premise: joel should have known you'd be trouble when he found you on the side of the highway. he should have known you'd taste so fucking sweet too.
pairing: joel miller x (f)reader
word count: 1.1k
contents: hitch hiking, set in the late sixties to seventies but please read it however you'd like, unprotected piv, tiny bit of degradation, dirty talk, threats of coming inside, age gap if you want it to be one but i didn't specify, marking.
note: i actually wouldn't mind writing more from this down the road because i love this concept and i'm forever loving this old man.
haunted hoedown day four.
If Joel Miller had been told this morning that he would end up with a stranger bent against the seat of his old pickup, a moaning mess, and begging him to do filthy things to her: he would have told you to fuck off.
Would have scowled at them and moved on with his day because he had no interest in whatever nonsense they would have been spewing to him.
But here he was, this pretty thing moaning into the worn cushion of his seats, your shorts sitting on the floor of his pickup. Your nails gripping his wrist as his fingers dig into your hip as he fucks you hard.
His name on your lips sounding better than it should, coming from someone he just picked up three hours ago.
He should have known, just by the look of you.
Your shorts shorter than any pair he’s ever seen, a leather bag over one arm, the other arm bare and lifted with your thumb held out into the air. The sweetest smile he’s seen in the whole state of California—which he was happily driving out of.
A happy exit you too were excited to make as he, possibly against his better judgment, pulled over and let you hop up in his truck. Throwing your bag to the floor, the trusting grin on your face making him happy he picked you up and not some fornate creep.
You were headed to New York.
“I’m sick of the heat,” you said, trying to start a casual conversation with him. Joel’s habit of being off putting and quiet went unphased by you as you talked his ear off.
But something told him there was more to the story.
More about why you were leaving California. Why you were in such a rush to get out that climbing into the car with a complete stranger seemed like more of a promise than it did to just wait and take a bus. The safer option out of the two.
It wasn’t his business to know unless you wanted to tell him, so Joel did what he did best and didn’t pry. Left it as was and listened to you talk, his eyes softening slightly when you sang along to the radio and his throat tightening when his gaze moved along your exposed thighs. The lack of neckline of your shirt making him grip the steering wheel a little harder to reign himself in.
Coming off like a creep, let alone ogling a woman, was not his forte. He had been raised with a little more gentlemanly dna inside of him.
Maybe it was the heat or the way you talked to him as if you'd known him for years instead of less than an hour, or maybe it was the way you knew every song on the radio, the station that never changed in his truck. The station that served him the best comfort and reminded him of home.
You were a rare breed to him.
“You ain’t got nowhere to stay?” He had asked you after you had disclosed to him all to eagerly about your big dreams in the big apple, and the lack of real plan you had to achieve them. Flying on hopes and dreams and the hundred dollars you had in your bag.
“Nope,” you said with a smile. A smile that both made Joel uneasy and his own lips twitch.
“You ain’t got no one waiting for you? Lookin’ for you?”
“Why?” Your brows raised playfully, “you got other plans for me?” The scoff that left Joel made you laugh before your tone turned serious, looking out the window as you spoke. “No one’s looking for me or waiting.” you sigh, “you ever been so sick of listening to what people tell you to do? They know what's best, and they know what you should do because it benefits them. It’s not even for your own wellbeing; they’re just trying to be saints. To live through you. To control you. I was just so sick of it. So, I just woke up one day and said, fuck it, and I left.”
“No better way to find yourself than on the side of the highway.” Joel joked drly, and the reaction he got out of you was one he thinks if he had to hear over every state line he would have zero complaints about it.
“And here I thought you were some uptight old man.”
“And here I thought you were trouble.”
“Who said I’m not?” You smirked, gave him the smallest of winks that made him grin. “Troubles fun.”
That’s why Joel should have known then.
Should have known when he saw you on the side of the road.
When you jumped into his truck.
When you had him questioning himself.
He should have known you’d feel so good.
“Do you like when I touch you like this? I can keep going if you want me to.” You had said when you reached over and rubbed his growing erection through his jeans. Your mouth soon found itself wrapped around his cock before he pulled off the road, no longer being able to control himself.
He should have known you’d sound fucking sweet saying his name as he fucked you.
