the first time sukuna knew you were crazy was WAY before you guys started dating. see, you guys were part of the same friend group. sukuna was known as the rough and tough guy. he was big and strong.
despite this, all your friends could think of only one person who could make sukuna submit: you.
for example, you and sukuna were having a little bit of an argument about something far from important. in front of all your friends. it was a not-so-light bicker.
suddenly, in the frustration of disagreement, you choked sukuna. THE big and strong sukuna. and guess what? all your friends watched as sukuna didn't do anything to you; in fact, he was actually apologising.
anyone else would've gotten slammed the fuck out before they reached his neck, so the shock was evident. eventually, you let him go, and he said: "fuck, i'm sorry, sorry."
then, when you guys started dating, it just became you overpowering sukuna. you even threatened to mace him once in a while.
once, you and sukuna were fighting in your living room. frustrated, you ran to the window, opened it, and jumped out of it. on instinct, sukuna shouted: "what the fuck are you doing?????" and ran out to get to you.
as you saw him, you ran until he caught you. "fuck you, kuna. leave me the fuck alone!" you shouted. "fuck baby 'm sorry. please, please don't do that, 'm so sorry" sukuna said, out of breath.
you ended up forgiving him, and, you made him carry you the whole way home. you guys ended the night laughing and as close to each other as possible, like you guys usually do after arguing.
you may be crazy, but sukuna is right where he wants to be.
a/n: REQUEST FINALLY OUT AYYY. shoutout to the amazing person in my requests; YOU'RE AMAZING, and again, thank you for being brave! i'm goin through some type of writer's block rn, but idk i'll push theough it.
Summary: After the civilized world you once knew came to an end-- the men that survived... well they just take, take, take. Growing tired of having things taken from you-- you have a hankerin' to take somethin' for yourself... and make him perfect.
w/c~ 8k
content warnings: Reader (no descriptions besides having hair that can be pulled) is in a weird mindset; hears voices, talks to herself. non-con/dub-con (if you're looking for enthusiastic consent, ya wont find it here) smut, cock-warming, unprotected P in V, creampies, oral (m&f receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, pussy and peen pronouns, alcohol consumption (altered mental state). Joel wears a shock collar and other various horrible things that would keep him in check-- and he doesn't fucking like it.
Reader warning- While it looks real pretty, this is a Dead Dove, Do Not Eat. If ya do and then come complaining to me that you ate a dead dove-- I'm gonna fight you. I warned you. I'm coming from a place of love and respect for my readers who have ever gone through anything traumatic and maybe don't want to relive that, it's in here. I try and do it tastefully and respectfully in the best way, i'll mark it with a lil divider where you can skip the part I'm worried about. it's smut but it's sad. There is your warning. I love you.
You gotta sleep, kid. You need it.
Mister-J looks so warm and comfortable… go on and crawl in beside him.
He does look so comfortable and inviting, especially from your spot just out of his reach if you were to fall asleep. His chest rises and falls slowly as he breathes in his sleep. It’s memorizing, and almost hypnotic enough to make you forget all of your fears— forget all of the things that made laying next to him with his arms around you physically excruciating.
S’okay, Baby. You’ll get there, it’ll get easier ‘n he won’t seem so big ‘n scary anymore.
There is a reason he seems big and scary, kid. Your gut is telling you not to trust him, so don’t.
Oh, stop it. If he wanted to kill her, he would have— he would have done it by now. He’s big ‘n strong— he could, and he hasn’t.
That sweet, soft voice does have a good point…
Doesn’t mean he isn’t waiting for a better opportunity.
The dark, serious voice has a point too…
This always happens, the voices say things that conflict one another, but they both have a point. They both make sense but never about the same thing. And they argue. And they’re loud. It’s only when you need them, that you really, really want them to say something that they are quiet.
The little flashlight that had been attached to the backpack Mister-man—
Joel… he has a name. He’s a real person, kid.
You flick the flashlight off quickly so it’s dark again.
Mister-mans, Mister-J… Joel… it don’t matter none, Sugar. He’s yours, and you can call him whatever you want.
You flick the light back on so you can watch him sleep. It’s incredible how calm he is, and how he fell asleep as soon as you laid down next to him after saying he couldn’t sleep.
Sometimes that happens to you though, sometimes you need to touch yourself, and make yourself squirm and moan and come, and then sleep finds you. Sometimes the whiskey puts you to sleep before you even have the desire to do that to yourself.
Whatever Mister-J did with his tongue was so much better than your fingers, wasn’t it?
It most definitely was. It was probably the most incredible feeling you’ve ever experienced. Not that you hadn’t ever experienced it before, but this time…it was soft, gentle— and you wanted it more than anything. That made it feel even fucking better, how badly you wanted to sit down on Mister-mans face and grind down onto his mouth.
He was making out with your cunt. Deep, long, tongue swirling kisses. He would open and close his mouth, and suck. He would lick and lap at all spots you didn’t even know could make you feel good.
When you would take his cock deep in your throat and gag on it, he would moan- loudly-and the vibrations from that were like earthquakes, they touched parts inside of you that were left unexplored by anyone before Mister.
He was perfect.
The idea of laying your head down on his big, muscular bicep was nice until you were actually doing it, and then everything about it felt foreign. It was like sleeping too close to the fire, surrounded by too many blankets.
You had gotten so used to sleeping alone, that the feeling of someone next to you didn’t feel right anymore. It made you sad and you’re not entirely sure why.
So that’s why you’re here on the floor and not snuggled up against Mister-man. It’s like the universe played some cruel joke on you- and you got your favorite food but when you bite into it, it’s rancid.
But your fingers twitch toward him anyway—like roots in dirt searching for water. His arm is right there. His breath is slow and steady.
Go on. He’s warm as fresh bread.
You shift an inch closer.
Dangerous as a snake in the grass.
But his skin smells like leather and sweat and you want to taste him again. Want to run your tongue from the tip of his cock, to the spot just in front of his ear that makes him sigh when you kiss him there.
Crawling—quiet like scared prey— you move until your face hovers over his chest. His shirt rides up just enough to show a scar on his perfectly doughy stomach. And another on his rib cage. It looks newer, still old enough to be a scar, but pink instead of white.
You wonder if it aches when he breathes. If that’s the reason his voice sounds like gravel sometimes.
He’ll crush you.
He’ll hold you.
It sounds like a song the way the sweet voice says it.
You touch the scar with your pinky finger, feather-light—and he doesn’t stir. But then he sighs—a rumble deeper than thunder—and your guts twist.
You scramble back, heart slamming against the back of your throat.
The sweet voice clucks at you.
You’re spooking yourself.
You’re alive because you spook.
The flashlight rolls under your knee when you shift—plastic clattering loud enough to wake dead things—and Mister’s brow tightens. For one gut-drop second, his eyes flicker open, staring up at you, before he grunts and turns onto his side, back to you now.
He’s mad again? How, and why? What did you do wrong? You had done everything right.
You keep poking that bear and you’re going to get mauled, kid.
He ain’t mad…look’it his hands, Sugar.
They’re not balled up into fists, they’re relaxed. His whole body is. Everything about him seems so at peace.
Your stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. It’s been a while since you’ve eaten— and then you only had half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and some whiskey.
Joel’s boot shifts with a dry scrape of leather—and your lungs forget how air works. But he just mumbles something that sounds like “goddamn horse” with his face smushed against the pillow.
Mister-J talks in his sleep? He’s precious.
He is. It’s hard to contain the feeling in your chest when he sighs loudly, rolling onto his stomach, curling his arms under the pillow.
Instead of trying to face your fears of crawling into bed with him and falling asleep next to someone else, you crawl on your hands and knees back to the chair across the room. The whiskey bottle is still tucked between the cushion where you left it.
--
Even with almost half of a bottle of whiskey in you, your eyes won’t close. You only know what time it is because the soft whir of the solar powered generator kicks on, and the singular lamp in the corner flicks to life. It’s dark outside now.
The electric hum from the bulb makes your skin crawl, and your head buzz.
Part of you feels bad for keeping Mister down here like this. He doesn’t even know what time it is, he’ll probably wake up soon, getting ready to start the day. You wonder if he misses the sun, if he ever walked barefoot in the grass and if he misses that feeling too.
When you weren’t allowed outside, you missed the sun. You missed the grass between your toes. You missed being able to jump into the river and swim around with your brother whenever you wanted. There were a lot of things you missed when you weren’t allowed to go outside.
Unscrewing the whiskey cap, you take a swig and relish in the way it burns. It drowns out the voices, but it doesn’t dull the ache between your legs— the memory of his mouth makes you shift in the soft recliner.
In the soft, pale light spilling into the room from behind the aged, yellow lampshade, you can see Mister-J… and how excited he is. He’s on his back, shirt riding up over his stomach again, the bulge in his sweatpants clear as day now.
There is a new voice you’ve never heard before, and it’s not saying anything— only screaming. Loud, and high pitched. It’s excruciating. It’s the only thing you hear now, not even the sound of your own voice telling you what to do, or what to think or say.
When you stand, the whiskey sloshes between your temples. It makes you sway and almost lose your balance, but you press your hand to a support beam that juts out of the floor and into the ceiling.
Heavy, clumsy, limping feet and a swollen ankle carry you to Mister-J.
His cock is hard and heavy in your hand and he tastes just like he did last night. He stirs under your touch—a low groan vibrating through clenched teeth—and your pussy tightens around nothing. Mister arches his hips up against your slow moving fist, trying to fuck your hand momentarily before stilling and settling back down into the mattress. His eyes are still shut tight beneath furrowed eyebrows.
It’s pathetically cute how bad he wants this. How badly he needs it.
The screaming inside your head morphs into static.
Your fingers rub slow circles over damp fabric between your legs while your rib cage starts to feel like a hive of wasps. Everything inside of you is buzzing as you lean over and swirl your tongue around the ridge of his cock.
Wrong.
That dark voice sounds like it’s coming through the static like old radio stations.
You pull your hand away from Mister-J's cock and cover your face with it, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill. This is all wrong, all of it.
S’right. It’s all right.
The static transmutes into tornado sirens.
Your hand finds his cock again and it throbs in your grasp. There is no hesitation when you take him into your mouth with a gentleness you didn’t know you possessed when you’re this intoxicated. Delicate movements and laps of your tongue along his shaft make him moan softly, still slumbering.
Salt and musk take over your senses as he pulses against your tongue—wanting even in his unconsciousness. Your throat spasms around him as you gag, tears hot on your lashes. One hand brushes against his thigh as you move to steady yourself on the mattress while the other slips into your own waistband. Two fingers slide into you with no resistance. You’re so wet that you almost feel embarrassed.
Inside.
The sweet voice sings to you over the cacophony going on inside your head.
Mister’s hips jerk again, involuntary, desperate. A string of saliva connects your lip to his cock when you pull back to breathe. The room tilts—whiskey and shame on your tongue—but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when his thighs were trembling just a moment ago.
After kicking your shorts off, you climb on top. Mister feels so hot pressed up against your cunt. Yours and his breath catch in your throats when you sink down into his lap. Your eyes close to hide from the stretch that burns in a slippery, and shameful way.
The wasps behind your ribs sharpen their stingers as you slowly start to rock your hips against his. Mister’s eyelids flutter but he doesn’t wake-up, not fully. He just hovers in that feverish space between dreaming and drowning. A place you’re familiar with.
Bad. Bad. Bad.
Good. Good. Good.
You want to carve yourself into his bones before the tornado sirens rip your skull apart.
The oven mitts make useless fists at his sides as he arches beneath you, tendons in his neck pulled wire-tight. His hips stutter upward instinctively, chasing more friction, seeking the deepest, warmest parts of you.
His eyes snap open, “The fuck are you—” Mister-man’s voice is rough like sandpaper but you don’t let him finish before you slap your hand over his mouth.
“Shhhh, makin’ you feel good,” you moan quietly, your hips never faltering. His cock slides across a spot inside of you that whites the edges of your vision.
He mumbles something, his teeth scraping along your palm as he does so. It vaguely sounds like, ‘Get off’a me’ or ‘get off on me,’.
“M’tryin’,” you groan, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. Your cheeks are wet, but from tears or sweat, you don’t know.
How can everything make sense up here on top of Mister-J, and still feel so incredibly… wrong?
The oven mitts start to drum against your thighs as he squirms underneath you.
It…hurts? Mister is hitting you?
Hurting you.
You like it.
“Knock it off!” You press harder against this mouth with your hand, your fingers digging into his cheeks. It’s impossible to stop riding him, to stop yourself from needing this brutal closeness with Mister.
You’re being bad.
You like it.
His muffled growls vibrate against your palm—angry or pleading or both—but your cunt clenches harder around him anyway. Release is so close, you can feel yourself teeter on the precipice, but you can’t seem to push yourself over.
“Please, please, p-please— jus’ wanna, I just wanna— please, please, Mister-J,” you whine, face wet with perspiration and tears now, they’re flowing freely from your eyes. “I want it, need it—”
“Stop, goddammit—” he shouts at you from behind your fingers.
It makes you flinch but you don’t stop, and your pussy pulses around him. Your hand presses harder, fingernails leaving moon crescents in his flesh mingled with his stubble.
You just want to feel good, to be able to fall asleep once this is all over.
Oven mitts thump and scrabble at your hip, and that only makes your thighs clamp tighter around his waist. You want to swallow every twitch of his cock, everything he can give you– you want it.
He bucks his hips up into you and touches a place inside you that leaves you gasping for air. “Yes, yes, yes—” you groan breathlessly, leaning forward to lay your body on top of his, resting your forehead against his collarbone.
Mister bucks his hips up into yours again— once, twice, three times and suddenly you’re being shoved off of him, pushed to the side like you’re weightless.
Before you can really even know what hit you, Mister-man has his entire body weight pinning you down underneath him. He has his forearm forced against your neck.
Your thumb instinctively presses against down, searching for the shock collar button but you just end up pressing against your own palm.
The static, and the sirens and the screaming— the voices. It all goes completely silent and the only thing you can hear is the blood roaring in your ears.
Mistake?
Mistake.
“Got’chya,” He growls down at you, his eyes dark and blown wide.
“Get off me! Get off me! Get off of me!” You scream at him as loudly as you can, “Get off of me! Get off! Off, off, offoffoffoff! I’ll fucking kill you, you stupid fucking sonofabitch- get the fuck off me!”
“Awhh, lil crazy puppy don’t like it?” He murmurs, pressing his lips to your tear stained cheekbone.
Your legs begin to flail wildly in an attempt to dislodge him, push him, get him off. Your hands flying to his face, scratching and clawing at the soft skin, and his vulnerable, delicate eyes. You can’t find the words for how much you don’t like it, so you scream— it’s loud and rattles in the back of your throat as Mister-man clamps his hand over your mouth to silence you.
His breath is hot and ragged against your ear, the oven mitts clumsily grappling at your wrists as you thrash. "Stop—fuckin'—fightin’—," he grits out, but his voice cracks on the last word.
You taste copper—your teeth sink into his palm at some point, his blood smearing your chin. He pulls his hand back back to look at the broken skin, and you clench your eyes shut, flinching away from the incoming blows.
The room tilts and suddenly Joel’s weight isn’t just on your body; it’s inside your head, like pressure forcing memories that had buried deep to the surface like lava from a volcano.
Different hands holding you down. A different room. Different voices in your ear.
“Nononononono,” you whimper in a shriveled voice you don’t recognize.
“Hey!” Joel’s voice is sharp and grounding.
His arm lets up just enough for you to suck in a shattered breath. You’re both trembling now, your chests heaving against one anothers. His beard scratches your temple as he turns his face away from your clawing hands, but you don’t miss it—there is a flicker in his eyes when your choked sob hits the air between you.
