough for you to be able to squeeze through. You laid on your stomach, the freezing cold concrete scraping against your breasts as you began to drag yourself through the door to the other side.
You head was through, the cold outside air refreshing. A breath of fresh air, literally. You tried to pull yourself through further, but your wings were caught on the lip of the door, which was just too short for you to be able to fit them through. Your arms flailed behind you, trying to reach the clasp on your back. You had needed help to put them on before you left, given you hadn't been able to reach. Now, you were ripping at the wings, trying to force them off. Hours, days, spend on making these wings, all for you to destroy them in minutes.
Just another thing Art the Clown had taken from you that night.
You, and the ground all around you, were covered with feathers, but the frame of the wings was still too big for you to fit through the door.
You began to cry, tears and snot pouring down your face. You decided to wiggle back through the door and flip onto your back, you might be able to fit more that way.
Flipped onto your back, you began to slip through the door once more. This time, you were able to pull yourself further, your chest completely out of the door into the open. The cool breeze blowing over your face, your chest, reminding you just how vulnerable you were.
You began to pull yourself further, pushing against the ground beside you, the gravel from the ground outside the building digging into your back, into your palms, stinging. You were almost free.
Until you felt hands on your ankles, rough, gloved hands.
"NO! No, please, please let me go! I just want to go home!" You cried, tears pouring from your eyes, attempting to kick your feet away from the clown you knew was gripping them. He held fast, beginning to pull you back. You flailed, shoving against the ground. It was no use, he was pulling you closer and closer, ripping freedom out of your hands like it was nothing. As he pulled you past your chest, you head the only thing left outside the building, you gripped the door above you, the metal slicing into your palms.
As he pulled you all the way inside, tearing your hands away from the door, you felt warm blood running down your hands, your wrists, your arms.
You gave up. You gave up fighting, you gave up trying to escape. You laid there, your arms outstretched above you, blood pooling from the deep gashes in your hands, dripping from your thigh and now from the scratches in your back from the gravel outside. You were grimy, dirty, sweaty. You were a wreck, and you had given up. You had given in to whatever the man, the demon, in front of you wanted to do to you.
You looked up at him, blinking away the tears that blurred your vision. He was looking down at you, towering above you. He looked...disappointed. Disappointed that you decided to escape? That you didn't make it? You couldn't tell. You didn't care. He walked around to your head, nudging you with his boot, waiting for something.
You just stared up at him, completely drained. You had had fun for a moment, before everything became so... real. So terrifying. For a moment, you had thought he would let you go. That you would be able to go home, see your friends, your family.
You were so, so wrong.
Art crouched down, tilting his head as he looked at you, seemingly in thought.
He fixed his makeup, you thought.
He stood up, looking bored with you, like you were a toy that was broken or that he had outgrown.
He leaned over you, pulling something out of somewhere, maybe his pants? Or from behind his back? You couldn't tell.
Next thing you knew, there was a loud bang and a flash. Then nothing.
Author's Note- THANK YOU SO MUCH IF YOU MADE IT TO THE END!!!! This took so much longer to finish than I wanted it to, and is, as of now, my longest ever One-Shot! I went a little out of my comfort zone with this one, and yes, you did die at the end. Sorry babes</3
I was also going to add a cannibalism ending, but decided against it since this is supposed to be a smut fic... if you want that tho, please let me know (he literally eats you after you die, and talks about how delicious you and your blood is... yes I'm a freak, I know).
If this was asked before go ahead and skip it, but how would Orca Eclipse react to a siren Y/N who's a captive bred/raised orca siren who was released by humans? And they have all the hallmarks of orcas in captivity, like a collapsed dorsal fin, scars and scrapes from infighting or a tiny aquarium, teeth worn to the root, and/or poor survival skills?
Eclipse would only see your clear weakness in surviving, along with your scars, and think that clearly, you need him. The concept of captivity is one that has never been presented to him before, and while he notes how poor of health you are in and that you are very clearly not doing well, he doesn't understand why. He will of course prod and demand. When you give up the reasons for your collapsed dorsal fin and scraps and how you hate close spaces under the ice, he will at last understand. And he will be furious for you. He will rage and threaten and promise that never again will you be held in a tiny pool nor treated with so little dignity.
Would you be willing to do a few HCs for how the Shimadas (separate) treat a kidnapped s/o?
this was not supposed to be LONG >:v
(i have no one to blame but myself)
: : : HANZO:
+ Keeps you on a very tight leash- and not just to begin with.