“Is this what you do? Stand on the side of the road waiting for strange men to pick you up and fuck you, huh?” Joel’s words are low grunts murmured into your neck, a hand curving around your shoulder to give him better leverage. “Like a little fuckin’ siren.” His teeth graze the nape of your neck as he bites and sucks at the skin there. Leaving you with something to remember him by. A mark on you the way you’re leaving it on him.
Your pussy clenches around his cock. Your moans and whimpers settling in the pit of his groin, that has his pleasure building and building. That makes him fuck you harder when you cry out for more.
“Yes.”
“It’s a good thing I pulled over then, fell into your little trap, and gave this pussy what it needed. I deserve a thank you for being so kind.” Your moan is muffled by the seat, your head attempts a nod as your body trembles against him. “I deserve to come in this pussy as much as I want. Get my fill before I leave you to find the next sorry asshole.” Joel grunts, curses under his breath as he holds your ass flush against his pelvis, lifting your hips to a new angle to fuck harder into your tightness.
“Or maybe I’ll just keep you. Take you home with me and use you as my lil’ fuck toy, would’ya like that? To be used every day the way you deserve?”
prompt: slasher au (still takes place in the tlou'verse) + sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)
summary: bodies have been dropping left and right in the most brutal ways in jackson. as the relentless wave of deaths continues, your mind becomes increasingly restless. however, you find a sense of comfort and solace in the presence of joel. who might be hiding secrets of his own.
word count: 10k (i don't know what happened)
warnings: dubcon at the end, knife kink, descriptive canon typical violence, blood & mild gore, grief and death, an unpleasant guy hitting on you, murder, face-sitting, throat-fucking, mutual oral sex (69), dirty talk, possessive!joel, exhibitionism (tommy watches very briefly, he also kisses you in a platonic way), sex in the woods, piv, Joel is actually quite nice if you exclude the murders, mild breeding kink, size kink, little bit of blood kink
a/n: the owl mask joel wears in this to hide who he is is inspired by @softlyspector's post about the tawny owl mug joel uses in tlou part 2 which I still get sad if I think about it for too long 😭
Bodies have been dropping dead all around you long before the outbreak.
Maybe not in the everyone-you-know-is-getting-infected-and-killing-people type of way, but more so in a death-never-felt-like-a-stranger-to-you sort of way. Yet, you still don’t know how to deal with death. Your grief is as violent as a butterfly flapping its wings; the strength of it non-existent but you never know where, or when, it’ll cause a storm.
First, it was your grade school teacher. You didn’t have a particularly strong bond with her but you did like her. You still remember how your friend's voice quaked as she gave you the news on a landline. You couldn’t believe it and had to accuse her of making a joke, even though you knew she would never joke about something like this. Then your dad took the phone from you and you just assumed your friend's mom did the same. The next week, when you went back to school and the funeral was now behind all the children in the classroom, the custodian cut the last tablecloth your teacher had used for her desk and gave a piece to each and every one of you. It was a vibrant orange cloth with daisies scattered around – ugly, but you still cherished it.
Then it was your pets, grandparents – there was also the time when your pet-crazed neighbor adopted another smaller dog while she still had two untrained, over-energized dogs, and the two twins ripped the other dog apart. You had seen the carnage. By some miracle, that small, fluffy dog named Sugar was still breathing, alive. You had held a blood bag over the dog's head, hoping that the small animal wouldn't die.
She didn’t die that day, but it sure as hell left a scar on you.
As a kid, you never seemed to quite grasp the ways of grieving. You didn’t get angry. You didn’t cry. You just. . thought about it. However, the emotions came differently when you became an adult. Now when someone close to you died, you felt it more violently, oddly enough you still fought against the tears and only cried when you were alone.
On Outbreak Day, you lost everything.
Your family, your friends—your life, now it was all about survival, but survival towards what, you didn’t know. You killed for it, fought for it. Yet every move you made felt automatic like you were wired to at least try and survive — to wait it out and not be left behind when civilization rebuilt itself once more.
You made some friends along the way and lost some friends too. You locked their faces and their memories in your heart, only unlocking the box when you were truly and utterly alone.
Then you found Jackson.
And you met Joel and Tommy Miller.
Your official title is scavenger but you much prefer to label yourself as an explorer instead.