Something wet smears your cheek. His blood? Your tears? It’s hard to tell.
“M’gonna make you feel real good, crazy girl.” His lips brush your earlobe as his hips grind down into yours, the length of him sliding between your folds, the tip notched at your entrance.
“Stop,” you whine, but the force has left your voice. Something about him breathing in your ear, something about the sound he makes as he shifts his hips and slips himself inside of you. The tears continue to fall, even as you gasp and clench around him.
“She’s suckin’ me right in baby,” Joel purrs in your ear while his hips start to move.
You can feel every fucking inch of him, every vein, and every single beat of his heart through the slick walls of your cunt. “Oh god,” you groan, your stiff, frightened hands curling in the hair on the back of his head, the other gripping one of his strong, strained biceps.
You're terrified, but Joel's words and touch are overwhelming you, making your body respond in ways you didn’t know could in a position like this.
He thrusts slowly at first as he sinks deeper inside you. But soon his pace quickens and the slapping, wet sounds coming from between your legs fill the small basement room. "Yeah just like that," Mister groans, his lips ghosting over your cheek. "Take it all, baby girl.”
Your walls clench around him, pulling him in as if eager for more. You feel delirious with fear and an unbidden arousal. Tears stream down your face, but soft moans spill from your lips.
Joel licks at your tears and leaves gentle kisses in their place, his beard scraping against your sensitive skin. "Shhhh, I got you," he murmurs between thrusts.
The room spins and blurs as the pleasure builds. Nothing exists and nothing is real anymore; Mister-man’s weight pinning you down, his cock splitting you open, the sour, sweaty, musky scent of him.
He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real and he’s good. He’s good, he’s good, he’s good. He’s not killing you, not hurting you.
So good. It’s so good.
You turn your head to capture his salty, tear stained lips with yours, opening your mouth to let him in. His lips press against yours desperately, tongue licking at your teeth as he slips inside.
Your body arches up to meet him, craving more of his touch even as fear still coils in your gut. It’s like you’re two separate people wrapped up into a whole. One part of you wants him with everything that you are, and the other is ready to hide, ready to slip into the cracks into the wall and never come out.
His oven mitts move to your waist and fumble with the threadbare shirt you have on, trying to push it up over the swell of your breasts.
“Fuck,” he grunts, nipping at your bottom lip as he pulls away from the kiss. He sits back on his knees, cock still throbbing inside of you while your walls flutter around him.
“Don’t, oh god, no. Please don’t go-” you sob, hands and fingers clawing at his forearms, desperate for him to come back. “P-Please don’t leave me,” you whine sadly,
Mister says nothing as he places both mitt covered hands inside your shirt where it’s fastened with buttons. He pulls the two pieces of fabric apart like paper. The buttons fly in every direction, scattering across the floor and some landing in bed with you. Joel stares down at your naked body and you feel more exposed than you ever have in your entire life.
“Jesus christ,” he murmurs, eyes tracing every single one of your curves. His mittened hands cups the swell of your tits, thumb swiping over the stiff buds
It’s like you’ve been zapped by the shock collar. Your back arches into his hand, your eyes clamp shut.
“Nuh-uh, watch me,” he growls. He waits until your eyes are on him before he leans over and takes one of your nipples into his mouth. His tongue swirls and teeth graze and bite down.
“Oh my god,” you groan, your fingers gripping his hair tighter, your nails dragging red, almost bloody marks down his arm.
Mister releases your nipple with a wet pop, blowing cool air across it almost like he’s teasing you. Goosebumps erupt across your skin as he takes the other into his mouth, alternating between harsh sucking and tender kisses.
You mewl softly as he begins to thrust again, each movement slow and deliberate. He drives deep inside of you and hits that spot that blurs the edges of your vision again, and again, and again.
You stare up at him in awe- his beard is longer, thicker than it was when he first came here, his hair disheveled and damp with sweat hangs in his forehead. He leans back and pushes the loose strands away from his face with an oven mitt.
Handsome.
He is.
Strong.
Being so gentle.
With you, Sugar. So gentle—
With you.
"Please," you whimper, spine bowing as pleasure coils tight in your belly as his hips snap against yours loudly. “More. Need more…”
He grins down at you, eyes crinkled at the corners, “I’ll give ya’ more, sweetheart.” If you thought Mister was handsome before, when he smiles your heart swells. and the pressure and tightness inside of you feels like it’s about to burst.
He wraps one hand underneath your knee and brings it up, resting your ankle on his shoulder by his ear, repeating the process with the other leg. He grips your thighs, the scratchy fabric of the oven mitts drags across your skin. Joel never lets up, never slows down the brutal, bruising pace he sets.
A string of expletives and maybe his name more than once spill out of your mouth quickly, stumbling over the words as your body trembles underneath him.
All of the air is pushed out of you as he leans over, pushing your knees up to your chest and starts fucking into you with deep, long strokes. His pelvis grinds against your swollen clit with each powerful snap forward, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"I can feel her squeezin’ me," he rasps hotly in your ear, licking the shell before biting down on your earlobe. “Come on my cock, crazy girl.”
That does it. It’s more than enough to push you over the edge. “Oh—” Your head tips back with a silent scream as your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, making your entire body shudder and convulse beneath him. “Fuck… Joel!” Sparks burst behind your eyelids as pure rapture consumes you.
Mister sucks your earlobe as you come, his sweaty temple pressed against yours as the waves wash over you. He’s kissing and licking down to your neck, and bites down hard right over your pulse point, sucking hard enough to hurt. "That's it baby girl," he grunts against the spot he just bit.
It’s like your whole body is on fire, everything is too much, it’s all too good.
You feel a new pressure, a new sensation and it’s familiar, but foreign all at the same time. A new release, it’s different and it’s happening so fast.
“Stop! Oh my— Mist- Joel, p-please,” you plead for some sort of relief. “I’m gunna—”
Joel presses his lips to yours again, silencing you. You twist your head to the side, pulling away from his mouth as he kisses down your cheek to your jaw. “S’okay— let go...”
"I...I don't...can't..." You gasp out between ragged breaths. Hot, wet tears still leak from the corners of your eyes as the intense pleasure builds to an unbearable peak.
“Ya’ can,” he pants, resting his forehead on the side of your head. “Cryin’ only makes it feel better, baby girl.” He shifts his hips, angles them differently and fucks you harder- faster.
“P-Please,” you whimper, unsure if you’re begging him to stop, or to keep going. “S’too much!”
“Shut up,” he growls, nipping at your cheek gently, teeth scraping skin as he pistons into you relentlessly. “Let it happen, crazy girl.”
So you do- body obeying his command even as your mind reels with what’s about to happen. A second climax crashes over you, more intense than the first. It erupts from you in a wet splash against Mister’s lower stomach and pelvis, it drips down the curve of your ass and you feel it seeping into the mattress underneath you.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” he praises breathlessly. “Such a good fuckin’ girl cummin’ on Mister’s cock again.”
You sob in pleasure and embarrassment simultaneously as he fucks you through it, his deep voice rasping in your ear.
“Crazy,” He murmurs. His thrusts grow clumsy, and he’s panting in your ear, kissing the side of your face. His tongue captures the tears on your cheeks again like they’re his favorite drink as your fingers dig into the soft flesh on his shoulder. “Makin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he snaps suddenly, pulling back and out of you completely.
You whimper at the loss but he presses your thighs together tightly with his hands and forearms, and slips his cock between them, the length siding through your wet folds.
Mister-J kisses your ankle, his teeth biting down on the skin as he groans loudly, warmth spreads and seeps between your thighs, and slick lower lips, the crease where your legs meet your pelvis.
You stare up at him, watching as his eyes close, his brow furrows, his hips jerking back and forth clumsily as he empties himself onto your lower half.
Your legs tremble as he slides his softening cock out from between your thighs.
That was the most incredible, and intense feeling you’ve ever experienced and you’re not sure if you should love him, or hate him for what he just did to you. The wet spot on the mattress is an embarrassing reminder of what happened seconds ago.
“S’good for ya’?” Mister asks, running one of his oven mitts over his forehead, wiping the sweat away. His eyes move from your face, down your still naked body, his cum smeared across your mound and lower stomach.
You pull your shirt closed around your bare torso, holding it closed with one hand. You use your good foot and the other hand to push yourself onto the cold concrete floor— skin scraping roughly as you shove yourself away from him.
His brows pinch together tightly, and he narrows his eyes on you. “Where’re ya’ goin’?” He sounds… concerned? Angry? Disappointed?
The words don’t find you, thoughts don’t come to you anymore as you hold the shirt over your chest and glare at him. All you can do is scream at him. It comes from somewhere deep and your lungs hurt, your throat feels like it could bleed from how raw it is after.
“Where’re ya’ goin’?”
He watches as tears continue to pour down your cheeks, your face twisting up tightly. You inhale deeply, and it looks like you’re trying to regain your composure.
Then you scream at him. It’s long and loud and hurts his ears, but he stares at you until you’re done. He continues to watch as you scurry away from him in a clumsy, stumbling crab-crawl until your back bumps into the leg of the table.
You flinch and stifle a sob, and finally take a deep, shaky breath. You use the table to push yourself to your feet, turning away from him finally. You shove the table in his direction, grabbing the shock collar remote before you turn, and limp into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you.
The dull roar of the infected grows louder from upstairs. They’re still there, and that means the two of you are stuck together for at least another day or two, maybe longer.
The door opens again, and a metal bucket comes hurdling out of the bathroom and through the air. It hits the wall, and drops to the floor noisily with chaotic, metal clangs until it comes to settle in the corner by the mattress.
The door slams shut again.
You’re broken, he can see it in your eyes almost all the time, but there was a moment when he was on top of you where he thought you might have completely checked out– gone somewhere else, somewhere he didn’t mean to take you.
Traumatized the poor puppy. Pro’lly in there cryin’.
He’s not worried that you’re crying. Nope. Not even a little.
Alright- that’s what you wanna keep tellin’ yourself, go right ahead.
He’s worried he just signed his death certificate.
Joel wasn’t trying to take anything from you— not like that. You were already on top of him, riding him, but you just looked like you needed some help, like you needed him to take control. Like you didn’t know what you were doing up there, rolling and swirling your hips in any direction. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t ever going to get you there- where you wanted to be so badly.
Joel took you there, made you fucking squirt all over him and he took some sense of pride in that.
Joel helps himself to jerky and bread, he drinks as much water as his body will comfortably allow. For the first time in weeks, he’s actually full. His stomach feels like it’s stretched like he might actually burst.
–-
At first Joel thought you just needed a couple minutes. Maybe you wanted to clean up in the privacy of the bathroom without his eyes on you. But hours go by and he hears nothing coming from the separate room. Nothing.
It’s silent. Completely. No shrieking or clicking of the infected from upstairs either.
It’s the lack of control that’s pissing him off more than he would care to admit. Being captive was of course at the top of his ‘things to be pissed off about’ list, but if he was going to be stuck here with you, he wishes he could at least have a say in what goes on.
Hasn’t seen the sun, hasn’t had a proper shower in god knows when, hasn’t had a real meal in just as long. If you would give him just a little more freedom, things wouldn’t be too fucking bad here.
Now you’re gettin’ it.
You’re making Joel crazy, now he’s thinking about complying?
Y’been complyin’, Mister. Complied real damn good in that bed just then.
Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit.
Has Joel been complying? What the fuck is going on? Why didn’t he kill you in bed? Why didn’t he strangle you, bite your jugular out of your throat. He could have, he felt your heartbeat on his tongue. He could have ended all of this right then.
But ya’ didn’t!
He sure fucking didn’t. He was so unworried about killing, that he made sure you came– twice – before he finished.
Looked so sweet comin’ on your cock, perfect tits bouncin’, fuckin’ pussy was immaculate.
Joel presses the oven mitts into the sockets of his eyes and groans loudly.
--
Joel’s eyes snap open at the rattling coming from inside the room. He shoots up, looking around with crusty eyes and blurry vision. He expects to see you but is met with the sight of that fucking opposum sitting on the table with a piece of Joel’s jerky in his clawed little fingers, munching happily on the dried meat.
“Git!” Joel shouts. The small animal doesn’t even flinch at Joel’s outburst, just continues to eat that precious protein. “Y’little fuckin’--” Joel grumbles, pushing himself to his feet. He stands in front of the table, looking down at it- the opposum- Puddin’.
He just stares right back up at Joel, chewing quickly and swallowing.
Kinda cute.
“S’fuckin’ gross,” Joel grumbles. He doesn’t really want to touch that thing, he doesn’t want to get whatever diseases that thing could be carrying.
He’s got a collar on.
Puddin’ does have a collar on. Joel imagines you taking your time picking it out for him, going through all the colors and designs. He can see you finding the teal and pink collar, holding it up against his fur and saying it’s perfect. That Puddin’ would be the most handsome opossum this mall has ever seen.
It makes him smile.
--
It feels like two fucking days--two goddamn days since Joel saw you walk into that bathroom and slam the door shut practically in his face.
You’re either dead in there or plotting the most painful ways to kill him. Both choices make Joel sick to his stomach.
–--
Joel watches you behind the metal grate that keeps the mattress store all locked up nice and tight. He’s on the wrong fucking side! He’s on the mall side and you’re tucked under the covers of your comfortable looking bed. Seven mattresses stacked on top of each other like you’re in some fucking story he’d read to Sarah when she was really little.
Joel almost wishes he could go back to the basement because this is more dehumanizing than being tied up by the elbows or roped up to a chair.
The metal chain around his neck is tight, and it digs into his skin. It’s thick, heavy and has prongs on it– like he’s a fucking dog. A violent dog that lunges, and bites and attacks.
You opened the door to the bathroom an hour ago with the choke chain in your hand, the shock collar remote taped to the other, and the most exhausted look Joel’s ever seen on anyone's face. Big dark circles under your eyes, disassociated stare like you weren’t even really looking at Joel when you spoke to him in almost indecipherable mumbling.
Joel fought you a little when you padlocked the choke chain to his neck, and added a smaller lock to the shock collar. But he stopped when you said you were gonna take his oven mitts off his hands.
Where are all the infected? It sounded like there had been a horde of them up here two days ago and now there is not a single sign that they had even been here.
When Joel had questioned you about what he would do if more infected came, you very confidently said that no one could get in or out that easily anymore; that you had made this place nice and safe for your ‘mister-man’.
Ain’t ever had no one like that before, have ya’?
No.
That had always been Joel’s job; to keep everyone else safe.
Who made sure that he was safe?
There had always been give and take with everyone else, even Tommy and Tess. There was love there, sure– but never just someone absolutely and completely tearing themselves open to make sure that Joel was taken care of.
The only thing you wanted in return was his company.
Might’a never touched ya’ if you hadn’t asked for it.
He wonders what your name is. How old you are, where you came from. How long have you been out here…
Joel grabs the metal cord wrapped in some sort of plastic or vinyl material that goes all the way up to the ceiling and gives it a shake as he looks up. You’ve attached it to some other sort of rope or cable that’s been tied from one end of the mall to the other.
The other end is connected to Joel’s choke chain.
As soon as your eyes closed he attempted to unclip himself from it but it wouldn’t budge. He tried everything but it was like you welded the clasp closed.
Joel wanders. That’s all he can do. He’s got more than enough slack to go into whatever store he wants and walk around, inspect.
As he does this his mind doesn’t stop thinking about you. Why didn’t you sleep with him? What did you do while he slept on the bed? Did you sleep? Have you eaten? What the fuck did you do in the bathroom for two whole days?