+ Hell hath no fury like a disobeyed Hanzo, and the second you put a toe out of line, his ire will come crashing down around you.
+ Although he’s an easy master to displease, his anger is cold and calculated. There are no threats, no yelling, no raised fists. No desperate last struggle of cornered prey.
+ There is only the hard, steely set of his jaw, and the cruel flash of resolve in his eyes. Frigid terror has its claws around your throat long before you feel the brush of soft leather clamping down on your windpipe.
+ With the expectation of absolute obedience, defying him is no easy task.
+ He is clinical in giving punishment; an unyielding wall of authority, unmoved by begging, sobbing, and pleading. And yet, he hates to see his property damaged or marred.
+ Even at his most infuriated, he’ll never leave a mark on you. Ice baths, figging, menthol oil, being bound in stress positions- anything that will deliver a strong, lasting lesson without the gruesome evidence on your skin. Rest assured, you won’t need bruises or welts to remind you of the consequences that come with disobedience.
+ But, like all else in the universe, everything must have balance - even Hanzo. Wrathful when provoked, Hanzo can also be an extremely rewarding master to please. His praise is hard-won, and his affections warm and generous. He is the Occam’s Razor of strict discipline and gentle doting.
+ Isolated and at his whim, Hanzo will become the be-all && end-all of your world.
+ No matter how rebellious, how headstrong or determined you are…
+ Hanzo will bring you to heel.
: : : GENJI:
+ The second he has you in his clutches, you’ll be sweaty and panting face-down on the floorboards with his knee in your spine and his voice in your ear. An impassive stranger sits with a buzzing needle against your skin, stamping you irrevocably as his property.
+ You sob and shake as he violates your very being and removes your personhood, fingernails clawing up the worn finish of the wood and trying so hard to make yourself be anywhere but here, in this awful, humiliating room where time has abandoned you- but his hands soothe your sweaty hair and along your ribs like he’s calming a wild-eyed, frothing animal, and he tells you you’re doing so well. That it will be over soon, and you’ll be his forever. Just a little longer. You’re so close.
+ Genji doesn’t tie you to the bedpost, doesn’t rule you with an iron first the way his brother might. He thrives on the chase, loves it when you fight tooth and nail- he’ll let you taste the hope of freedom, let you almost, almost make it- then swoop in for the kill.
+ He’ll wrap an arm around your shoulders, holding you close like a lover, laugh like you’re sharing a private, intimate joke. He’ll steer you home, somehow effortless even as you kick and scream and feel the light of day slipping through your fingers again.
+ “Where were you going? There’s nothing out there, babe- not for you, not anymore.”
+ He doesn’t strive to force you into obedience or teach you your place like Hanzo would- complacency is boring and predictable. Genji keeps you just barely contained, something truly wild and bright and desperate that he can catch over and over, savoring each time he reigns you back in and your fight is renewed. This way, the light never really goes out in your eyes, but he’s still trapped you; a captive, untamed thrill.
+ Genji is the more emotionally attached of the two Shimada brothers, as well. By nature, he’s more volatile, but you’re something precious and vulnerable that can never escape him, and in this way you’re the only thing he can invest all of his thoughts, affections, and hopes into. He can be raw and exposed, because you’re his.
+ He loves you sincerely, and the more time you spend in his clutches the more tame he becomes. Because he’s decided this is a relationship, and even if you’re shackled to him, wings clipped and claws trimmed, he loves you and eventually you’ll have to love him back, anyways, right? It’s the only choice you have.
TAGS: Joel Miller x Female Reader, Dark!Joel, Kidnapping, Religious Cults, No Use of Y/N, Reader is Brainwashed, Possessive!Joel, Dubious Consent, Innocent!Reader, Religious Guilt, Religious Deconstruction, (Unspecified) Age Gap Relationship, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Joel Miller Smut, Kidnapping, Captivity, Descriptions of Violence, Gore
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You woke disoriented, your head and leg throbbing in agony. No longer were you staring up at the trees, but at a ceiling- a ceiling you recognized. You couldn’t be- how can the Prophet allow you to be taken back here? Wasn’t she supposed to lead you on your journey home? Why would she let that beast capture you?