You’ve adapted to your quite well life at Jackson. You go beyond the borders, sometimes alone and sometimes with other fellow explorers, and gather supplies or try to pinpoint other locations threats might be lurking in. You’re about to go on another trip, this one shorter than your regular one to two-week expeditions, but before heading out you decide to stop by the only bakery in Jackson named The Last Crumb—previously named The Cordyceps Crumb but Maria decided it was in bad taste. You, on the other hand, had found it funny and topical.
As you patiently wait in line, your camping bag waiting for you outside the bakery, someone bumps into you from behind, then never moves back.
You turn with a raised eyebrow, not enjoying the close proximity, “Excuse you,” you snap. The man looks at you with a hint of mischief in his eyes, you roll your eyes when you recognize the face. “Move back a beat Tucker, I’m not in the mood this morning.”
“Someone didn’t get her beauty sleep,” he grins but moves away regardless. “Want me to come with you this time? Sweet thing like you alone out there? It’s ain’t right.”
“You can barely aim. Why would I want someone that’s most likely to get me killed around me?”
“I think you’ll find my company to be plenty entertaining.”
You’re about to gag when the bell of the bakery chimes, the sharp sound echoing through the wooden walls. Your face must've shown immense signs of relief because Tucker turns around to see who you're looking at. His instant frown makes you want to laugh and chuck him between the two men you’d describe as a wolf den.
“Well, if it ain’t the Miller brothers,” Tucker tuts, attempting to give one of them a friendly pat on the shoulder. He stops midway when Joel’s gaze flits between you and him, his glare hard enough to cut diamonds.
So he ends up slapping Tommy’s shoulder instead, which isn’t the best thing since you know the younger Miller hates Tucker. But among the brothers, he’s probably the one with less probability of getting your hand bitten off.
“Mornin’ Tucker,” Tommy answers, forcing a smile.
Joel is less friendly, his words directed at you, “Is this dumbass botherin’ you again?”
“I wouldn't exactly call a greeting among friends “botherin’,” Tucker says. “We’re just catchin’ up, no need to get your panties in a bunch Miller.”
“God, you’re one word away from ruining my morning,” you hiss, glaring at the unpleasant man. “And we’re not friends.”
His brows furrow, eyes going hard with an ugly snarl accompanying them, you feel braver when Tommy and Joel are around so you hold his gaze, not flinching away.
Tommy is the one to ease the tension. He lays a hand on Tucker’s shoulder and squeezes, drawing the man’s attention away from you. “I’ll get you what you want a’right Tucker? It’s on me. Just go wait outside.”
“But—”
“Outside, Tuck,” Tommy repeats and you shudder at his tone.
Tucker’s shoulders drop, defeated, “Fine, get me a raisin bagel.”
He doesn’t wait for Tommy’s response and heads out the bakery. You finally release the breath you’ve been holding, your muscles relaxing along with the exhaled breath. Joel is by your side in the blink of an eye, his broad shoulder brushing yours providing comfort.
“You sure you’re a’right?” he asks, gently curling fingers under your chin. “The prick didn’t do anythin’?”
“Nah, nothing. He’s all bark but no bite. He asked if he wanted to join me today as if that buffoon wouldn’t get me killed.” you shrug, men being assholes was nothing new to you. You’re just glad that in Jackson it seems that there are more good apples than rotten ones. “Too bad even paradise comes with drawbacks.”
Joel snorts as Tommy cuts in, “Maria would be thrilled if she heard you calling it paradise.”
“What are you smiling at? You think you can find anywhere better?” You playfully nudge Joel with your elbow. “You know there’s nothing but hell out there.”
“I do, I just think callin’ here a paradise is a bit of a stretch is all.”
The line moves and the three of you are finally at the counter, “You’re just a grump,” you tease Joel before turning your gaze to Poppy, the barista who knows everything about everyone. “Hey there, Poppy, the usual please.”
“And a damn raisin bagel,” Tommy adds.
“Well, isn’t it my favorite trio,” Poppy grins. “I’ll get all that ready for you in a second,” she locks her blue eyes on you and leans closer, you mimic her by instinct. “By the way have you heard of Ian? He wound up dead right outside the chopping block, an axe right through his chest.”
You frown, “Good morning to you too, Poppy. Jesus Christ.”