Joel finds a place where the sun is shining through a hole in the ceiling and faces it with his eyes closed. He could fucking cry. He didn’t realize how much he missed this, how important it was for a person to come in contact with the sunlight. He chokes down the lump in his throat and stands there, following the sun as it moves in the sky, the light coming in at shifting angles and directions. He follows it, stays in the warmth- basking in it for as long as possible until dusk settles and the sky slowly starts to turn pink.
Joel has his backpack with him. You packed him some food and water, his flashlight. A clean long sleeve shirt in case it got cold. You even threw in some whiskey for him, which he was enjoying sip by sip.
He pulls his flashlight out and uses it when he goes into an old bookstore. Some shelves are empty; nature guides, atlases, hunting and fishing- basically the entire outdoors section is gone.
The romance novels are almost bare.
Who needs those when lil puppy’s got you, right?
There are still self-help books on the shelves, almost untouched and whatever is left looks like it would fall apart in his hands if he tried to touch it.
Why’s you even in this section?
Joel wanders to the comics and takes a look at whatever is left. Some are in alright condition, wrapped in plastic away from the elements. Some do disintegrate before he can even get them out of their place on the shelf.
He grabs a Batman comic still in a vinyl sleeve and tosses it in his pack for later. There are tons more strewn all across the floor, some he remembers reading with Tommy as kids. He picks through them, looking for any worth saving and finds two more still in decent condition.
There are several department and clothing stores that look bare from the outside, but he wanders into one anyway just to see what might have been missed.
There’s an exit to the outside that's been all boarded up, with what looks like every empty clothing rack pushed in front of it. He thinks about moving all those things, breaking through the boards… but where the fuck would he go? Ten feet outside of the mall where the infected were apparently moving through?
No.
He’ll stay inside.
He paruses the homegoods section all the way in the back of the second floor and finds a wall of empty shelves except for one.
It’s filled with books- he reads through the titles: The Beginners Guide to Foraging, An Introduction to Wildlife Rehabilitation, LIVING WITH WILDLIFE- How to Enjoy, Cope with, and Protect North America’s Wild Creatures Around Your Home and Theirs, The Big Book of Skill Makers, The Complete Beginners Guide to Greenhouse Gardening- A Month by Month Planting Book to Grow 365 Days a Year, You Will Find Your People- How To Make Meaningful Friendships as an Adult. There are several Batman comics featuring Harley Quinn and The Joker.
They all look like they’ve been read thoroughly and many times.
On the same shelf there is a pink balloon animal made of glass, it has fresh flowers in it, with clean water. It takes him several seconds to realize that it’s supposed to be a bong. For smoking weed. And you’re using it as a vase.
Joel chuckles to himself and continues to look at the shelf of your important belongings. A couple rocks of different colors, an old makeup compact that has a broken mirror in it. And a small glass picture frame of a family– a mother and a father, a little girl, and a young man but his face has been scratched out beyond recognition.
On the wall behind the shelf Joel notices lines carved into the wall.
| | | | | | | | | | |
Twelve. Is that how old you were when this all happened? Is that the number of men you did this to before Joel came along? Are you going to add him to this fucking list?
Is that how many months you've been out here?
All of this suddenly feels like someone he can’t see punched Joel directly in the stomach.
Sad.
Joel makes his way to a different part of the mall, checking every entrance that he finds along the way and they’re all boarded up better than they were when he used to walk around here before you captured him. He does appreciate the effort you went through to make sure nothing could get in if you weren’t going to give him a weapon, and he couldn’t escape.
There is an old music and entertainment store where you must get your princess movies and cartoons to watch. He picks through a couple, finding a couple classics that he watched before the outbreak Office Space, Dirty Harry, The Thing, Top Gun.
He grabs a couple more that he watched as a kid with his dad and grandpa; The Magnificent 7, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. He grabs the three original Star Wars movies as well– the best ones, the only ones worth watching. The ones that started to come out right before the outbreak– Joel can’t even talk about it.
He’s done his exploring and now he sits outside of the mattress store waiting for you to wake up and let him back in. As soon as Joel unwraps the sandwich and jerky you made him, that stupid fucking oppossum comes scampering along like this is it’s dinner too.
“Get the hell outta here,” Joel grumbles, waving his hand in its direction, trying to scare it off– but it persists.
Inching closer and closer until Joel could kick it if he wanted to.
Kinda cute in the little collar.
Joel tosses a piece of his sandwich a good distance away and Puddin’ chases after it while Joel digs into his own portion.
Hours and hours go by, you sleep for so fucking long. He reads all of the comic books that he grabbed and even goes back to the bookstore to look for more. He finds nothing else that interests him so he goes to your bookshelf in the department store and grabs a couple from there to look at.
He’s flipping through the skill maker book when you finally wake up and open the grate.
Joel scrambles to his feet, watching as you rub your eyes with your one free hand, the other still has the remote tapped to your palm.
The two of you stare at each other for several silent moments before you notice the book in his hand.
“Just put it back where ya’ found it when you’re done with it, ‘kay?” Your voice is deep and filled with sleep.
Joel nods his head, and puts the book in his backpack. “Yeah, sure– hey where did all the infected go?” He questions as you toss your own pack over your shoulder and head in the direction of the food court.
“Cleared ‘em out the other day.”
“How the hell did you do that? When? After we–”
“Yup.” You cut him off with a sharp, short response. “Wasn’t that many. Kinda easy when you get high ground on ‘em.”
Joel eyes dart up to the rafters and wonders how good you are with a bow and arrow. He knows Ellie is a great shot, loves her bow and arrow. “And you moved ‘em all out on your own?”
“Yup.”
“How did you even get out of the bathroom?” Joel’s been wondering that this whole time.
You walked into the bathroom, slammed the door and the next time he saw you was coming down the stairs to the basement.
He wonders if you’re even real.
Ohh our lil puppy is real alright.
If you knew that Mister-J was going to ask all of these questions you might not have ever taken the duct tape off.
Where did the infected go? What if more get in? How did you get out of the bathroom? Where are you going now? When will you be back? Are you okay? Are you mad? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you answering me?
He’s so nosy! Asking more questions than any of the other guys combined.
Why does he even care?
Shhhhh, this is what makin’ friends is, Sweetheart.
“Used the vents to get out of the bathroom,” you sigh, not stopping or slowing down but Joel keeps up anyway, his arm brushing yours as he walks alongside you.
“What about the infected– you know the spores–”
“I burn ‘em outside at night when it’s real dark–” you explain to him quickly. “I ain’t stupid. I know ‘bout the spores. I know how the fungus works. I paid attention,” you huff softly as you reach the ladder that takes you up into the rafters and eventually out onto the roof.
Mister is too big, and probably too clumsy to follow you up here.
“M’just goin’ to get some more food… I’ll be right back– couple of minutes, okay?”
Mister looks relieved when you say this, his face relaxes and he sighs softly. “Okay, just be careful.”
— -- --- ---
“Is that my shirt?” He asks about the green and red flannel you have on when you come out of the women’s restroom in the food court. Your hair is clean, your body feels refreshed after taking a shower.
Mister looks good too with his hair slicked back, and his beard trimmed neatly.
You nod, not taking your eyes off of him. It’s almost impossible when he looks like a brand new man- handsome. He looks like he’s lost weight since he’s been here with you.
You’ll fix that. He needs to eat more than you, and he wants meat so… you’ll go get it for him. Real meat this time, even if it makes you sad how you have to get it.
“Yeah, I took it ‘cause it smelled like you.” You admit with no shame. That’s exactly why you took it. So you could sleep with it so he could warm up to his new house, with his new friend.
Mister-J chuckles, and shakes his head at you with a smirk plastered across his face. “Someone told me I stink once,” he says through his laughter.
This makes you smile because he’s happy. He looks happy, like he doesn’t mind talking to you, he’s not saying mean things. He’s sharing.
Told ya’ he’d get comfortable. Just had to be patient. We figured it all out eventually.
“You do stink sometimes, but you smell real, so I don’t mind.” You share with him as you lead him back to the mattress store. He carried the TV up earlier and said he found a couple movies he wanted to watch. They don’t really look like movies you want to watch, but you’ll give them a shot.
Anything for Mister-Joel, perfect, sweet man.
It doesn’t make this easier. Mister wants to sleep in the bed next to you, said he wanted to warm you up, but now you’re next to him again and it feels like you could burst into flames and tears all at the same time.
“What’s your name?” He whispers into your ear, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding onto you tightly from behind.
“Why?” The sirens go off inside your head. No one’s asked you that in so long, it makes your stomach flip and you feel like you could be sick.
“Told’ya mine,” He murmurs into your hair.
Joel.
When you go to answer, the words don’t come because the memories are gone. You can see your mom and dad talking to you inside your head but their voices are on mute. The name never leaves their mouth. “I don’t remember…”
OFC thank you @pedrospookie for making this cutie banner and letting me scream at about all of this!!
I need to give an extra special shout-out to the couple of other people I screamed at about this. @almostempty @gothcsz( your music recs inspired me) and thanks to @probablyreadinsmut and my unnamed friend who helped me with the TW of the chapter.
I was especially nervous to post this because I didn't want to ruin anyone's day or send anyone into their own spiral. I hope you all are OK!
thank you to everyone who has been reading!! I've never gotten such incredible feedback on a fic before and you are all so nice and make writing this story that much more fun. I LOVE YOU
word count: 2.6k
summary - Chris meets Y/N during his golden boy years in high school. He was fighting to maintain his grades, and the only way for him to continue playing was to pass finals. Y/N was the student tutor and was assigned Chris. After a few months of teaching, Chris develops feelings for Y/N and asks her out. But now that they're seven years into their relationship, Chris is beginning to understand that something is most definitely wrong.
warnings - swearing, angst, substance abuse, drinking, fighting, screaming, mentions of grabbing and bruising (no actual abuse), emotional distress, gaslighting, heavy manipulating, death.
a/n: Hey, pretties. Despite the warning, I'd like to add another major disclaimer: everything in this story is fictional. None of this is based on real events. FAKE SITUATION! FAKE PLOT!
They met when they were sixteen.
It was fall. The kind of October that felt more like a heartbreak than a season — wet leaves sticking to pavement, skies grey with grief, and classrooms smelling faintly of sweat and dry erase markers. Y/N sat three rows from the front in Honors Algebra II, always two steps ahead of the teacher, always scribbling notes in perfectly organized columns. She didn’t talk to anyone. She didn’t need to. The teachers adored her. The students ignored her. She was invisible and invincible all at once.
"Step one / You must accept that I'm a little out my mind""Step two / This is a waste if you can't walk me down the finish line"
Chris Sturniolo was a walking contrast. Loud, golden, careless. He strolled the halls like he owned them, lacrosse stick slung over his shoulder, jersey half tucked into his jeans like he couldn’t bother. He had the kind of smile that made girls giggle and boys want to punch something. His brothers, Nick and Matt, by him constantly — triplets who somehow managed to be entirely different from each other. Nick, the loud, proud, chaotic one. Matt, the quiet observer with eyes too tired for seventeen. And Chris? Chris was the golden boy.
Until he started failing every class but gym.
Lacrosse was his life. Without it, he was nothing. And the coach made it clear — get your grades up, or get off the team. His guidance counselor suggested a tutor. The library. Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. The name was written on a yellow sticky note in barely legible scrawl: Y/N Martinez.
The first time he saw her up close, he was twenty minutes late.
"You’re late," she said flatly, without looking up.
Chris laughed like it was funny. "Traffic."
She glanced up. Her eyes were sharp, unamused. "You walk here."
He sat down, slouched low in the chair. "Whatever. Let’s just get this over with."
Y/N tutored him twice a week for the rest of the semester. At first, he didn’t take it seriously. She barely spoke unless it was about math. She hated small talk. She hated being late. She hated when he chewed gum. But she was brilliant. And slowly, painfully, he started to improve.
"Step three / Give me passion, don't make fun of my fashion"
Then, somewhere between a Wednesday quiz and a Friday makeup test, Chris started to notice things.
The way her fingers trembled slightly when she solved equations in front of him. The way she always wore long sleeves, even when it was warm. The way her voice went quiet whenever anyone walked past their table, like she was bracing for something.
She was strange. But he liked it.
They started dating two weeks before junior prom.
He asked her at the tutoring table.
"Go to prom with me."
She stared. "Is this a joke?"
"No. I mean it."
"Why?"
He smiled. "Because you make me smarter. And I think I like you."
She said yes. They kissed in the parking lot that night, awkward and too fast, but she smiled after. That smile would haunt him later. It was the last time it looked innocent.
"High school sweethearts, line up / Not trying to waste my time""High school sweethearts, shut up / If you're not my type"
Dating Y/N started as an adrenaline rush.
She was intense. Passionate. She loved hard and fast, like she had no other speed. At first, it felt like devotion. Like being wanted, needed. Chris had never felt so seen. She wrote him letters. She made playlists. She touched him like he was fragile glass and then yelled at him like he was the fucking problem.
It crept in slowly.
The arguments started small — he forgot to text her goodnight, and she cried for two hours. He laughed at a text another girl sent, and she went cold for a week. He missed one of their study dates to practice with his team, and she accused him of choosing lacrosse over her.
She started keeping track.
Things he said wrong.
Things he did without her.
People he smiled at.
She never said they were rules. But Chris started to feel like he was in a game he didn’t know how to play. Like she had a manual and he was just trying to stay afloat.
"If you can't handle a heart like mine / Don't waste your time with me""If you're not down to bleed, no, oh / If you can't handle the choking, the biting / The loving, the smothering / 'Til you can't handle it no more, no more / Go home"
She never hit him.
But she knew how to wound.
Chris graduated high school with her name carved into every inch of his soul. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped talking to most of his friends. Didn’t notice how much quieter he’d become.
Y/N was all he had.
They moved in together at twenty.
Chris quit lacrosse. Not because he wanted to, but because the team didn’t want him anymore. He’d missed too many practices. Too many deadlines. He spent more time keeping her calm than he did training.
Y/N said it was better this way. "Sports are childish," she whispered one night as she curled against his side. "You don’t need them. You have me."
He nodded.
He always nodded.
By twenty-one, Chris was a ghost of himself.
No more cleats. No more noise. Just long hours at a grocery store job that barely paid rent, and nights spent arguing about things he didn’t remember doing.
He broke rules he didn’t know existed.
Showed up ten minutes late. Looked too long at the waitress. Laughed too loud. Slept too much. Slept too little.
Every fight started with silence. Then the door slammed. Then the venom poured.
"Do you even give a shit about me? Huh? Or am I just some background character in your fucked-up little story?"
"I didn’t do anything—"
"Exactly. You never do anything. Never defend me. Never show me off. Never put in the fucking work."
"Step five / You can't be scared to show me off and hold my hand""Step six / If you can't put in work, I don't know what you think this fucking is"
He stood in the kitchen once, hands shaking, trying to remember what he’d done wrong. The pasta was cold. That’s all. She’d asked him to cook at six. He started at six-thirty.
"You don’t listen, Chris. You don’t fucking care."
He stared at the wall.
Nick and Matt saw it unravel in real time.
They stopped by unannounced once. Chris had a bruise on his wrist from where Y/N grabbed him too hard. He said he bumped into a cabinet.
Nick didn’t buy it.
Matt said nothing at first. Then, quietly, "You can stay with us. Any time."
Chris snapped. "I’m not leaving her. You don’t understand. She needs me."
"No, bro. You need help."
Chris left angry. Every time.
The drinking started slowly.
A glass after work.
A bottle when she screamed.
Y/N didn’t stop him. She’d just watch. Sometimes, she even poured.
He asked her once, in a drunken haze, what would happen if he ever cheated.
She turned her head, smile soft, eyes glassy.
"I’d kill you."
He laughed nervously.