You felt the familiar lumpiness of the sofa where you’d spent the last few days resting, which your body unconsciously sank into, missing its comfort. It was, admittedly, much better than sleeping against the rough bark of a tree trunk.
“You awake?” That deep voice rumbled, startling your eyes to open further. You looked at him, the beast- the animal that had hunted you down in the forest. You didn’t see an older, weathered man, anymore. He was monstrous, a devil keeping you from where you belonged.
Without bothering to answer him, you pushed yourself onto your elbows and maneuvered your body off of the sofa. He swiftly grabbed you, his large and firm hands keeping you from flailing your limbs as he forcefully pushed you back onto the cushions. “Quit messin’ around, girl.” He spat, his tone biting and cruel. “Don’t make me tie you up.”
You looked up at him defiantly, brows furrowed and lips pursed. “You will release me and allow me to go home.” You commanded, trying to make your voice deep and authoritative like he did the previous night. It didn’t sound remotely like him- you’d always been submissive, never one to order others around.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere, I thought I told you? Earned yourself a concussion on top of reopenin’ your wound, n’ almost got yourself killed by a damn infected.” The memory of the demon attacking you resurfaced, the sound of a thunderclap you’d only heard from Wolves and soldiers in your settlement. The sound of violence and destruction.
“You have a gun?” You asked fearfully. He glanced down, and you followed his gaze to the firearm secured at his hip. Any thoughts you had of struggling against him ceased, your defiance flooding out of you. He seemed satisfied, but his gaze remained hard. “Rest, I mean it. No gettin’ up- you let me know where you needa go n’ I’ll carry you.” You said nothing, turning your head away like a petulant child. The only thing you could think to do was to pray, muttering them under your breath as Joel watched.
He turned his back to her, walking with heavy steps out the door.
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Joel woke up every morning at sunrise to start his work. He made himself breakfast, brewed a cup of coffee, sat out on the porch to watch the sunrise, maybe even pulled out his guitar to strum a few tunes. Then he got to work.
He had three pens: one with cattle, one with sheep, and one with pigs. He built a coop nearby as well, which had a few chickens. He had a garden of herbs and a few vegetables, a few fruit trees and some flower beds. When Joel moved from Jackson, Tommy and Maria had kindly provided him with a few livestock and seeds to self-sustain. He knew it was Tommy’s idea, to give him things to do. Besides taking care of Ellie, he had nothing going for him. He wasn’t a smuggler anymore, and staying within the walls of the settlement had eased the need to constantly be in survival mode. It drove him crazy, gave more room for the demons to creep their way in and attack his mind. Painful memories, haunting ghosts, the skeletons of his proverbial closet pushing their way out.
He felt trapped in Jackson- couldn’t stand being around everyone, felt like they could smell the stench of his shame. So he packed up and left. Ellie went with him, lived there for a few years, kept him company, but then she got older. She fell in love with Dina, and the two of them moved in together. He was genuinely happy for her. He was proud that she was able to move on, find love and settle down, forget the past- or at least bury it deep down so it only lingered in the back of her mind.
They’d fought, she’d demanded answers- why did he do it? Why would he take away the only meaning she felt she had at the time? He stood by his decision, said he’d do it again if he ever got the chance, sounded like a parent telling their kid “you’ll thank me when you’re older” after grounding them. Now he knew what he’d done was nowhere near that superficial, knew Ellie had every right to be angry with him, but he also knew himself. He knew the kind of man he was, and he was much too old a dog to be taught new tricks.
But she really did thank him- not verbally, but through her gradual forgiveness. Because he chose her life over the lives of thousands, she was able to make new meaning with her life, with him, with the settlement, and now with Dina. Maybe it was monstrous and selfish, what he’d done, but he did it because he loved her, and she understood that.
Now, all he had were a few farm animals and a small home to occupy his days, and he was fine with that. It was all he needed, or so he thought.
When the loneliness crept in, and his thoughts became too loud, he missed Ellie. He missed having someone else in the house. Hell, he even missed the settlement- at least there it was noisy. It was too quiet in his little house.
Then he found you.
It was nice to have another presence in the house. Joel worked outside, knowing someone was waiting for him inside, someone who depended on him, someone who he could provide for and protect.
He told himself he was doing what anyone would do in his situation- he wouldn’t leave a fragile thing like you to die in the cold. But that familiar darkness was quick to take hold of him, telling him to keep her. She was his now. Who would come looking for her?