“I’ll confess I didn’t love the guy but isn’t it worrying that there’s a killer among us?” she murmurs while stuffing the goodies in paper bags. “Be careful out there.”
“Well, if the culprit is here I think I might be safer out there,” you say and turn to Tommy. “Does Maria know?”
“Of course, she does,” when you part your lips to say more, he lifts a finger and shoots you a crooked smile. “It’s confidential.”
“Aw man, can’t you just tell us who she thinks it is?” Poppy asks, Tommy shakes his head and she lets out a dramatic sigh, “I miss my murder mystery books.”
“I’ll try to find you something while I’m out,” you say, ignoring the way your heart began to race. Jackson is still a small town, it’s jarring to think someone might be out there, looking for their next target. “Though I think we could all do with a little less murder.”
You hadn’t expected your voice to crack but your tone had betrayed you. Poppy extends you the bag of goods and a latte, as you reach out you feel Joel’s hand on your waist. His lips touch your ear. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’m sure whoever it is is only goin’ after those who deserve it.”
You lock your eyes with him, blinking heavily at the weight of his words. His voice had dropped, nothing but gravel as he whispered the words into your ear. A cold sensation slithers down your spine, chilling you to your core and making your throat tighten.
His hand never leaves your waist as the three of you head out, and after a while, that chill slowly dissolves into a pleasurable warmth.
You find solace in the woods. You love Jackson, but being in the woods away from everyone and everything makes you feel comforted. The first time you went scavenging, there was a slight fear in your movements; no matter how good your aim was, any kind of infected was difficult to kill.
But now you walk with ease. There isn’t an ounce of worry in your bones. The trees rustle happily and the smell of flowers and pine fills your nostrils. You can feel your lungs rejuvenating with every breath. Trickles of orange sunlight pour from the gaps of the trees. The sun sets, meaning you need to set up camp soon.
While unpacking, you think of this morning. How Joel and Tommy stepped in when Tucker started bothering you. Honestly, you didn’t need their protection; Tucker is just one of those men who think they might have a shot if they bother you enough times. Still, it was nice to be claimed in a way, to be accepted into a family and cared for.
Your breath hitches slightly. Tommy, you see as a close friend, a brother perhaps, but Joel... Joel is another thing. Just thinking about him is enough to start a wildfire between your legs. You wish you were brave enough to do something about it, though. Whenever you two patrol together or stay awake late at night drinking, you always chicken out in the end. It doesn’t matter how his hands linger on your thighs or his eyes drop to your lips; you're just never convinced that the Joel Miller would be interested in you beyond a friend.
An unease starts to settle in the pit of your stomach. As the air grows colder with the approaching night, your skin prickles and you feel the phantom sensation of claws dragging down your back. You set the tent as quickly as you can, your eyes darting around the depths of the forest. Briefly, you bend over to adjust the ropes.
A breath warm and damp ghosts the back of your neck and you jump, gun in hand as you turn around only to find—
Nothing.
And no one.
Your heart is hammering in your chest, adrenaline pumping in your veins, a drop of sweat trickling down your forehead. You've never had a trigger finger, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't want to just shoot every shadow you see.
“Dammit Poppy,” you mutter, annoyed that she gave you the brutal knowledge of Ian’s death right before you were heading out. Guilt stings at your heart. Ian was an asshole for sure, and you don’t exactly feel bad that he’s gone, but still, it was an eerie thought that someone had murdered him so violently. It had to be personal.
Some part of you wishes Joel was here, or even Tucker, just another human being to tell you you’re just seeing things.
You take a deep inhale and follow it up with a long exhale. You’re fine. There’s no one here.
You give your surroundings one last suspicious look before going back to setting the tent.
No matter how hard you try you can’t shake the feeling of someone watching you amongst the shadows.
Joel hears crickets and owls. The night had always been his friend since the outbreak. He had become a violent man with an equally violent heart. He waits in the shadows, watching. Laughter and playful shouts echo from the bar, and soon the door swings open; the man he's been waiting for crawls out of the establishment, shit-faced. The drunk man shouts his farewells and staggers toward his home.
Joel follows, his mask heating up the skin that lays underneath. His fingers itch with the need to wring that asshole's neck. One by one, he had been cleaning Jackson for the better. His tendencies subdued while also doing some good. Ian was one of those people who deserved it and Joel had enjoyed the chase, the pleas, he especially enjoyed the way he tripped and cried right before he sunk the blade of the axe through Ian’s chest.