She didn’t.
Chris never forgot that moment.
It haunted every glance. Every smile. Every moment of hesitation.
"Step seven, this one goes to eleven / If you cheat, you will die, die""Can we just be honest? These are the requirements / If you think you can be my one and only true love / You must promise to love me / And damn it, if you fuck me over / I will rip your fucking face apart"
He never meant to break that rule.
But by twenty-two, he was barely holding on. His body ached. His soul was hollow. He walked through life in a fog.
And one night, he just... gave in.
A bar. A stranger. A kiss.
Her apartment.
No love. Just exhaustion.
He left before sunrise.
When he came home, she was asleep. Or pretending.
She didn’t speak the next morning. Just kissed him on the cheek and made coffee. Hummed softly while folding laundry.
He knew.
She knew.
Chris planned his escape like a criminal.
Waited until her eyes closed at night.
Bag under the bed. Phone charged. Keys in pocket.
He opened the door slowly.
Bang.
A gunshot hit the wall inches from his head.
He jumped, looked back, hands raised.
She stood in the hallway. Crying. Shaking. Gun in her hands.
"You lied to me. After everything."
"Y/N, please—"
"I gave you everything. Every fucking piece of me. And you threw it away."
He inched forward. Careful. Desperate.
"Let’s run away. Just you and me. New start. We can fix this. I swear."
She sobbed. Lowered the gun slightly.
He kissed her. Soft. Terrified.
She kissed back.
Holding him tight.
Then pulled the trigger.
His body hit the floor with a thud.
She stood over him, shaking, whispering through tears,
"You broke step seven. You cheat... you die."
His eyes closed. He didn’t speak.
She sat beside him.
Held his hand for a moment.
Then raised the gun to her own head.
Pulled the trigger.
Nick and Matt found them the next day. They had came over when they had realized Chris never ended up falling through with his plan on coming to their house last night.
The apartment was silent.
Matt dropped to his knees. Nick froze. Cried until he couldn’t breathe.
Chris’s phone was on the counter.
Last message never sent.
"I need out. Please. I don’t know who I am anymore."
Too late.
a/n: Got this idea when I fell asleep to this song last night and felt the urge to write it out.
A/N: Soooo hi. I’m alive!! Anyway this is a oneshot(?) about…idrk but you’ve lost most of your memories and Nayvee was your hero name/what people used to call you. I started writing it at exactly 9pm on the 26th of december. Also reading back on my old writing, people liked that? Anyways, enjoy!! Tw angst and mentions of scars, mentions of abuse, nothing to gritty :) Gender neutral reader and racially ambiguous ;) oh and don't copy plwase
Every window was slightly open, just enough to make the whole apartment cold. There was even a cold mist from under the door, hitting the sides of your arms.
It stung. So cold you could almost see your cats slow breaths, well it was really a random stray but with so little to call yours why not hang on to a silly kitty?
The only bit of warmth was the cigarette in your hand, the small thing filled up your lungs. Made your heart beat with guilt and longing, it felt so good. Good but so bad. It was the only light in your life, the burning cigarette butt and the flame used to light it. It was a pathetic life, but it was yours.
A person behind the screen, fixing other people's problems and slip ups, an eraser that’s what you were. Erasing people's lives just as people erased yours. Every impact, every solution, every person saved and every person killed because of you, gone. Like it was completely nothing, like every scar on your back and every scar on your arms were worth nothing. A body full of stories but stories that shall sadly never be heard. It was almost peaceful, it’s not like you really wanted to remember anyway, but the option would’ve been nice.
It hurts your head. It always hurts, filled with constant screams and pleads of help. Words of anger and authority, that one you did remember. You remembered all of it, down to the slurred praise and constant cussing. A voice that had been whispering to you since you were all but an embryo, a voice that you watched fade. Here it became rougher with every puff, every packet seemed to be gone within days.
No wonder, now you understand. All that begging and crying just to wound up enjoying the same cruel substances.
Your peaceful tappink of keys was sadly interrupted. It was almost routinely, the pixels on your laptop would display 23:25 and you would hear it.
The squeaking of the window in the kitchen, and then a heavy thud followed after. It would bring in a large gush of wind, and the rotten smell of gotham roads, made it all the better to have a cigarette in between your lips. Soon you’d hear a man, the man. The man with the heavy kevlar suit and the cape. Oh you hated that cape, the way it sounded when it dragged across your kitchen tiles made you want to scratch your eyes out.
Every footstep closer towards you felt like a warning, like a threat. His whole presence towards you was a threat, one step out of line, one sentence dubbed too insane and you're done. Everything stripped away as quick as your memory was.
“Well you're as punctual as ever, aren’t you Bruce?” It felt wrong, just uttering his name like you knew him.
Maybe Nayvee knew him, but you? This fucked up version of you? No recollection of this man, not even of his public persona. You only knew the Dark Knight, and not the one that saved babies from some underground crime, no. You knew the one that would stand over a suffering body and not give them the pleasure of death, he taunted you waiting for it. Waiting for the ticking bomb to finally explode. It felt like he was just visiting to find a reason to get rid of you. It was always the guessing game with this man. Then again he was the only one of your so-called friends to visit.
“...” and it was nothing from him. Just brooding silence and the occasional huff and sigh. He was different today, less tense. His fists were less clenched and his shoulders less tense, it wasn’t a scowl or a watchful eye-not that you could see his eyes- on his face but it was just a neutral expression. Or more of a neutral feeling, that cowl sure did its job.
“Good day today, B? No crime I’m guessing or-”
“There’s always crime in Gotham.” Well no shit. He knew what you meant, or maybe he didn’t. Maybe his armour is just as thick as his skull, at least there was a response this time. “Also don’t call me Bruce.”
“...right, sorry. B, can I call you B? I’ll call you, B.” Right. Another line, another step back. It felt like you were always so far from this man in front of you. It was like torture, the constant silence and the constant interrogation. The past was gone, so why is he trying, almost desperately, to get you to remember something? There was nothing, nothing to do but to turn right to the blinding screen and puff out smoke from your blackened lungs.
Lonely. You’d have to be so desperate to expect anything but silence from Gotham’s Ghost. Brucie Wayne was a complete opposite from this shell of a man below you. Yes below, for some reason he’s kneeling on his knees, looking up at the mental mess you were. Smudged day old makeup and hair that not even the greatest hairstylist could fix, and he’s looking at it. There’s something in his eyes, something that you’ve seen before. Is it anger? Is it guilt, longingness, or is it disgust?
Probably the latter.
“God…” What? God what? Why does his voice sound like that, why was he even here? There is nothing in this apartment of worth, and definitely not to him. He had no need for money, he’s the richest fool in New Jersey. There’s no evidence of whatever you committed or any incriminating documents, he’s already checked. Not even a gun in this useless place. So ‘God’ what? “You’ve never looked so much like your Father.”
Even though it was cruel, it was true. The heavy purple-ish eyebags digging into your skin, the empty eyes full of nothing but the reflection of work. The cigarette being the only other things that your attention is on and the empty beer bottles behind the sofa. It was like watching a scene from forty-something years ago. The runaway child becoming the very thing they hated, a tale as old as time. A tale that is only seen in fragments, very violent fragments.
.
.
.
“Shut up.” He can’t just say that. That’s not something-someone he should know. And it’s evident on his face, the way he immediately goes back to that infuriating mask. Don’t shut up, say more. Tell me more, please. “Please.” Stop making me feel like this.
“I…I am sorry.”
“For what, Bruce just-” no, desperation was a big no no. Sadness? No. You were over it, it didn’t matter anymore. “You know what? A drink is good, I’m gonna get a drink. Do you want a drink? I’ll get you a drink.” it was the rambling, made you seem insane. But so what? So what if it was rude not to wait for an answer, there was no one to beat the manners, into you was there? As you got out of the chair it felt like your body was going to give out. It was all too much, what was too much?
Nothing.
The nothingness, no laughter, no embracing, no happy glimpses, no it was just nothing. One step towards him felt like a step towards an edge. In both situations gravity was not on your side. The black bat displayed across his chest blurred, as did everything around you. The headache was no longer there, just warm hands and a heartbeat. A racing heartbeat.
You hope it isn’t yours. Hope the warmth is deaths hand embracing you, or hell getting prepared for it’s newest guest.
Y/n being as crazy as Joker.....but can sorta hide it.
Imagine joker sitting at the table, trying to think of a way to carry out a robbery but every plan he thinks of had a fault and it's stressing him out. Without thinking y/n just blurts out a plan that is mind-blowing and perfect. She just says 'it's the voices in my head'.
However the plan goes left because some goon did something stupid. Joker gets caught by the batman and is sitting at the back of the police car in hand cuffs being sent to the asylum. When the police officer talks to him, he recognises the voice and the eyes from the rearview mirror and its his bunny blended in as a cop. Recklessly driving away and ending up in a car chase with many police cars and even a helicopter on their tail.
His Lighthouse: Paint the Town Red (LedgerJoker x f!reader)
Paint the Town Red - Oneshot
KEEP IN MIND THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER UPDATE!
OOOOOOOOOOh my GOSH! Thank you to the moon and back @chelsea-xxx2003 for your patience! This request was a long time coming but I love love love loved writing it! This request is so old it makes me wanna hide in the box of shame!
But anyhoo!!! I hope you enjoy my love! Thank you once again for your patience (omg😭 please don't hate me!!) and if its not to your tastes, let me know! I can try again!🖤✨
Let me know if you wish to be added to the official His Lighthouse taglist! Be alerted with any oneshots and the main story updates! 🖤✨
The saying, “You are known by the company you keep” could be misconstrued in so many ways.
For how can someone say they truly know a person?
Joker felt that he knew you both inside and out; his stubborn yet highly intelligent Y/n. He loved you to a toxic degree and he knew the feelings were mutual.
He’d only known you for a year, but he knew the itty-bitty details that made you unique. You were quiet when necessary and rowdy at the most inopportune times. Your literary skills were profound at the cost of your social prowess.
J loved how you stumbled your way through conversations and your cute little ums were to die for! But if given a pen and paper, you could move the masses with your words.
In Joker’s eyes you were just shy of being perfect. Sweet, innocent—you couldn’t harm a fly. He thought he knew his soft-spoken Bunny.
Come to find out: he didn’t know you at all.
Your dining room table was a war zone of stationery and mindless clutter.
Joker had parked himself there early this morning and had not moved since. You brought him breakfast and snacks but he would only grumble a quick, “Thanks Bun” to you before resuming his work. He was so fixated on this new heist idea that nothing else mattered. He couldn’t focus on anything if it wasn’t the blueprints in front of him or his phone that would chime with more reliable intel.
Come to think of it, you didn’t see him take a bathroom break. This robbery couldn’t be that important. You tried to get his attention despite failing every time.
Nothing was getting through to your dark clown, so you stopped trying.
You could tell planning was stressing him out, but once J was in his thinking mode, either he would finish or throw a murderous tantrum until he figured it out. All you had to do was wait for the outcome.
In the meantime, something you loved about Joker was his handwriting. It resembled nothing of the infamous madman. His penmanship was legible and slightly feminine with hints of cursive in unexpected places. Only Joker could get away with writing slaughter in pretty script. You did not expect him to have neat writing. It was a huge contrast to his deranged mental state.
It was soothing to watch J hunch over his notebook plotting out his next heist. There were so many intricate details that ultimately found their way into his notes—and you got to see the magic unfold in real time. You almost missed him groaning at the ceiling. He finally stopped plotting and started mumbling to himself under his breath.
A tantrum was imminent, so you decided to intervene before he went out and started killing innocent people.
“What’s bothering you, J?” You asked him.
His stressed-out green eyes immediately found yours from across the room.
You watched his pupils dilate taking in your beauty. You tried not to let his awe-struck reaction get to your head and instead focused your attention on his response.
“It's nothing to worry that uh.. pretty little head of yours with, Bunny. Am I... bothering you sittin’ here?” He gestured to his mess at the table while raking a hand through his dirty hair.
He needed to wash it but if he was going out, he needed to dye it. You would miss his natural sun kissed strands until the green faded out. A pity he covered up something so beautiful.
You shook your head, walking closer to him. “You are never a bother, J. I just came to see if you needed anything. You know... like a break.”
You made grabby hands at Joker’s hair and waited for him to voice his consent.
With a happy squeal, you carded your fingers through his greasy locs. The texture was a bit unusual, but it was an honor to touch Joker in such an intimate way that you overlooked your own discomfort to establish his.
Joker’s head fell back against your stomach in bliss. Your nails felt so good on his scalp, all his thoughts about the upcoming mission just melted away.
It was crazy how you automatically knew how to calm him down. J purred under your touch and you smiled at the overgrown cat at your mercy. This man worked so hard, he never stopped to take breaks and care for himself. He was blessed to have you around to remind him.
Not much it did with the stubborn clown, but the thought was appreciated.
The snacks you brought J were left untouched except for the sugary treats you added last minute. Joker and his sweet tooth. You rolled your eyes and they landed on his scattered plans.
From your advantage point, you could read everything from over Joker’s shoulder.
The heist was thoroughly thought out even in its rough planning phase.
Joker planned to rob the mob run bank in downtown Gotham, but you noticed there was something missing to tie it all together. He couldn’t seem to figure out how to access the bank’s service panels on the roof. You skimmed over the goons’ hired for the job. They were familiar names from your past and you remembered their individual skill sets. You knew who needed to be where to extract their ultimate usefulness.
The heist was scheduled to be done at the day’s end so that Joker could blend in with the district's school buses that drove by the bank everyday like clockwork.
It was perfect. Too perfect, hence why Joker circled alarm panel three times in red marker at the top of his notes and underlined, eliminate idiots twice.
There were open gaps within his idea. He didn’t know how to fill them.
Your poor clown was overthinking this and his little doodles on the plan’s margins were a sign of his restlessness. The solution was so easy; you couldn’t stop yourself from spelling it out for him.
“Baby.. have John John and Razor zip-line from the adjacent office building down onto the roof. John John can access the alarm panel and disable it. He’s got more situational awareness than Razor, so he’ll regroup with the two idiots you stormed the bank with. Tell them... it's only five shares, they’ll off each other to hoard all the money for themselves. Greed will have them turning their guns on their own accomplices. You won’t have to do a thing but watch. Before the bus gets there, there should be only one guy left. That way...”
You leaned down to kiss Joker’s scarred cheek. “You can kill him and the bus driver and make off with the cash. Easy.”
You resumed stroking his hair as if you didn’t solve his day long conundrum.
It was a mind blowing and perfect plan, one that he could’ve crafted if he weren’t so stressed but coming from his Bunny—it was even more diabolical. It was a glimpse at a darker side of you that he’d never seen before. He honestly didn’t know one existed.
He turned to stare at you in disbelief and you had the audacity to look surprised.
“I’m sorry, did I scratch too hard?”
You were worried about his hair rather than the plan you just orchestrated on the fly. How did you string it together?
He glanced down at his unfinished notes scattered on the table. Frost still had trouble decoding Joker’s long code, it was so complex, but you managed to decipher it and fill in the blanks within minutes.
“Can ya read that doll?” J pointed to his notes.
Were you not supposed to? It was clear as day, but you didn’t want to hurt Joker’s feelings if he didn’t like his own handwriting or something.
Joker stood up slowly, seeing you hesitate. He hoped he was just overthinking this.
There was no way his precious Light was some secret criminal mastermind. You wouldn’t harm a fly, yet he couldn’t ignore how easily you read his coded text. No one was supposed to unless they had previous skill in certain circles.
You sensed a shift in Joker’s demeanor and quickly backtracked.