No one, he thought to himself. If anyone worth a damn in her life was around, they would’ve saved her, not him. He kept her alive, and he could continue to do so if she stayed with him.
When you had resolutely announced your departure, it stung him. Why would you want to leave when he kept your belly full, kept you safe and warm inside? You’d probably die out there trying to find your way home, and he knew you were well aware of that. He couldn’t have that.
You were his.
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He had woken up the next morning, just before sunrise, and went downstairs expecting to see you curled up on the sofa. But you were gone.
He bolted out of the house without a second thought. He’d taken his gun with him, prepared to do whatever it took to bring you back home safe and sound. He scanned the ground, senses high and alert as his eyes looked for imprints of your small feet. When he found your tracks, it wasn’t hard to find his way to you- you hadn’t even gotten that far.
You were sitting against a tree trunk, body tensed in fear as you saw him approach. Then you started running. He bounded after you, trailing close behind you, waiting for the moment to reach out and pull you into his arms.
Then the moment was shattered when the infected came out of nowhere, sending you tumbling to the ground and hitting your head. This is exactly why he had to protect you- you were fragile, unable to fend for yourself.
He shot the thing dead, his arm moving with muscle memory. Then he crouched down at your side, scooped you up in his arms, and carried you home.
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You prayed until you fell asleep, the words dying on your lips as you slipped into unconsciousness. You had a nightmare about Joel, about him transforming into a wild beast and ripping you to shreds. You screamed and begged for him to stop, but he wasn’t human anymore, snarling as he sank his teeth into your flesh and took greedy chunks into his mouth.
Joel woke you, his face etched with worry. “Hey, darlin’- you alright?”
You squirmed, fighting against his hands, which were resting on your shoulders. You twisted your body, even as he held you down. “Hey, hey hey hey- I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Calm down- breathe.” He murmured, the deep timbre of his voice low and soothing. “Breathe for me, darlin’, c’mon. In, and out. Just like that.”
Staring up at him with wide eyes, you inhaled and exhaled, your breaths gradually slowing as you calmed. His eyes never left yours, the flecked pools of brown and green almost mesmerizing. You wondered how he did that- shifted his voice, his gaze, his very essence. This morning he had been dark and primal- a beast that sent fear and warning electrifying your nerves. Now he was soft and grounding, sedating you into a state of stillness.
“You… you’re the devil.” Was all you said. “I pray the Prophet saves me from you. I pray she guides me away from here, to my home. May she grant me the wisdom to find my way, whether it be today or days, weeks, months from now. I pray she gets me away from you.”
He was silent for a moment, listening to your rambling.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Was all he said. It was calm and quiet, not laced with the same threat as the previous night. Just a simple statement. He let you go as if nothing happened, walking over to the kitchen. “You hungry?” He asked. You didn’t answer, and he made you a sandwich anyway.
You refused to speak to him, only opening your mouth to pray. He set you on a schedule, coming into the house at specific periods of the day to feed you or carry you to the bathroom. He didn’t complain, only asked the occasional question, which you ignored.
Sometimes you heard beautiful sounds coming from outside on the porch. You’d seen the sounds were coming from Joel, from some kind of instrument he used. You liked the sounds, perking up to listen. Sometimes he’d sing along with the music, the words and the music blending together.
On the island, you only heard hymns to the prophet. Anything else that wasn’t used for worship was considered frivolous and was forbidden. You wondered how something so beautiful could be forbidden, before you corrected yourself. He was only a demon, trying to use his talents to charm you.
You were proven right in your mind when he came to you one evening. “You need a bath,” he said. Your hair was matted and your skin was grimy with filth, but the only logical conclusion you had was that he was trying to take advantage of you. “Don’t touch me,” you said firmly.
“I ain’t gonna touch ya, just gonna bring you to the bath.” He said as he scooped you up, carrying your squirming body to the bathroom. He stripped off your clothes, holding you firmly by the waist as he did his task.
“Demon!” You shouted as you squirmed and pushed weakly at his arms. “Pervert! Don’t touch me!”
“I said I ain’t gonna touch you,” he growled, “just hold still.” Once you were naked, he eased you into the bath that had already been drawn, your body involuntarily relaxing into the warm water. “There- now I trust you can wash on your own. I’ll be outside when you’re done.”
He walked out, not even sparing you a second glance at your bare skin. You sat in the tub, perplexed.