Tucker trips, making Joel want to laugh. The idiot might not even realize he’s being hunted. Joel looks around, they are far enough for the chase to begin. Tucker continues to slip and fall as he attempts to get up. Taking the opportunity, Joel walks towards him with quick steps, making sure the first thing the asshole sees is his mask.
Tucker notices him before he gets up, his hands bracing the ground, his eyes go wide, “What the fuck?”
Joel only tilts his head. He sees the trembles rolling down the other man’s body, he relishes in his fear.
“Look man, I don’t want any trouble, whoever the fuck you are so. . . scram.”
Joel’s eyes dart to his hand on the dirt, without a second thought he lifts his foot and curb stomps Tucker’s hand. Then he kicks the side of his face, an audible crunch echoing before his scream could. The man whimpers and falls back in his attempt to crawl away. He holds his jaw, blood streaming down his broken nose.
“Who the fuck are you?!”
He steps closer and watches as Tucker’s eyes bug out. He’s too drunk to properly run away or even scream. Such an easy target. He grips the other’s hair and lifts him to his feet, he can feel the strands starting to rip from his scalp one by one, Tucker’s face twisting in pain. “Your worst fuckin’ nightmare,” Joel answers eerily calm. It doesn’t matter if Tucker recognizes him. He’d be dead soon enough anyway.
“P-Please,” he begs, realizing the same thing. “I’ll do whatever you want promise. I don’t want to die.”
Joel grunts, not dignifying his pleas with an answer. Lifting his other hand, his knuckles connect to Tucker’s face with a loud crunch, body flying to the ground headfirst.
He pulls out his knife and drops down, ignoring the ache in his knees, he grabs Tucker’s arm and aligns the sharp blade against his wrist. Tucker notices, his face going pale as a ghost. “D-Don’t—”
Joel doesn’t bat an eye as blood spurts violently over his clothes and the dirt. Drops of crimson seeping into the fabric. The knife cuts through the flesh like butter, severing hand from bone. His hand clamps over Tucker’s mouth. Joel smiles as his screams bounce off of the palm of his hand.
You come back to Jackson hand empty and earlier than intended. You were too much at unease, and being so jarred wasn’t the best while scavenging for supplies alone. During your trip, you did end up scribbling something for Poppy. It wasn’t finished but you hoped she would enjoy the first draft of the first chapter. It was mostly descriptions of what you felt, a cat-and-mouse game between two people who had bumped into each other accidentally.
While heading into Jackson, you notice a crowd in the distance. You promptly get off your horse and walk with haste. You recognize Joel and Tommy easily, both brothers standing on each end of the crowd like gates keeping a herd of sheep in check. Ellie is standing right next to Joel, lifting herself on her toes to see; Joel is holding her back by gripping the cap of her hood.
“What’s going on?” you ask.
Joel turns to you, his eyebrows raising when notices it’s you and not some random person he has to ignore, “You’re back,” he says. A statement rather than a question.
“Yeah, wasn’t feeling that well,” you shrug him off. “So what happened?”
His eyes turn to steel, his jaw locking in place. Before you can ask again, he gestures for you to move up the crowd with a tilt of his head.
“Lucky,” you hear Ellie murmur as you walk ahead, gently pushing those who were looking at the sight with concern. With every step you take, the murmur of the crowd fades into the background, becoming nothing more than white noise. Maria is addressing the crowd, you think, though you're not entirely sure. The scent of blood is thick in the air, disorienting you as you get closer.
Your eyes go wide, the earth slips from beneath you but your expression remains emotionless.
It’s Tucker.
You feel as if you’re standing alone. As if you’re the only one taking in the sight of absolute horror and gore. Tucker is lying in a pile of his own blood face first, his eyes are open and lifeless, his one hand is outstretched like he’s about to crawl away.
His right hand, however, is chopped off.
It’s not even a clean-cut. The edges of his flesh are jagged and crooked, his blood-caked where his hand should be. Whoever did this cut it so it would hurt, so he would suffer tremendously.