“Um well, I.... I mean not really, no! The um voices in my head.. kinda filled in the gaps? Perks of being a writer, I guess? We can read anything! You have pretty handwriting if that’s the problem! Haha.. Wow! Would you look at the time? A-Are you hungry? I was thinking lamb stew with some fufu for lunch!”
You laughed and all but sprinted towards the kitchen, leaving a perplexed Joker staring after you.
Perks of being a writer? Was he really supposed to believe that? Although he did blush at the compliment you made towards his penmanship. You somehow managed to talk your way out of his suspicions with your sweet nature.
Joker watched as you washed your hands and forgot about the odd moment altogether. Watching you cook was the perfect way to distract Joker. It must’ve been a fluke for you to be able to read his code.
But why did he have the feeling you were hiding something?
Your plan was so foolproof, Joker didn’t change a single thing.
The day of the hit came, and everything went smoothly as if you personally knew the mindset of his hired goons. They played their part as pawns perfectly and Joker was able to drive the school bus out of the bank with no issues. His Light was secretly a genius!
What neither of you predicted was the loyalty of the bus drivers in front and the one behind Joker’s decoy.
Despite the hush money given, they still snitched to the GCPD, and the authorities had Joker surrounded by the time he broke off from the fleet. He couldn’t put up much of a chase in the worn-down vehicle and was quickly apprehended.
There was nothing Joker could do to get himself out of being hauled back to Arkham by his arch-nemeses, Batman.
J’s triumphant day was instantly a catastrophic failure.
The caped crusader was standing around, giving Jim Gordon the rundown of events as if he did all the work. They were talking for almost an hour now with no end in sight! All Joker could think about in the meantime was how many strings he had to pull to break out of Arkham to get back home to you.
He didn’t want you to worry when the news of him being captured aired. It was an inevitable outcome within the relationship, one that you mentally prepared for; but Joker had always planned on saying goodbye should this situation arise.
Joker hardly gave you a kiss when he snuck out your apartment for this robbery. He was so confident in your plan that he didn’t fathom the possibility of being caught and skipped his traditional goodbye. It was a small mistake that he regretted terribly.
Without a doubt, Joker knew you would sit up all night waiting for him only for a breaking news bulletin to squash your hopes of his return.
Escapes from Arkham took careful planning months in advance and eight times out of ten, they ended in failure. Joker couldn’t survive a day without his Light. Now he would be separated from you for an undisclosed amount of time before he could even begin plotting an escape. He was screwed.
He banged his head against the window in anger. Jim and Batman glanced over at the noise and didn’t notice a rookie cadet snatch the handcuff keys away from Jim’s belt.
Joker’s world was crumbling fast and the voices in his head were making things worse.
What will Bunny think deserting her like this?
She’ll never love you again for leaving without a word.
You’re gonna lose her forever.
No one said anything about the rage filled tantrum Joker was having in the backseat. They could hear his yelling and saw how the car was rocking violently as he flipped out.
Batman spent enough time talking with the Commissioner. It was time to transport Joker before he grew too volatile and risked an escape attempt.
Jim turned around and got the attention of a cop he trusted. “Hey, Cruz! You and the rookie take the clown back to the precinct. We’ll follow after we finish here.”
Cruz nodded and slapped his newly appointed partner’s arm. “Hah! Let’s go rookie. You drive.”
Joker was still fighting against his restraints when he spotted the two cops approaching the vehicle.
He found it odd that Batman wasn’t escorting him straight to Arkham Island. Instead, two average looking police officers were tasked with the job. Much to his amusement, one of the cops stuck another with a needle about halfway to the car.
Cruz crumbled to the ground and was dragged out of view of the surrounding GCPD officers. It wasn’t an unusual sight to see a corrupted cop and for that Joker didn’t raise an eyebrow at the sight.
He grew curious when the rookie hopped into the car and cranked it up.
They didn’t waste any time stepping on the gas pedal and flooring it straight out of the parking lot. It was only after they drove through the police barricade did a fellow cop shout, “HEY!” thus alerting the squadron of the situation.
Shouts rang out in attempts to pierce the tires, but the cruiser was screeching away like a bat out of hell. Joker couldn’t balance himself being handcuffed as he was.
He tumbled roughly into the door and had a mind to complain about it. “Who taught ya how to drive?!”
He was unsure if this person was his savior but his answer came when other GCPD vehicles gave chase. Even more surprisingly, the Batmobile was not in pursuit just yet.
“I know how to drive, thank you very much.” The erratic driver mumbled towards the backseat.
Joker’s head shot up hearing the voice. There was no way.
Despite the fast speeds and harrowing turns, he managed to right his balance and peer through the dividing glass at the driver. Your e/c locked eyes with his shocked green through the rearview mirror.
“Y/n?” Joker was sent headfirst into the passenger side door after you made a sudden turn onto the highway, literally on two wheels. Okay that jerk felt a little intentional.
J shook off the pain and overheard you laughing in the front seat. He was in shock seeing this rare side of you. Was he dreaming?
Joker almost didn’t recognize his Bunny dressed undercover—mainly due to the scarlet red wig you wore. This had to be a dream. Your e/c eyes were wild with excitement and much to his horror, there was a natural ease to you.
You were in your element speeding down the highway with an apprehended criminal in the back seat.
The police cars caught up and opened fire, yet you laughed at their pathetic attempts even as a few gunshots cracked the back windows of your cruiser. The odds were stacked against you, however you continued, swerving in and out of traffic, causing wrecks and utter chaos in your wake.
You spotted a familiar SUV driving parallel to you and waved at the driver. Joker was about to ask if you knew them when they introduced themselves in a bold fashion.
Two men leaned out the backseat windows and returned fire at the police. Their aim was true and hit the police tires, stopping them in their tracks.
Joker was speechless. How was any of this happening?
His brain didn’t have time to process anything when a helicopter highlighted the car from above. You groaned in anger but reached over to grab a walkie talkie.
“Up top! Up top! Up top!” You chimed into the device.
Then it finally clicked to J. Somehow you were in on this daring escape. He didn’t care about his fate; you were the only concern on his mind.
Joker banged his bound hands onto the divider glass to get your attention. “Bunny! This is dangerous! Ya gotta stop!”
All you did was roll your eyes and scoff. “Mm that’s cute coming from you!” You shifted gears when you spotted something up ahead. “Thank God! Our backup has arrived!”
Joker glanced out the window and only saw Gotham civilians trying to get out the way and the all black SUV shooting back at the GCPD. That wasn’t backup? He didn’t understand anything at this point. The spotlight overhead was keeping you and him visible to the authorities so what could you possibly have in mind to escape?
“What are ya talkin’ about doll?! What backup?” Joker saw twin 18 wheelers up ahead open their hatches. His green eyes widened at the heat they were packing.
What he didn’t see was two more SUVs entering the highway, already aiming at the police helicopter with rockets.
In response to his question, all he received was your maniacal laughter as you reached one hundred and twenty miles per hour. From there, everything happened simultaneously.
You spotted the tank Batman called a car fast approaching and radioed to your men. “Light em up, boys.”
Your cruiser whizzed past the two trucks and the now three support SUVs at the precise moment they blocked the highway and unleashed their weaponry on the unsuspecting police.
It was a war zone. News outlets later on reported that the highway sustained so much damage, it would need to be repaved.
A brave civilian caught the battle from the southbound lanes on his cell phone and it was a literal massacre to witness.
The helicopter was shot down and exploded in a fireball onto the first two cop cars leading the chase. Once a wall of fire separated the GCPD from you and Joker’s getaway car, your goons opened fire and brutally murdered the rest of the fleet of police officers.
Batman tried to save the day but his tank suffered heavy structural damage from the RPGs and other arsenal fired at it.
The bat had no other choice but to flee the scene.
The authorities were severely outgunned and quickly outmanned by a few criminals. Jim Gordon was at the end of the chase and his face paled seeing the insignia painted on one of the 18 wheelers.
It was his cue to call out the immediate, fallback orders to his men. But it was already too late.
It had been decades since Jim Gordon had seen the haunting image of a cobra coiling around a bouquet of nightshade.
The Mors Atra Lux Syndicate. Their Latin translation meaning; death is a dark light. They were the deadliest gang in the east, dating back as far as the Great Roman Empire. And now their current leader was making their stand here in Gotham City by allying with The Joker.
The ominous air was palpable. This was the beginning to a very long bloodbath.
But it wasn’t that deep to you.
All you did was call in a favor the second you saw Joker landing himself into trouble during his heist. You were worried about his poor choice of a getaway vehicle right from the beginning. The school bus would help him blend in, but after separating from the yellow procession, he would be vulnerable.
And you couldn’t have been more correct. Through surveillance and radio, you watched Joker be apprehended. It was now or never, and you acted fast.
You called your uncle and exhausted your one-time favor to rescue Joker.
The consequences of your actions would sink in later. You didn’t care that asking for help was your Defacto swearing in ceremony into the gang. There was no way out once you got involved.
None of that mattered as you exited the highway and drove to the predetermined meet up spot. Joker had yet to stop yelling in your ear.
He was giving you a mouthful about the events that were unfolding around him. He too recognized the ancient gang’s insignia and its importance. The Mors Atra Lux Syndicate was the greatest active gang in the world and to have them as an ally was legendary.
His mind was still reeling to discover his Bunny was affiliated!
You screamed whenever there was a bug in the apartment. He shielded you from his own organization due to your intolerance to violence. That’s the Y/n he thought he knew.
His Light wasn’t pure as he thought.
That much was evident when you pulled into an abandoned junk yard, turned off the car, and faced him. “SHUT UP, J! Just.... be quiet, I can’t hear myself think!!” You closed your eyes as Joker stared at you in horror.
You were mumbling to yourself with an eerie smile on your face. Whatever you were discussing was resolved for you quickly composed yourself and grabbed the keys to unlock his handcuffs.
You joined him in the backseat and without hesitation, you grabbed Joker by the neck to kiss him.
He wished it was the interaction mutual but the shock factor of discovering your dark side was hindering his ability to function properly. Just how deep was your affiliation? Should he be intimidated or aroused?
You caught onto Joker’s wary demeanor.
You smoothed down his wind tossed hair, “I’m sorry baby, I’ll explain m-more later but right now? We need to get you somewhere safe.” Your attention wavered after hearing a car door close.
Joker sputtered seeing you pull a gun from your waistline. It even had a silencer on it, he was impressed!
Thankfully you didn’t need it, yet he knew you were a seasoned warrior based on your stance. This wasn’t your first rodeo. You had nothing but murder on the mind and a steady hand.
You recognized your first cousin Flex approaching from his armored SUV and lowered your weapon.
“Bella.” He nodded at you before giving Joker the up down. He wouldn’t judge your choice of a partner. “We’ll take care of him from here.” Flex noted.
Joker was positively mind blown. He waited until you freed his hands to ask. “Uhhhh.. Bella? Is that your err real name, Y/n?”
You and Flex snorted. You hugged your cousin and whispered something in his ear as Joker looked on, growing more and more annoyed by the second.
Finally, you replied to J’s question. “No. It’s an honorific in our Syndicate. Flex will take you to your hideout. Don’t. Kill. Him. I won’t be able to save you if you anger the order. I’ll see you at home for dinner, okay J?”
You kissed him one more time and smoothed out his suit, as if you didn’t pull off a highly dangerous recovery mission to free him.
Joker’s head was spinning as you urged him to follow Flex back to the car. Nothing made sense. Everything Joker thought he knew about you was apparently a lie.
You were already destroying the cruiser’s license plate and removing your wig to revert back to your harmless civilian look. You fluffed out your natural curls and then proceeded to coat the cop car in gasoline. The fire started inside the vehicle as Flex cranked up his SUV.
Joker watched you stay behind, staring at the growing flames with that eerie smile on your face. He was staring at a stranger. A devil in disguise. He thought he knew his soft-spoken Bunny.
Plot: In the 1920′s, the reader is not only known as the greatest seer alive, but also as completely and utterly crazy. Grindelwald, who wants information involving his future, seeks her out.
She hummed under her breath, a tune that no-one had heard before. For now, she was the only one who knew it. “Thunderbolt and lightening, very very frightening me. Galileo Galileo…” floated through the air. She liked the song. Whoever this ‘Queen’ guy would be, he would be making some good music. For now though, she’d have to deal with the - according to her - rather boring music of the 1920’s.
A sharp whistle filled the air, and she jumped out of her couch towards the kettle on the stove. Continuing to hum, she pulled out four cups. When two minutes later the door burst open and three wizards stormed in, she stood there with the teacups on a tray and a big smile on her face.
“Tea?” she asked.
They looked her up and down, taking in everything about her appearance. “It’s her alright” one of them said.
“Of course it’s me! Who else would I be? There’s no-one I’d rather be than me” she finished, unbeknownst to them quoting one of her favourite movies.
“You’re coming with us” another one said.
“You’re lucky you’re right, you know” she giggled. “Would’ve been awkward if you would have tried telling me the future and ending up being wrong. Now, are you sure you don’t want tea?”
“Can’t we just get her and leave already?” the third one sighed.
“Okay!” she smiled, dropped the tray and walked out of her small flat walking over the shards. “Allons-y!”
The others looked at each other incredulously. “He warned us she was crazy, but this?” one whispered.
“That’s because she knows she can’t escape him – no-one can.”
~ Time skip ~
A man burst into the living room in a mansion, out of breath. “They have her, sir – the seer – they’re bringing her in.”
“Excellent” the addressed man said. “Bring her to me at once.”
The first man nodded and rushed away while the other started to pace. He didn’t understand, how come they had found her so easily? She was supposed to be the greatest seer in the world, how was this possible? He had expected this to take months… It was like she didn’t even bother running away from him – and if that was the case, she was even crazier than he had expected. His name caused fear to strike in the heart of each witch and wizard across the world. Was she an exception? He got his answer immediately when the doors burst open once more and a (h/c) haired woman walked in.
“Gellert!” she exclaimed, “how nice to finally meet you!” She shook his hand excitedly. “I have to say, I’ve heard some great things about you, seen even greater! Though I have to say I’m rather disappointed by your men. I offered them tea and they said no! How rude!”
“Nice to meet you too” he grinned. “I have a feeling we’ll get along great.”
“No, we won’t” she shrugged, “you’ll hate me since I won’t tell you anything.”
The grin fell from his face and a dangerous look took its place immediately. “We’ll see about that” he hummed.
She laughed. “Puh-lease, Gellert, do you truly think you’re the only one who desires my knowledge?”
“Of course not. But you and I both know that I am unlike anyone you’ve ever met.” With that, he whipped out his wand, pointed it at her and shouted ‘legilimens!’
The images and sounds he received were absolutely chaotic.
My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hon – a screaming goat – two big towers collapsing – people on the streets screaming about things he didn’t understand – where is my super suit? – Ich bin ein Berliner – a wizarding war at what seemed to be a castle – but none of it what he wanted to see. The longer he looked, the harder it became.
‘She’s crazy’ rang through his head as he left hers.
A long silence filled the room in which nobody moved. Everyone stared at Grindelwald, who was looking at the seer with sweat coating his eyebrow and heavy breathing.
“Put her in a cell” he managed after composing his thoughts.
They dragged her away as she giggled an ‘I told you so’.
…
She had been in the cold stone cell for three days.
“Mamaaaaa, life had juuuuuust beguuuuuun!! And nooow I’ve gone and throoown it aaalll awaaaaaayy!!!”
“Shut UP” a guard yelled. “You’ve been singing that song for days on end, you crazy hag!”
“But it’s so catchy” she whined.
“Just… Stop” he hissed.
“Fine” she muttered, crossing her arms with a pout. “Party pooper.”
Silence enveloped them, though it didn’t last long.