You washed, but didn’t call him. He eventually stepped in on his own, brow furrowed as he surveyed you, making sure you were alright. He picked you up, wrapping a towel around you before sitting you on the seat of the toilet.
“I’m gonna wash your clothes,” he said as he pointed to your discarded clothing with his chin, “I got you somethin’ else to wear in the meantime.” He held out a white cotton nightgown. It looked brand new, plain but delicate and pretty in a way that had your breath hitch. You’d never be allowed to wear something like that back home- maybe only on your wedding night. You thought of Adonis, imagining yourself standing before him in that nightgown, a flush rising to your cheeks.
“I can’t wear that.” You said quickly. It wasn’t right to wear something like that, especially in front of Joel.
“Why not?” He asked, clearly confused.
“It’s not appropriate,” you said pointedly, like he should know. He only looked more confused. “This? Darlin’, it’s just a nightgown.” Your brows furrowed, becoming frustrated with him. “It’s… provocative.”
Joel laughed, the sound echoing off the walls of the small bathroom. “You worse than the Amish!”
“What’s the Amish?” You asked confusedly.
“They were a religious group, way back before the Outbreak.” Joel explained, still smiling. You’d never seen him smile- it made him look much more welcoming, almost kind. “Believed in modesty and all that. I don’t know what you wear to bed back home, but this ain’t provocative. It’ll cover your knees, I think. N’ if you want your arms covered, I got a cardigan you can use. Some socks for your feet, and you’ll be nice n’ covered up.”
“What about my legs?” You challenged.
“You’ll be under the blanket.” Joel said, slightly irate. That temperamental part of you found satisfaction in annoying him.
“Fine.” You murmur. He left the room again while you tossed the towel aside and pulled the nightgown over your head. He came back with the socks and the cardigan, handing it over while he kneeled to slide the socks onto your feet. You pulled the wooly cardigan on, admiring its brown color. It wasn’t flashy at all, which you appreciated. The socks were beige, which you also accepted.
“Do you approve?” He asked with a bite of sarcasm. You nodded.
“I do.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. He carried you back to the sofa, laying you down and pulling the blankets over your legs. “All covered up, like I said.” He looked down at you, pausing. “Still got that room upstairs.”
“I like the fireplace down here.” You say. He nodded, not pressing the issue.
“Before I forget,” he said as he went over to the kitchen, pulling a drawer open, “I found this in your pocket when I first found you.” He walked back over to you, holding something small and wooden in his hand. It was a carved figure of the Prophet.
Your hands immediately reached out for it as he gave it to you. “Thank you,” you said softly, tracing over the dips.
“Night, then.” He said quietly.
“Goodnight.”
He went upstairs. You clutched the figure, praying softly until you fell asleep.
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A/N: Some fluff-adjacent moments to lighten things up a bit hehe :3
Trying to figure out pacing- I want it to be a slow burn but not too slow... idk i'll figure it out.
Hey love! I’m so happy to see a new blog and I can feel that you’re already a favorite ;). Ok so, I’m a 5’10 Mexican girl with a sharp tongue. I have a big heart and always help where I can. I’m tough when I need to be and I don’t let people walk over me, choosing to call them out loud af. Some of my hobbies are reading, having adventures with my friends, and learning about history. Can I have this be with s76? (Or anyone who you think would fit me bc tbh idk how to match myself) thank you!! <3
HOW WOULD THEY BREAK YOU? ( CLOSED ) - 13 / 21
Having adventures with your friends? Are you guys like, slaying dragons? Fighting crime? Getting lost on the subway system in the rough part of town?
I guess the only important question here is: can I come with? I want to have adventures.
Rating: Sa/fe for W/ork
Warnings: Extreme social isolation, emotional abuse, nonconsensual use of drugs, needles/medical equipment, implied drug dependency, military themes, physical exertion, use of a shock collar. Jack is a little too methodical and efficient with this shit, but if we’re being honest that’s really not surprising.
Why he’d work well with you: (because I do think he would!)
- Part of what draws him to you is your earnest, empathetic heart. Normally that soft, giving attitude would be found on someone sensitive and understated, but you’re a hell of a far cry from a pushover. You stand up for yourself (and even others) without a second thought, and he can’t shake his fascination with that easy, natural strength.
- Perhaps, in some ways, you remind him of who he used to be.