You can’t help but gasp, covering your mouth with your right hand. You begin to shake, confusion churning in your stomach as bile coats your tongue. He’s dead. Just like Ian.
When Maria’s eyes find your own, she narrows her gaze, a small warning for you to keep it together. You can’t though. How could you? Tucker was alive and kicking a couple of days ago, just being his annoying self around Jackson.
“Calm down,” you hear Joel mutter into your ear. You shiver at the brush of his lips. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Safe. You want to laugh. You don’t even know what that word means anymore.
Joel’s mouth moves over the shell of your ear, “He was a nuisance. Don’t feel bad now that he’s dead.”
“I didn’t want him to die,” you hiss back. “And knowing there’s a serial killer out there doesn’t exactly make me feel safe.”
Despite your half-angry tone, you find yourself leaning into Joel’s presence. Your shoulder presses into his broad chest, and without missing a beat he wraps his arms around your shaking frame. Relief comes in the form of warmth spreading along your chest, tingles forming at the tips of your fingers and toes. The voices of the crowd gradually come back but you only hear one of the many questions.
“What do you think the message means?”
Confusion crosses your face, brows furrowing as you try to make sense of it. Joel makes a choked-out sound that could’ve easily been taken as an amused chuckle.
Then your eyes drop to Tucker’s outstretched hand and his dying message written in blood.
O W L
A week had passed since Tucker’s death.
You've been thinking about both murders relentlessly, trying to piece together everything that you know so far. During this time, you're grateful for Poppy, who comes by almost every night to help you try to solve the case. That's been your sole focus for the past few weeks; you haven't been scavenging since you spooked yourself so badly that you returned early, only to find Tucker dead.
Some part of you thinks that the eeriness you felt that day was a sign of what was about to happen. It's also an odd coincidence that he ended up dead the same night he harassed you in the morning. However, there are no forensic investigators in Jackson, so it’s almost impossible to determine the exact time of death. That fact alone makes you anxious. It only means that whoever is killing everyone has nothing to worry about because even if they leave traces, who’s going to know?
In order to keep your nerves in check you end up writing a lot. You haven’t shown any of it to Poppy yet but you’re excited. You never thought writing a thriller would be the perfect way to escape the horrors of your actual life. At least in your stories, you have control.
You also visit Joel and vice versa.
Something had shifted the day he held you as you both gazed upon Tucker’s lifeless body. Maybe it was just you who felt bolder since death was once again right around the corner — or maybe Joel just felt more protective now, wanting to check on you as much as he could.
“You’re really writin’ a whole ass novel?” he asks, pouring you a glass of scotch. You still can’t get over the fact that it nearly tasted identical to the actual stuff. Jackson is truly a miracle; at least when bodies aren’t dropping left and write.
Ellie’s at a sleepover, which means you and Joel have the whole house to yourselves. With everything going on you’d expect your libido to diminish a bit but it’s as strong as ever, ready to go.
You smile as he places the glass in front of you, “Yeah,” you say, picking up the glass and heading toward the living room. “I couldn’t find Poppy anything to read and it helps me relax.”
“Relax, how?” he asks, taking a seat next to you. The couch dips with his weight, and heat crawls up from your chest to your neck when his knee brushes against yours.
“Well, it’s a horror thing. Horror slash mystery? I don’t know—whatever it is, it’s nice to have an outlet to escape what’s been happening lately.”
“So to escape brutal murders you write more brutal murders?”
You chuckle at the way his eyebrows raise, eyes going wide, “I don’t really focus that much on the gore. It’s more psychological, my sweet brute. Things don’t need to have blood to be scary.”
His grin is wide and instant, dark eyes lighting up with amusement, “What did you just call me?”
“I. . .” Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, suddenly realizing what you’d said.
“What cat got your tongue?” he teases. Joel leans closer, fingers dancing along the curve of your shoulder. You can feel the gravel in his voice. “You just called me yours, sweetheart. Does that jog your memory?”
“I also called you brute,” you quip back immediately, cheeks aflame. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Don’t it?” his palm now presses fully into your shoulder, keeping you in place in case you might run. Joel tilts his head slightly, the plush of his lips only an inch away. “I like you callin’ me that,” the pink of his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. “Say it again.”
“S-Say what?”