“Your skin makes me cry” she hummed.
“What?” the guard said, “S- skin?”
“You float like a feather in a beautiful world… I wish I was special, you’re so fucking special-”
“-Not another one-“ he groaned.
“- BUT I’M A CREEP! I’M A WEIRDOOOHOOOOHOOOOOOO!! WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HEEEEEEEERE!!!”
“ENOUGH ALREADY!!” the guard shouted.
“… Sheesh, someone’s got a temper…” she muttered.
The guard sighed. Without him noticing she crawled closer to the cell’s door, practically sitting next to him and pressing her head to the cool bars.
“Hey mister Grumpy Gills…”
“Mister what now?”
“When life gets you down, you know what you’ve got to do?” she said as she booped his nose. “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming swimming swimming…”
“All right, that’s it-“ he said as he jumped up and she fell to the floor laughing, “-I can’t take this anymore! Lewis! Your turn watching this mess!” he shouted as he stomped off.
“Huh” she said, “I wonder what I did wrong…”
…
“GOOD MORNING VIETNAAAAAAM!!!” she shouted as she threw open the doors. Grindelwald had called for her, and being her excited self, she had walked in by herself with his goons on her tail.
As soon as she walked in, he shouted ‘crucio!’ making her scream and fall down to the floor.
“Hashtag rude” she grumbled as she got to her knees.
“That’s how it’s going to be if you don’t tell me what I want to hear” he threatened, standing in front of her.
“Alright alright, don’t get your panties in a knot…” she huffed, slightly out of breath. “Ask me a question.”
“How do I reach my downfall?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “You have to be more specific than that. Because I can’t tell you if you fall down the stairs or something, my knowledge isn’t that specific…”
“How do I die?” he clarified.
A slight giggle escaped her throat. She immediately tried to stifle it, but it was of no use; soon, she was rolling on the floor, cackling like a maniac.
“Ooh, you’re going to love this one” she giggled. She got up, steadied herself and as if it were the greatest wisdom in the world she said: “It’s a Riddle.” Next, she was laughing once more, as if she had just made the best joke possible. ‘I-it’s – ahaha – a Riddle!” she wheezed between laughs.
“Answer my question!” he bellowed, but she just kept laughing.
“A- a Riddle!”
“Then tell me the damn riddle!” he demanded, which only made her laugh more.
“I just did, silly!”
He shook his head in bewilderment. “Absolutely crazy.”
He was losing his patience with her. Curse after curse he shot at her, but she stood firm, still claiming that it was a riddle. Eventually he just ordered to carry her away. She was locked back in her cell, while his frustration remained.
This quickly became a ritual; for a few weeks he would torture her to get the information he wanted, but he never succeeded. This did not only take a heavy toll on her, but on him as well; to torture someone for hours on end, but still hear their giggles through the screams, really messed with his mind. He didn’t understand her, and he hated not understanding.
That was, until he came to accept that she was just completely and utterly crazy. What other explanation was there? He had even tried entering her mind a few more times, but merely came to the conclusion that her brain was scrambled.
That’s why he decided to let her go. He thought about killing her, but something inside him stopped him from doing so. He didn’t know what it was – it was certainly not remorse, he had grown to hate her too much. Perhaps it was a simple form of curiosity? He never truly found out, only remained guessing, even when he watched her retreating back from the mansion he was in.
All he knew about it was that she was crazy, and that he wished he had never sought her out. He had spent too much time on her and had gained nothing but frustration and even more questions.
As she left, he heard her singing; “I remember when I lost my mind... There was something so pleasant about that place...”
~ Time skip to about 75 years later ~
Cold. Empty. Hungry.
Those were no new feelings to the once great wizard Gellert Grindelwald. Quite frankly, he just wanted it to end. He had had his time, but that time was now lost. All he did now was wait for his body to give up on him. It seemed, however, that fate had decided to spit in his face on last time.
A sound rang by the window and in came a face many feared, but not him. He had never feared the man currently standing in front of him. After all, what could Voldemort possibly take from him? His life? As if he would mind.
“So you have come” he said, looking at the white face of the new Dark Lord. “I thought you would... one day. But your journey was pointless. I never had it.”
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed in anger. “You lie.”
Grindelwald recognised the building fury easily, and realised he was going to die in that moment. But instead of feeling fear, he thought back of a young woman long ago. He hadn’t even meant to think of her, but his mind had decided differently.
Voldemort didn’t understand. One moment, the old man had been looking at him, and the next he was laughing as if someone had just made the best joke possible.
“A- a Riddle!” he wheezed, and kept on laughing. “A Riddle!”
Voldemort felt his rage grow.
“Kill me then!” Grindelwald shouted suddenly, laugh still audible his voice. “You will not win, you cannot win! That wand will never, ever be yours-“
And Voldemort’s fury broke.
As he looked down on the lifeless body a few seconds later, he came to accept that the old man had just been completely and utterly crazy, and left.
@pedrospookie made the cutest fucking mood board for this fic, she also gave me so much inspiration for this! Let's all thank her for her perfect brain.
Part 1 of 4- Knocked Loose
Rating: explicit
Series Masterlist | Part 2
kidnapped!Joel x isolated&unhinged&potentially crazy!reader (no use of y/n, no physical descriptions besides having hair long enough to hold and fall into your face, the reader is actually crazy, talks to herself- hears little voices in her head. You gotta know this going into it)
thanks to @bonezone44 for this idea.
w/c : 9k (whoops)
Summary: After the civilized world you once knew came to an end-- the men that survived... well they just take, take, take. Growing tired of having things taken from you-- you have a hankerin' to take somethin' for yourself... and make him perfect.
warnings/tags: non-con/dub-con/ altered mental state(?) throughout the entire thing. stockholm syndrome, violence (reader and Joel both get hurt) Joel is an unwilling participant... or is he? cockwarming, unprotected P in V, dirty talk- more to come.
authors note: Hey! I know a lot people get icked out by the idea of non-con or dub con, and that's fine, but I like it, so I'm gonna write this. I don't think any of this should be acted out ITRL. DON'T KIDNAP PEOPLE!! This is your last and final warning just so everyone is aware of what's going on. this is unbeta'd, poorly proofread and probably incoherent. I love you all so, so, so much.
The weather is finally starting to change, it's not as hot as a pigs asshole anymore, and you wake up feeling refreshed, rather than sticky and sour from sleeping in a pool of your own sweat all night long.
The first thought that comes to your head though isn't the changing weather, or how you'll eventually need to break out your warmer clothes soon, nope— you don't give a shit about any of that.
It's just Mister-man that you're thinking about.
He might be the most pretty thing you've ever seen. With his shoulder length, brown and gray curls, and his patchy facial hair that matches so nicely. The thought of how rough and scratchy it would feel against your tongue makes your spine tingle.
Mister-man is a big boy. Hefty, broad, and looked so strong whenever he came into the mall.
You've been watching him for a while. He comes around every three or four days snooping in all the stores for supplies.
It's like he doesn't even know you're here…or if he does, he doesn't care. Rude! You're a pretty girl!
He's just coming to take our stuff, just like the rest of the monster-men out there. If he finds us, he might wanna take-
"Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!" You put your hands over your ears, even though those voices just get louder when you do that.
Mister-man wouldn't hurt'chya…
Yes, he would. He's a man.
"It's too early for this," You grumble, sitting up in your bed.
The mattress store is nice and clean, just how you left it last night before you crawled into bed. You think about how it would be alarming if it wasn't exactly how you left it before you went to bed. You did your nightly walk-through to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be, and that there weren't any extras hanging about.
As you get dressed, you think about what the dark voice was about to say. You know exactly what Mister-man would try and take from you if he found you. What all the other men in this fucking place want from you.
It's hard to make any of that matter as you skip to your hiding spot in the rafters above the food court. That's where he always enters from, even though the easier entrance with less glass and boards to climb through is on the other side of the mall.
It's a good thing you set up a trap there too, if he comes in through that entrance, at least you'll hear the snare go off and hopefully get to him in time to get his gun and knife.
Mister-man is a creature of habit, he doesn't like to switch things up, Sug. He'll come through this door.
He might. He might not. Mister-man might be playing your game better than you, kid.
"Well then, it's a good thing I thought of everything," you murmur, climbing up the discarded scaffolding to get into the rafters.
It's not scary up here, you like the thrill of knowing if you made one mistake—
Goner!
Splat!
"I've never fallen though!" You giggle, settling in to the perch just above the now blown out glass doors. It's a comfortable little spot, and you've arranged some blankets and pillows from the mattress store up here so you can nap if you want. There are some snacks, and bottles of water in case you have to stay up here for more than just a couple hours, keeping an eye out for Mister-man.
People must have stayed here in the mall during the outbreak, or right after because the doors are boarded up the best they can be, and the tables and chairs from the food court are set up all around like a barricade.
It was perfect, less work for you to have to do, and no one else bothers to come in here anymore— it's either too far, too hard to get too, or not worth the pay out.
Not for our lovely, handsome, soon to be perfect, Mister-man; the reason he comes every week is so sweet.
You wondered why he kept coming back when there really isn't much to scavenge anymore: every single store had been picked through before you got here, and you went and took the last of whatever anyone else didn't want or need and squirreled it away in a nice hiding spot.
Mister-man came every three or four days-- so that he could sit his ass in a comfortable recliner for a couple hours.
Remember that time he took a nap?
"Of course I do! How could I forget?!"
It's the cutest thing, and you love to watch him relax. Rest. Let his guard down for a little while.
"Slept like a lil baby that day," you mumble, feeling the heat spread up your neck and behind your cheeks. It's impossible to not smile at the memory of Mister sleeping in his chair, arms behind his head, snoring loudly.
His hair was real soft...'n he smelled so..
Why does he let us get so close? It's gotta be a trap.
Oh shut up, maybe he wants us to get close!
"I don't think he can hear me too good," you breathe out to the empty mall. The sun is starting to shine directly in your eyes— which means Mister-man will be here soon. "Always lookin' over his left shoulder. He never looks over his right, me thinks he can't hear outta that ear."
Mister has been coming for a couple months. He first started when the snow started to melt. And he kept coming through the spring when everything was wet and soggy, and he'd traipse mud through the mall like this wasn't your house!
That's how you knew he had been there though, so you waited to see if he'd come back-- and he did.
Mister-Man kept coming, even when the summer got so hot it was almost unbearable. Venturing outside was almost dangerous, but Mister always came.
Just to sit in his chair.
The air is filled with the sounds of birds singing, and insects buzzing in the lazy, summer heat. The mornings aren't too bad anymore, but the afternoon is still sweltering.
The late afternoon's are even worse when the heat finally settles, and everything gets sticky, and feeling all wet even though it's not wet outside! It's hot, but the air feels thick and damp somehow.
Awh, looks like he ain't coming today, Sug.
Good-fucking-riddance.
"He'll show up. If not today… tomorrow…or the next day. Or next week! He always comes, sillies. Gettin' me all nervous for nothin—"
Shhhhhh!!!! He's coming.
Mister-man is coming. You can hear him before he even crawls through the hole in one of the boards. He has to slide the table he sets up every time he comes and goes.
Once he's upright, brushing himself clean of any debris that he might have picked up on his crawl into the mall, he starts to walk.
It's not hard to stay quiet, you know exactly where the spots that creak are, and where things might break and fall apart if you were to put too much weight on them.
It's easier to follow him around as he slinks through the abandoned shopping center than you thought, as long as you stay on his right side. You've been watching and learning, and had a long time to figure him out.
Mister is so cute, walking real slow with his back to the wall, his head on a constant swivel. You wanna call out to him and tell him it's just the three of you in the mall.
He continues to sneak very quietly.
Can't hide from us.
"He sure can't," you giggle, almost silently.
Mister-man pauses, and looks over his left shoulder, as if something caught his attention. He looks all around, head twisting in either and all directions. At one point, he looks right up at where you're standing.
It's like he's looking right at you, like he can see you flitting through the rafters right above him.
Mister-man just shakes his head, as if he was hearing things, and continues onward towards the furniture store.
Fuck, he really can't hear for shit.
"He sure can't."
Mister doesn't make it inside the furniture store today, unfortunately for him.
When Joel wakes up, his head is fucking pounding and— he's upside down. Shit.
Not again.
"What the fuck?" Joel croaks, his hands feel like they weigh a thousand pounds as he tries to lift them from where they're dangling over his head. His shoulders hurt, and his back aches. His ankles feel like they're on fire.
There isn't much he can do but hang here, waiting for his vision to un-blur and for the throbbing in his head to go away.
Probably get gutted like a pig.
Finally, after blinking a million times, Joel can see things clearly.
You- a young woman- with a gun in your hand, another strapped to the outside of your thigh, and a fucking machete strapped across your back.
"What the fuck are you doing!?" Joel shouts, his hands now easily flying to the holster—It's empty. The pack he had been carrying on his back is gone too.
Joel watches as you look at him like he should already know what you're doing: a half smile plastered onto your pretty lips, the crinkle at the corners of your eyes, your head tilted to the side ever so slightly, couching in front of his pack.
"Lookin' through your stuff," you croon to him.
Joel's blood boils. What the fuck are you doing? Who the fuck are you? How did you manage to get him all strung up, hanging from the ceiling?
He says nothing as you stay picking through his backpack, taking out every single thing he has in there. His map, compass, the backup flashlight, the gas-mask— which you're putting on?
Why? There weren't any spores in here— were there?
"This thing is fuckin' cool!" Your voice is muffled, and you stand up straight. Then you hold your hands out at your sides, and spin in a circle.
"Hey!" Joel barks at you, flinching away from the revolving barrel of your pistol with each rotation you make. "Stop swinging that thing around, would ya'!?" Joel shouts as you continue to spin.
You stop suddenly, and stare at him through the big, dark lenses of his gas mask. "You know all about swinging around, don'tchya?" You giggle at him.
Joel literally swings back and forth as you say this, very slowly spinning around as he sways, and the throbbing in his head only makes him more angry.
"Cut me the fuck down, keep what'chya want— I don't got time for all this," Joel grumbles, lifting his head so he can look at the rope tied around his ankles. It's a good knot, and without a knife, Joel isn't going to get down on his own, not without his knife.
He reaches behind him to feel for it on his belt—
"Lookin' for this?" Your still muffled voice questions Joel as his fingers brush across the empty space on his waist where his knife would be.
He tips his head almost all the way back, and then to the side so he can see you— and is greeted by the sight of you, still in the gas mask, and now, holding his knife by the blade with your thumb and index finger. All he can do is sigh, close his eyes and wonder how a trip to sit in his favorite recliner led to this.
"Now, I ain't really wanna hurt'chya— I was hopin' you was gunna say knocked out long enough for me to cut'cya down and—"
Joel doesn't wanna hear anymore. "Just cut me the fuck down— people are gon' come lookin' for me if you—"
You apparently don't wanna hear what Joel has to say anymore either, because you start to talk over him. "—we're just gunna go—"
Joel doesn't care, doesn't want to listen to your muffled voice— he wishes you would take his stupid, fucking gas mask off and talk to him like a normal person. He's gotta be able to barter with you somehow. "—don't let me go. If it's food 'n water ya' want, I can get ya' some—"
The two of you are just talking louder, and louder, until the both of you are shouting over the other, neither one of you actually hearing what the other is saying.
"—let me go!"
"—stay forever!"
The two of you stop and stare at each other in silence for a moment. Joel can't really comprehend what you just said, "Stay forever?"
"Yep!" You exclaim happily.
Did he say that aloud?
"You 'n me, together forever, Mister-man," you sigh dreamily at him.
It's not what you say, it's how you say it— like you really believe what you've just said. Like…it was something you had been thinking about, for a while.