- Taming you will be one of the greater challenges he’s faced in life, but he didn’t survive the Enhancement Program for lack of will and fortitude. He overcame the serum, he overcame the collapse of Overwatch, and he’ll overcome you, too.
- There may be some bloodshed between the two of you, in that you are so like Gabriel that sometimes he just loses it. But every time you hold your own, he remembers why he had to have you.
- Although your thirst for mental stimulation, for information, may run you into some trouble with 76, it also makes you quite adept at solving the puzzle that is him. Once you get a handle on his personality, his moods, and, maybe if you play your cards right, his history-- you’ll find yourself equipped not only to handle him, but to hold your own as well.
- If all ends well, the two of you will be on the same level, able to keep each other engaged and challenged.
- In many ways, your life begins a lot like you’ve entered a bootcamp you definitely did not enlist for.
- For the first few weeks, you don’t even see your captor. An alarm blares shrill and angry in your eardrums at fuck o’clock in the morning (or at least, you assume it is. there’s no natural light to indicate time), and a bodiless voice pushes you through a series of menial, exhausting physical tasks.
- The handy little collar secured around your neck ensures that it’s in your best interest to obey. On days you’re particularly unruly or rebellious, the labor drags on for hours longer than usual. When dinner comes through the little slot in the door that’s built like it’d be the last thing standing in a nuclear fallout, it’s a gray, tasteless gruel.
- You shiver through the night on a cheap, scratchy cot with a thin, standard-issue infantry blanket, and you start to wonder if you actually have somehow ended up in a military prison.
- The voice is not sympathetic to your questions, and is overall unresponsive. Your only indication of being watched by a real human being, is the jarring zap your collar delivers when you misbehave.
- And then, after so long that you’re sure your missing persons posters have begun to peel off their walls and bulletin boards, hope lost and then forgotten-- your meals begin to improve. Less meatloaf and veggie loaf and other loafed atrocities, and more meals that have flavor. Meals that leave you feeling full and sated.
- After one particularly filling dinner, you feel groggy. Unbalanced, nauseous, weak in the knees. Distantly, you think you should have known better than to trust this new development.
- You wake up to a soft bed and a warm body spooning you from behind. When you think to fight, jerking away and thrashing, there’s a deep sigh and a sleepy grumble from the stranger. You recognize that voice, dread filling you to the core, and before you can do much more than scramble to your feet, he has you wrestled down to the floor with the cap of a syringe in his teeth and a needle in your shoulder.
- This time whatever he gives you isn’t strong enough to knock you out, but you can’t do much more than feebly stumble towards any door you can find. They’re always locked, but you try and try until large, firm hands steer you away. The world is a hazy mess, pieces of memory constantly shifting like snapshots of a dream.
- You’re certain no one is looking for you anymore, and no matter how much you hate him, how much you loathe him, the man that haunts you in this nightmare is the only human you’ve seen in months. Maybe longer.
- He holds you close when you can’t fight him, rubs gentle hands over your back and shoulders and lets his simple touch remind you how bone-achingly lonely you are.
- When he starts to ease you off the sedatives, it doesn’t take long for you to notice. Suddenly the world isn’t cloudy, everything is so crisp and clear and loud and bright, and half of you wants to run until your legs give out while the other half wants to curl back up underneath that blanket of soothing, muffled fog.
- He tells you it’s going to be alright, you just have to adjust to things normally again. Says you might be in withdrawal, but you’ll get through it. Both of you.
- Paltry resistances wrack the tenuous relationship he’s forming with you, but whenever you fall asleep on the bathroom floor, exhausted from crying and from feeling everything and nothing at all, you wake up the same as you did that first morning.
- Privileges come slow and steady, a book here and a movie there. Things to do while he’s gone. He even tolerates some pushback, will entertain an argument, even a fight or a struggle. Although he’s wearing you down hard and mercilessly, he does have fun when that sharp-tongued personality begins to show itself once more.
- However, stepping over the line once or twice too many times has you waking on a rickety cot in a sealed room, familiar band around your neck. It doesn’t matter when you sob or beg or rock on your heels for hours, curled in a ball on the floor. You serve your sentence in his hellish bootcamp, for however long his whims have decided. You never know how long it will be, only that you have no choice but to endure until he’s satisfied.
- And when you return to waking in that familiar bed, comfortable and warm and finally not alone, you begin to wonder if resistance is worth the price- or if this is really so bad, after all.