A small chuckle parts his lips, oddly enough it almost feels like his patience is wearing thin. He comes closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “That I’m yours,” he clarifies. “Been waitin’ to hear those words come from your mouth since I met you.”
“You’re mine,” you whisper against his lips, eyelids fluttering but not quite closing. With the confession, you feel the brush of Joel’s lips on yours. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth. You part for him with a moan, and taking the opportunity, he slides inside, tasting every inch of you.
His lips taste and feel like the forests you wander off to; it soothes you, calms your nerves, and has the taste of home. They’re chapped from the sun, yet soft. You can’t have enough of him, if he’d offered, you’d gladly kiss him forever.
Joel parts with a shaky breath, his chest heaving, “And you’re mine,” he groans, his eyes dark with arousal. It’s an involuntary action but your eyes drop to the front of his pants where you see the thick outline of his cock.
Your mouth goes dry, yet you manage to speak anyway, “Are words all you’ve been waiting for?” It’s bold, you’re highly aware, but you can’t help it when he’s this close. His scent suffocating, pulling you to him like a moth to a flame.
He stares at you silently. His thumb touches your bottom lip, slightly tugging it down. He’s not smiling anymore, only observing.
“No,” Joel answers slowly. He leans towards your ears, the thick hairs above his lips tickling your skin. “I’ve also been waitin’ to feel that velvet tongue on my cock, honey. And to feel how tight your throat gets when you take every inch of me.”
Joel blows a puff of air, it caresses your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He brings your hand to the front of his pants, dragging your palm up and down his length. You shudder. The heat of it seeps into your palm despite the thick fabric of his jeans, you lick your lips absentmindedly. “This is all for you sweetheart.”
“Fuck, Joel. . .” your eyes roll back when he kisses your neck, open-mouthed kisses laid upon your skin like a gift. Your nipples tighten and if you look down right now, you know you’ll see them peeking through your shirt.
He reads your thoughts, eyes moving down before meeting your gaze again. “Didn’t know you walked around without a bra, sunshine.”
“I only go braless when I’m comfortable,” you answer. Joel cups your breasts roughly, kneading the flesh, he simultaneously sucks on your neck, teeth nipping the sensitive skin. “Oh god,” the fabric of your panties grows damp and you clench your thighs together.
“Not god,” he says sharply, sinking his teeth into you. “Joel.”
“Joel,” you moan and arch your back, filling more of yourself into his palm. You squeeze his cock, relishing in the way he makes a strangled sound. “I want to suck you off, Joel.”
“Be my guest.”
You push him until he’s lying on the couch. You’re about to unbutton his jeans but he stops you.
“Turn around,” he says.
“What?”
His wide grin nearly stops your heart, “Want to taste that sweet pussy, sunshine. Strip down and take a seat.”
“On—On your face?”
“Where else?”
You’re too embarrassed to speak, tongue suddenly too big in your mouth. Quickly, and a bit clumsily, you strip down and turn before straddling his chest. You don’t need to touch yourself to know that you’re soaked.
You swallow, “I’ve never done this before.”
His hands come up to cradle your hips, urging you to move back towards his face. You feel the blunt sting of his nails.
“That’s alright,” he mutters. “I won’t let you fall if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m more worried about how I’m gonna move, or accidentally suffocating you.”
“What a noble way it would be to go.”
“Joel!” you laugh, playfully smacking his thigh. He answers by giving your hips another squeeze, you surrender and move back until you’re hovering over his face. Your hand planted firmly over his hip bones, you lower yourself. You shudder as his tongue licks a stripe between your folds. He moans into your cunt, pulling you flush against his face.
Meanwhile, you finally unzip his pants and pull his cock out, the heft of it bumping against your nose and lips. You drip at the smell of him and swear he smiles as he sucks on your aching clit, short-circuiting your brain with arousal. His cock throbs in your palm, a drop of precome glistening at the tip. Your mouth watering, you lean forward and clean him off. Another groan echoes within his chest and he thrusts forward, the tip of his cock kissing your lips.
Eyes fluttering closed, you suck on the bulbous head and force yourself to go down until he hits the back of your throat. You wrap a hand around the base, stroking where you can’t fit, and hallow your cheeks.
“Come on, sunshine. You can take me,” he rasps. “You’re mine, aren’t you? That mouth is meant to take me.”