"Huh?" Is all he can say, still slowly swaying and spinning. He has to turn his head almost completely around before he whips it to the other side, he wants to keep his eyes on you at all times. You seem un-fucking-predictable.
"Ain't'chya so excited!?" You squeal, and it makes Joel's head ache.
"Gon' fuckin' strangle you once I get down from here," Joel half grumbles, half chuckles under his breath. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching you rummage around for something in his bag.
"That's why I gotta do this," your muffled voice sounds sad as you pull something out and whip it behind your back, hiding it, and that makes Joel nervous.
"Do what?" Joel tries to see what you pulled out of his backpack.
"Gotta close your eyes," you shrug your shoulders, and rock back and forth on the balls of your feet.
Joel blinks at you, just staring at him through the gas mask. He's not completely unsettled by the sight of you in a gas mask, he's seen women wearing them plenty— it's the fact that you have him completely at your mercy and he can barely see your fucking eyes.
He's so fucking stupid for coming out here alone all the time, Tommy and Ellie both warned him- both told him that something would happen to him out here. He'd hurt his back— or worse. And no one would know where to find him- because this was his secret hideaway. A place to escape the responsibilities of being a dad, a grandpa, and a big brother.
Joel loves Ellie, JJ and Tommy more than he ever thought possible— and loves that he got to be around them everyday— it was just starting to be a lot.
If Joel had the means to move that recliner into his house in Jackson, he would have— but it's too big, too heavy and way too fucking far.
Now look at him, upside down!
"Ya' ain't gunna wanna see it comin'." You give Joel a small warning. "Please just close them," you whine, starting to nervously dance on your tip toes.
"No." Joel growls, arms still crossed over his chest.
"'Kay!" You exclaim, running over to Joel. "Warned ya'!" You pull the brick Joel had put in his pack for emergencies.
"Wait! Wait—"
Cripes-all-mighty, Mister-Man is heavy as hell!
It takes everything you have inside of you to drag him to the mattress store. By the time you get there, your shirt is soaked through with sweat, your hair clings to your forehead and the side of your face. Every muscle aches and feels as if it's being torn from the bone it's clinging to.
Huffing and puffing, you drag him through the sea of mattresses until you get to the staircase that leads into the basement office.
"Sorry, Mister-Man," you grunt and push him down the stairs—
He's fine! You lined the stairs, and the bottom where he landed with mattresses a couple days ago-- after you brought his favorite recliner down here. All by yourself. Did it just for Mister-Man, because you want him to be comfortable! You want him to feel nice, and relaxed, and safe here with you.
Once you have him nice and secure to his chair— you wait.
He hit his head pretty hard when you snared him— you didn't think of that part. Then he had to go and wake up! Like a dumb idiot! He could have just stayed asleep, then you wouldn't have had to hit him again!
Thank goodness for that brick he keeps in his backpack, which, what the fuck is that about? It's a good weapon, but it's heavy, and made his backpack harder to carry than you would like to admit.
You were also lugging that giant of a man around, ya' did good, Sugar.
Yeah, ya' did good, kid.
You wrap your arms around yourself and sigh, "Thanks."
You wanna tell the voices in your head that you love them, but you don't really always love them. Sometimes you hate them, and wish they would shut up, and sometimes they don't talk when you need them to— finicky fuckers! And they almost never see eye to eye, and it's exhausting. So you just say thanks.
Mister-man is so pretty up close. Even more pretty than you could have ever thought or dreamed of. He doesn't look like he's shaved or cleaned up his beard in the last couple days, and his hair was combed back away from his face when he got here today— but now it's a mess, matted to his forehead in drying blood, falling into his eyes.
"Shit," you whisper, taking in the sight of him all beat up—
Sug, you gotta clean him up— make him pretty again.
The sweet voice is right!
Mister-man looks so sad all bloody and a mess.
"I'll be right back," you murmur and press a gentle kiss to his forehead through his blood stained hair, and then double check all of the ropes around his wrists and ankles.
He's secure, time to go get him lookin' nice again.
When you come back, your bag is filled to the brim with supplies from the the multiple stores that still have things inside them. You got him a comb, and a spray bottle that you already filled with clean water. You were able to find some clean clothes that look like they'll fit him.
He's also awake.
"Hi, Mist—"
"Let me go."
"—er-man!" You finish through the interruption. "I'm gunna clean you up now, and then we can have dinner. 'Kay?"
Mister-man stares at you.
"Oh!" You rip the gas mask off and place it on his lap. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to steal it. I promise." You cross your heart with one index finger.
"Let. Me. Go."
You wince with each barked word. "I. Don't. Wanna."
"If I ever get outta here, m'gon' fuckin' kill ya'," he growls.
You frown, pinch your eyebrows together and mock his thick, country twang. "M'gon' fuckin' clean ya' up real good, 'n then me 'n ya' can have fuckin' dinner." You growl back at him.
"Shut th'fuck up, untie me—"
"Why!? So you can kill me?" You shake your head at him, giving him a small smirk. "Not gunna happen, Mister."
His eyes go wider than you've ever seen them, as if he might be nervous. "What th'fuck you gon' do to me then, huh?"
"Clean. You. Up. Then. Have. Dinner. Did I say it too fast the first time, or can you really not hear too good?" You cock your head to one side, and look at him quizzically.
"Th'fuck did ya' just ask me?" Joel feels his chest going tight-- this hasn't happened in fucking years. It can't be happening right now.
"I talk real fast sometimes, and I don't realize it, and so sometimes all my words come out real jumbled to--"
"'Bout my hearin'?" Joel's working overtime to suck the air in, to bring precious oxygen to his brain. His head is still pounding, and now he can't fucking breathe, and he can't even imagine what kind of sick, twisted shit you're going to do to him.
Joel watches your eyes drop to the ground by his feet, and it's almost like you pull your body in on itself somehow, retreating into a place where you're trying to hide from him in plain sight. "I been watchin' you when you come in here... just act like you can't hear all that good outta your right ear," you say in a voice so small Joel can barely hear it.
"Watchin' me?" Joel scoffs.
Who the fuck are you? How long have you been watching him? How come he's never seen you before? Never even seen a trace of another person around here, just the stray raccoon or possum.
Joel's blood boils when you nod your head at him, still unable to look him in the eye. "Ya' should be ashamed. Whatever it is ya' wanna do to me is probably fucked--"
"I'm not ashamed," your voice snaps, and finally you lift your head to meet Joel's gaze. "Not even a little."
"Actin' like it," Joel's voice is snappier, and louder, and it makes you flinch.
"Maybe a little embarrassed--"
"Ashamed, fuckin' embarrassed, same fuckin' thing." Joel rolls his eyes at you.
"Not really," you shake your head from side to side and raise both of your eyebrows at him. "Not at all, actually."
"Would you shut th'fuck up?!"
"Would you shut th'fuck up..." You mock Joel. "I'm tryin' to do somethin' nice for you, and you keep telling me to shut the fuck up!"
"Do somethin' nice f'me?!" If this wasn't almost thirty years after the fucking apocalypse happened, Joel would think he was on some hidden camera show.
"Yeah!" You hold out the supplies you had brought back from wherever the fuck you had run off too while Joel was unconscious.
"Doin' somethin' nice would be lettin' me go, sweetheart." Joel switches his tone- does something he wouldn't normally do in a situation like this.
Your eyes light up. They crinkle in the corners a little, like they did the first time he saw you, but you're not upside down this time. The corners of your lips are trying to curl up, but you're actively trying to stop them.
"Don't call me that, 'less you mean it."
With the comb, water bottle and first-aid kit in hand, you take your place behind him and inspect the wound.
It's a surface wound, but dirty from the brick and still very bloody.
It's a painstaking process, because you don't want to be the cause of his pain anymore. Not ever again if you can help it.
Really, that's up to Mister, but he'll find out on his own soon enough! He just has to play nice, be sweet and kind— be the Mister you want him to be, and he'll be perfectly happy here with you. Life here with you in the mall could be perfect! He just needs to be perfect. He's almost there, he just has to keep his mouth shut.
He's not quiet, not at all. He hoots and hollers at you to stop, to let him go, that he's gonna gut you like a fish if he ever gets free from here.
The way he talks, his voice feels like the deepest note on a piano, or the thickest string being plucked on a guitar. It vibrates in the spaces between your ribs, and forces all the air out of your lungs when he talks.
He's taking your breath away... how romantic.
The sweet and airy voice in your head is right, he is taking your breath away. You wish he would stop saying those mean and terrible things to you-- they're making you hurt inside, where your stomach is.
Guilt. You should just kill him right now--
"Hurt him?"
Mister stops shouting, and raises one eyebrow at you.
Look'it those big brown eyes. Like a baby cow. All wet 'n big, kinda scared lookin'.
Ugh, shoot him right between those beautiful brown eyes, kid. You can do it.
He ain't hurt you yet, Sug...
Because she tied him up--
As she should, she's gotta feel him out a little, make sure he's really not gonna hurt her.
How is he ever going to hurt her if he's tied up?
"Okay, enough!" You almost shout-- there they go! Never seeing eye to eye, making things harder than they needed to be!
"I'll yell all I fuckin' want," Joel does holler, loudly. So loud. He's going to draw attention.
"Do I need to get the brick again?"
Joel stops shouting.
He really can't hold back the pained sounds coming from his throat as you attend to his wound.
You're being so, so gentle!
He's acting like a giant baby.
"M'hurtin' you?" You mumble as you drag the damp cloth along his forehead carefully, cleaning the moderately large gash you left there with the brick. It's swollen, and bruised now... you feel so terrible.
He'll forgive you, Sugar.
Mister-man doesn't say anything, he just flinches away from your touch for the millionth time.
"M'sorry, didn't mean t'hurt you this bad." You slowly start to work the comb through his hair, spraying it down with water when you needed to. You're careful to never pull on his hair too hard, and work the tangles out meticulously so you don't bring him any more discomfort.
"Got'chu some medicine." You reach into your pocket and pull out two white pills.
"I ain't takin' nothin' y'give me, fuckin' crazy bitch." He grumbles.
Mister watches you walk around to the front of him, and kneel between his legs.
"S'just regular," you hold your hand up to his face so he can inspect the pill on his own. "Nothin' strong like they had in the QZ's," it's a gentle explanation as he studies the medicine in your palm. "Can find some for ya' if you wanted me to, m'real good at findin' stuff."
"Find it in your heart t'let me outta here," Joel gives you the sweetest, crookedest smile that makes you stomach feel like it grows ten sizes, and your heart feels like it's racing something else inside of you.
There are sweet wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and the lines on his forehead deepen, and he has the softest dimple on his left cheek.
Sug, he's so pretty.
Kill. Him. Before. He. Kills. You.
"So pretty," you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, and rest one of your elbows on his knee, propping your head up on the heel of your hand. The pills are still right in front of Joel's face, and his eyes flash between them, and your face.
"Not takin' them" he grumbles, twisting his head away from your hand.
"Suit yourself," you put the pills back into your pocket, dipping your head down to press a soft kiss to his knee. "M'gunna go get us dinner, I'll be back."
Joel stares at the tray of food you set down on the table you dragged over to be directly in front of him.
"Where's the protein?" Joel looks up at you from the plate of crackers with peanut butter, a small bowl of raspberries, two packets of expired pretzels you would get on an airplane, and a full bottle of labelless whiskey.
"S'in the peanut butter," you say through a mouthful of your own cracker.
Begrudgingly, Joel opens his mouth when you hold a cracker up to his lips. "Where's the meat?"
The crackers are dry, and kind of stale somehow? The peanut butter is still nice and creamy, just the way Joel remembered it before the outbreak.
"Where would I find meat?"
Joel pinches his brows together and blinks at you. "Ya' live in the woods, got a gun or two-- fuckin' know how to set a snare--"
You gasp softly, and rest one elbow on the table and point at him with a lazy index finger, "You 'spect me to go out there and kill an innocent lil friend? They ain't ever done nothin' t'me. Why would I go out 'n hurt 'em when I ain't got no reason to?"
Joel continues to blink, trying so hard to keep his eyes on you and not the ropes you have him tied down with so tightly they're starting to dig into the skin on his forearms-- painfully.
"Ya' kiddin', right?" He watches as you place a raspberry directly into the peanut butter on the cracker and hold it out for him.
"Issa good combo, try it." You nod your head at him, urging him to open his mouth.
Joel doesn't want to, doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing he needs you, and is going to keep needing you until you decide to kill him, or set him free.
He opens his mouth though, because Joel hasn't had a raspberry in years and he loves them, and the sight of that plump, juicy berry sitting so comfortably in that pillow of delicious, creamy peanut butter is making his stomach rumble. Loudly.
"Want some?" You hold up the bottle of whiskey, screw off the cap and take a swig. "See, it's safe," you look at him through your lashes, and give him a one-corner-of-your-mouth-smile.
Joel nods his head, because what else was there to do if he was going to be a prisoner here? He tried so hard to free himself of the restraints while you were gone, but you know how to tie a knot, and Joel just ended up giving himself rope burn.
An hour later, Joel feels pretty good, but not good enough to forget the situation he's in, but the booze is making you very chatty, and he might actually be enjoying the conversation.
"'N I get power from the solar things up on the roof, I think."
"Ya' think?" Joel smirks at you, he can't help it.
"I dunno how the solar works," you exclaim, holding one hand towards the ceiling. "It's the sun and black screens," you give the ceiling the middle finger and groan. "Barely works when the sun is out-- I just wanna watch my movies--"
"What kinda movies ya' got?"
He wishes he never asked.
You're sitting between his legs on the floor-- reaching behind you to feed him raspberries, never taking your eyes off the screen.
Joel thing's about biting your fingers off, thinks about taking the tips right off with his front teeth.
What would you do if he did that? Joel is still tied up, and he would just have raspberries and bloodied fingertips in his mouth, and then possibly a crazy, unpredictable, angry woman who would try and kill him.
Joel has seen angry people every day for close to thirty years... he knows what they look like, what they sound and act like--- you don't sound or act angry.
"Love this part," you sigh, leaning back into him, and resting your head on his knee.
Joel looks up to the screen, watching Cinderella transform into her beautiful ball gown.
Joel wishes he could reach out and run his fingers through your hair.
No he fucking doesn't? What the actual fuck? What did you put in the food, or the whiskey to make him feel this way?
Joel clenches his hands to fists on the arms of the recliner, and tenses his jaw-- grinding his teeth in the process.
You continue to drink throughout the movie, and when the credits are rolling-- you stumble to your feet, and then into his lap.
"Get off'a me," Joel gripes as you nuzzle your nose against the side of his face.
"Just wanna cuddle," you murmur, curling yourself up into his chest, yawning sleepily. "F'just a lil bit."
"Get off'a me, ya' fuckin' nut!" Joel shouts, and regretfully, tries to headbutt you.
His cheekbone, the side of his nose and part of his forehead connect with the top of your skull in a dull, aching thud.
You scramble off his lap, and fall to the floor, one hand holding the top of your head where Joel had just whacked you. The right side of his face is throbbing, and he thinks his nose might be bleeding, or he's crying- he doesn't know- he doesn't care. He just wants to go home.
"What the fuck!?" You shout back at him. "Mister, I ain't been mean to you at all, minus the brick- okay? What the hell is your problem!?"
Joel can't help but laugh, it starts off as a chuckle, but quickly matures into full on guffawing. "Y'fuckin' insane, ya' know that?" Joel rumbles through his fit.
Through the tears in his eyes, Joel can see you glaring at him.
Okay, he hurt her, can she kill him now?
Sugar, he ain't mean it... not really... he just needs some time to adjust.
He could have really hurt her, are you serious?
He's just nervous! Give the man a break--
Tired of giving men breaks- tired of letting them get away-
"Both of you, knock it off." It's a stern warning to the voice as you glare at Mister.
He stops laughing and blinks at you. "Huh?" He cocks one eyebrow up high, "Both o' ya?"
His question doesn't register, all you can think about is how disappointed you are in him.
"I was gunna let'chya sleep in the big bed with me," you huff, climbing to your feet. "Ain't gonna do that no more."
"I ain't wanna sleep in the big bed with y'crazy fuckin' ass, anyway!" He screams at you.
"What're ya' bein' so fuckin' mean for? I cleaned ya' up, made ya' pretty again-- fed you dinner 'n shared my drink with you!"
Do not cry! What're you doing!? Don't let him see you cry! Get out of here, right now!
The dark voice is right, the burn in your nose and the sting in your eyes are tell tale signs of tears- and you hate them. Hate the way they make your face wet and sticky, hate how they make your heart hurt, hate how your head feels like it's ten pounds heavier when you get done crying.
He'll come around, Sug. Gotta give him some time. If ya' stay nice-- it'll happen sooner than you think.
"I like bein' nice," you murmur, not taking your eyes off Mister.
"Th'fuck are you talkin' about!?" He exclaims, eyes wide, almost obsidian with rage and confusion.
"G'night, Mister. We'll try again t'morow."
Mister doesn't rest, doesn't relax, doesn't settle down at all.
When you open the door to his room, he's still screaming his head off.
"Hey!" You shout back at him, grabbing his attention. "We got raiders 'round here. We got infected movin' in and outta here all the time-- you know how fuckin' loud you are?"
"Hopefully they all hear 'n come runnin'. I'd love to see you get torn to shred-"
"'Kay, m'real sorry ya' feel that way. Even sorrier that I gotta do this."
Mister doesn't stop fighting you the entire time you shove the bandanna into his mouth. He even bites down on your index and middle finger as you stuff the last corner of fabric between his teeth.
Hit him.
It happens so fast, you don't have time to stop yourself from the back of your hand connecting with his cheek.
"Now, you gunna play that game? I can play, too," you inspect your finger and the deep indentation he left that's already starting to bruise.
The duct tape is hard to rip, and you need to use your teeth to cut a strip to go over his mouth.
Mister is mumbling something around the bandanna, but you can't understand him, and honestly are still mad about your fingers-- they hurt! Really bad!
"Glad I still got that medicine... I'm gunna fuckin' need it!" You dig around in your pockets and look for the two white pills. Your fingers throb while you look, the sensitive skin; tender to the touch as it brushes against the fabric inside your pockets.
Mister glares at you with his almost black eyes.
"I'm sorry!" You find the pills, throw them into your mouth and swallow dry. "I'm sorry for hurtin' you. I do not like doin' it, I mean it." You take a couple steps towards him, and drop to your knees between his legs again.
Mister watches, his whole body still as you rest your head on his knee again.
"Just want ya' 'round. M'sorry," you close your eyes, not wanting him to see them fill with those traitorous tears. "Jus' real lonely out here. Miss havin' someone t'talk with...'n snuggle up to at night."
The fuckin' duct tape makes it impossible for Mister to say anything--which is the worst. You wanted someone to talk with, not at.
"I'll take the tape off in the mornin', and we can try again over breakfast, 'kay?"
Mister doesn't make a single sound for the rest of the night.
Joel is drunk again. Fuck, this is never good.
You're in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs with one arm around his neck, your head resting on his shoulder. There is something about the way your fingers twirl around in his hair at the nape of his neck that feels good. Too good.
"C'mon, get off'a me," Joel groans, but there's no passion in his voice. It's been almost three weeks of just this, and he doesn't hate it. Not when he's drunk.
Honestly, he barely dislikes it when he's sober, but he's better at acting like he doesn't want you on his lap when he hasn't had a drink that night.
How can he not like it just a little bit? You're soft, and warm, and fit so perfectly on his lap it's like you were made to be there.
"Couple more minutes, Mister. Please?" You fucking whimper,
The sound floating through Joel's ear canal sends a shiver down his spine, and directly into his cock. It twitches in his jeans. He's got to start thinking about baseball, and carpentry work, and how he's probably going to die soon.
Nothing works. Joel can feel the heat from your cunt through the thin fabric of your shorts, and his hands have been tied down to this chair every time you're not around. The only time you let him up is to use the bathroom-- and you have a gun while you wait for him the entire time, so he's never horny then!
And, as thankful as Joel is for this- you've never even looked at him like that. You look at him like you're in love with him all the time, but you've never once looked at him like you wanna touch him.
Joel tries to push his hips further into the chair, away from the perfect, searing heat of your middle.
"Where'ya goin?" Your voice purrs in his ear, your fingernails ghost across the skin on his neck and he shivers again, his cock feels it tenfold.
You feel it now, too.
"What're ya'--" you pause to look between your bodies, and then your eyes flash up to his. "That f'me?" You're whispering, and your glassy eyes are wide, and look so flattered.
"Ain't for nobody, stop lookin' at 'em," Joel grumbles, again, not really meaning any of it even though he should mean every single word.
"'Em?" you question him with your big, wet eyes and his cock twitches again.
Joel swallows hard, his eyes falling to your bottom lip clutched between your teeth, and nods. "Him, yeah, whatever you wanna call it-- ain't for you." He sighs softly.
"Why not?" you sink down further into his lap. The thin shorts you have on to wear to bed do nothing to keep your warmth contained. It's almost like Joel can feel what it would be like if you just whipped him out and sat-
He's never drinking with you again. Never again.
"Get off'a me," Joel leans forward gently as you lean into him, the tips of your noses touch softly.
"Gunna bite me if I kiss ya'?"
Joel is a goner, your breath smells sweet like raspberries and whiskey and every single thing about you is warm and soft-- Joel knows that if he wasn't fucking drunk he'd be fighting you tooth and nail, but he cannot right now.
He can't think about anything but what you'd feel like wrapped around him, milking him.
"Take'em out," Joel is the one to lean into the kiss, his lips aren't hesitant, or tentative at all when they meet yours. He is going to try and bite you- and he does, he nips at your bottom lip, but gently. He pulls back with it still bitten, and listens to you moan softly.
The quickness of your fingers isn't your friend, you struggle with his belt for what feels like an eternity as you push back against his kiss, eagerly slipping your tongue into Joel's waiting mouth.
Joel groans low in his throat when you wrap your hands around his girth, and then chuckles at your shocked gasp when you pull away to get a good look at him.
"He ain't gon' bite'chya," Joel teases, leaning forward, searching for your lips again.
"Might split me in half," you moan, presumably at the thought of Joel stretching you open.
Joel can't contain his own moan as you put the image in his head. "Fuuck, sit on him-- lemme feel ya'."
The sound that leaves you makes Joel throb in your hand, "Ya' want me t'put 'em inside?" You whisper, the silky smoothness of your hands on him, stroking him so slowly is making his head spin.
"Jeeesus, yes-- fuckin' c'mon- do it," Joel lets his head fall back against the recliner, and watches as you pull your shorts to the side, and lift yourself to hover over him. "C'mon..." Joel eggs you on in a whisper. "Y'can do it, crazy girl."
"Don't call--" you pause when you notch the head of him at your entrance. "--me crazy."
Joel groans loudly as you sink down and let every wet, soft part of you engulf him. He throbs again when you whimper and whine, eyes clenched shut, your hands grasping at his shoulders as you inch your way down his length.
"Ow, ow, ow," you whine, leaning forward to rest your head on Joel's.
He could headbutt the shit out of you right now, but fuck, the way you're looking at him, with real tears in your eyes, not just from drinking.
"Hey, ya' doin' real good, sweetheart, keep goin'-- nice 'n slow," Joel encourages you, because he doesn't want it to stop either. "Jus' like that, crazy girl."
God damn, is crazy pussy always this good? He wouldn't fucking know, he wouldn't ever get involved with you if he knew you back in Jackson- but out here, after almost three weeks with you... it's hard to deny the physical needs of a man. And you're so fucking soft and wet.
The two of you groan in unison when you fully seated. The velvet walls of your pussy are fluttering, and clenching around him as you adjust to his length.
"You're so big," you hum, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "Didn't think ya'd wanna do this," you whisper into his mouth. "Wasn't gon' take it from ya-- don't like that."
"Take what'chya need from me, whenever ya want it, shit," Joel tries to buck his hips up into yours to give you what you want but you whine in protest.
"Still hurts."
Joel settles his hips and leans into the best he can being tied down, his fingers grip the armrests of the chair tightly, groping it like he would be groping you if he could.
"Untie me," he murmurs while grinding up against you, not pulling out of you at all, just letting you feel him, letting you open up around him so it'll start to feel good.
"No," you nip at his bottom lip now, but you suck it into your mouth and tease him with your tongue as your walls start to rhythmically clench around him.
"Fuck, ya' doin' that on -ur-ose?" Joel groans with his bottom lip still being lapped at, The feeling of your tight, wet sucking him in deeper somehow- like it's fucking bottomless almost makes him come right then.
You pull back, his lip slips from between your with a wet pop "Mhm, ya' like it?" You clench harder around him and then release, and then do that over, and over again.
"Fuckin' untie me, wanna touch you- gotta feel how soft ya' are all over, c'mon," he's begging, he needs to feel the swell of your ass in his palm, or one of your tits spilling between his fingers as he grips you.
"No, you'll just try 'n leave me-"
"No, no, no-- I'll stay 'n... uh.. I'll... um- uh--oh, I'll play nice wit'chya" Joel racks his brain with anything that he could say that would possibly give him a chance at being able to really touch you.
"Lyin' t'me," you moan, and Joel throbs inside of you.
"Not lyin'-"
You pull back from his face at an alarming rate, and you scan his face slowly, as if you were drinking in every feature, savoring the flavor-- Joel watches you swallow hard and imagines that it's his load you just took down--
"Untie me, let me touch ya' a lil bit," Joel whispers, keeping his eyes locked on to yours. "Make ya' feel real good, promise." Joel licks his lips as he watches you struggle internally with the decision. "C'mon... gotta feel how soft ya' are, crazy girl. Just one hand."
"Fine."
You stay seated in his lap, his cock still throbbing inside of you as you work on the knot that will free his right hand. He's trembling in the anticipation of it all.
As soon as the pressure is gone off his wrist, Joel reels his arm back as far as he can, and sends it flying forward with as much force as he can muster after not eating meat for almost an entire month.
You scream as his fist connects with your right eye, and go flying to the floor.
Joel might be completely sober right now, and he knows he needs to move fast before you get up and probably shoot him for lying to you, and then punching you.
Yep. Shoot him. Shoot him right between his perfect, brow, baby-cow eyes. End it.
The dark voice in your head is right, but it's almost impossible to think about anything else but the pain shooting into your brain from your right eye socket.
"You motherfucker," you sob. The pain is electrifying- and you can't even see out of your right eye anymore!
That was your least favorite eye!
Kill. Him.
When you sit up, Joel is working on the knot around his left wrist.
You stumble to your feet, holding your hand over your eye trying to keep the actual ball in, in case it falls out, and walk over to the table with his book bag on it. You rummage around until your fingers wrap around the item you're looking for.
When Joel sees what you're carrying, not even attempting to hide it behind your back, he quickens his efforts on the knot.
Your left hand isn't your dominant one, but your right is busy keeping your eyeball in your head because it most surely got knocked loose or something.
You have to whack Joel twice before he goes unconcious.
"S'what ya' get for almost takin' my eye out!"
While he's still asleep, you take this opportunity to cut the jeans he's wearing off of him. You carefully unbutton the green and red flannel he was wearing and slip that off of him fully intact.
Once he's fully secure, with a new restraint around his chest to keep him fully pinned down to the chair, and the bandanna and tape back around his mouth-- you shut all the lights off, every single one, and leave him down there to think about what he did.
He's gonna learn to play nice, and if he wants to play rough first... so can you.
The air is thick with tension and stench of his sweat and fear.
The big-guy should be kind of scared- you didn't want it to come to this, but he just cannot participate nicely!
You circle your Mister-man slowly, drinking in every detail of him. His broad chest heaves with ragged breaths, muscles taut and straining as he fights against the restraints for the thousandth time.
No matter how hard he struggles, he cannot break free. Oh boy. Mister-man has some big feelings about it, and he's trying to let you know.
He is struggling— like, so fucking hard, against his bonds that tether him to the chair, that are cutting deep into the skin on his wrists. It's unfortunate, but he keeps wriggling around! If he just stopped, it'd all be fine!
You lean in close, pointing to your right eye, which is still black and blue, but thankfully not as swollen anymore, and frown at him. "This hurt!" You exclaim. "It hurt so bad, and you said you were gunna play nice. Why'd ya' lie t'me?"
His eyes are blown wide with fury and desperation. But he cannot respond, not really, his voice is saying things, but it's muffled by the duct tape stretched tight across his mouth.
He's still clad in only boxer shorts, a thin gray t-shirt, and socks, he looks vulnerable and exposed.
It really shouldn't be so hot-- but it is. You can't stop thinking about what he said the other night.
"Take what'cya want from me, sweetheart. Whenever you want it."
You wonder if he really meant that, because he punched you in the face right after.
But... he got excited! He wanted it, Mister-man kissed you first.
Oh Sug, he's down bad.
Please kill him. Shoot him right now, then you can just move to a different part of the mall. It's very simple.
He's really mad; which makes no sense! He punched you right in the eye! What is he mad for!?
"I thought after three weeks you'd be begging me to take you upstairs, Mister," you purr seductively, taking a step behind him, out of his line of sight. "Instead you hit me!?" You give Joel a good thwack against the side of his head with your open hand.
Not enough to really hurt him— that's coming soon— but enough to let him know to cut the shit. It's getting old, and now you want a fun, willing participant to play with you… and not someone who is going to act like they don't like… all this.
The perfect basement office of an old mattress store in an abandoned mall about a two hour hike outside of what used to be Jackson, Wyoming?
There's no spores, there's no mildew or stink! It's clean, you make sure to keep everything so clean for him.
Despite his insessant pestering about meat for some reason, he's well fed! He gets to drink whenever he wants!
Why is he so upset!?
Joel grumbles something from behind the duct tape and it's honestly lost of deaf ears because you don't care for what he has to say right now, it's never nice or sweet. It's always mean— that's why he's got the duct tape on.
Soon.
Soon the big-dumb-idiot will be singing your name, happily, and without restraints.
He's just gotta wear something else first.
You slip the shock collar around his thick neck while you're still behind him.
He doesn't like it, at all. He thrashes and writhes, and makes a desperate, pleading groan from behind deep in his throat.
"Well, you wanna act like all them other dogs out there, you're gon' get treated like one," you press a kiss to the top of his skull, and pull back before he can rear his head forward and smash it against your nose.
He's going to try-- he always does.
Slowly, you wind your way around him, trailing a finger along his sweat-slick forehead and crawl into his lap. He struggles at first, until he sees the remote in your hand.
"Gonna zap all the bad outta you… make you perfect for me." You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Have an idea...for how you can hug me-- and not hit me."
Joel mumbles something else, muffled through the duct tape. It doesn't really matter what he's saying, all that matters is how warm he is. How he makes you feel so safe and comfortable.
It's easy now, with the threat of being zapped, to rest your forehead against his, and nuzzle the tips of your noses together.
"You gunna be good for me, Mister-man?" It's a purr as you press a kiss to the duct tape covering his mouth. "Or am I gunna have to train you how to be good?"
omg this might be the longest tag list i've ever done let me know if you want me to take you off, add you, if I forgot you-- I'm SORRY!!!