Without waiting for an answer, Joel pushes his tongue inside, your walls clenching around the wet muscle—you let out a loud gasp and grind down, then you feel the sting of his palm against your ass, pain blossoming from where he smacked.
Your throat rattles with a moan and Joel takes the opportunity to drive forward, your eyes go wide as you feel the length of him sliding down your throat, cutting the air from your lungs.
“Oh, fuck—” he moans unabashedly, the sounds sending a pleasurable tingle down your spine despite the strain on your throat. “That’s it, sweetheart, just like that. Fuck, fuck—”
Your throat tightens around him, your lungs starting to burn. His hand caresses both sides of your ass, the abrupt pain of the smack from before subduing, “Relax,” he says, swirling his tongue around your clit. “Breathe through your nose. Just a bit more. . .”
Your nails bite into his thighs as you attempt to follow instructions. You relax your throat and slowly begin to breathe from your nose. It’s still difficult, but your lungs rejoice in the minimal amount of air that comes through. You make a mess of him. Saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth and down his length.
“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “Gonna fuck that pretty throat now and make this pussy come, understood?”
Eyes tearing up, you nod. From the way your stomach convulses, you know that you’re close, your skin tight over your trembling muscles. The nod is all that Joel needs from you. Holding you in place, he snaps his hips forward, burying himself completely down your throat while flicking his tongue against your clit. You scream around him, eyes rolling back as he continues to devour you and take you apart at the same time. He licks you with fat strokes of his tongue, a hint of teeth scraping your folds here and there as he fucks your throat with shallow thrusts.
You’re limp against his broad body, allowing him to use you as he pleases while all you can do is hang on for the ride. Pleasure licks the base of your spine, a searing heat caressing your skin while Joel continues to build you up only for you to fall spectacularly. Your lips start to ache, your throat squeezing around him whenever he snaps his hips forward—
And all hell finally breaks loose.
You come undone with a devastating cry only for it to be muffled by his cock going down your throat. You gush around his tongue, soaking his facial hair and mouth, Joel is underrated, licking and sucking until you’re shaking above him, every bit of tension draining from your body.
Joel comes shortly after, his hand slides from your waist and he manages to reach out in order to hold your head down. You don’t have a choice but to swallow as he spills down your throat, thick spurts of come going down while he shudders and pushes even deeper.
There’s so much of it, cock twitching and throbbing in your mouth until your mouth sucks him dry. You’re lightheaded from the lack of air; you find that it adds to the pleasure that’s buzzing in your veins, your cunt still pulsing with the heft of him still buried in your lips.
He pulls out with a satisfied groan and you manage to scoot down so you’re straddling his chest instead of head. Joel caresses your back, the gentle repeated motion sending tingles down your spine.
“That’s was fuckin’ amazin’,” he says, voice hoarse. “Are you okay?”
“Y-Yeah,” you answer sounding meek. “I think I need some water though.”
You get off, legs still shaking, but he grabs your hand, halting your movement. “Let me get it for you,” he says, sitting up.
“I’m already up,” you smile as his brows furrow with worry, the expression warming your heart. You quickly bend down to kiss him and he’s quick to lick himself into your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue. “I’ll be right back.”
You have no idea how you’re standing while feeling like jello but you manage to get yourself all the way to the fridge. You smile at the coolness touching your warmed skin when you open the door. Scanning the interior, you thoughtlessly rub at your throat in an attempt to soothe the ache a little. You grab the pitcher of cold water and notice a bit of apple pie left over.
“Hey, Joel?” you call out. He hums in acknowledgment. “Can I have a slice of pie?”
His humored chuckle follows through, “You can eat the whole damn thing after what you’ve done,” you smile and take the desert out. “Can you bring me a slice too?” he adds.
You smile and place the pie on the counter. The leftover is already two slices give or take so you decide to just take two forks with you instead of dirting a plate. Looking through the drawers, you try to remember which one is the cutlery drawer.
On your second try you find something else.
Something that makes your eyes go wide and heart throb painfully.
Your hands shaking, you pick up the owl mask from the drawer. The surface is smooth, and the color of it a light shade of brown just like a tawny owl. All the pleasant tingles fade away, the buzz of pleasure in your veins replaced by fear and adrenaline.
Heading back to the living room, you show the mask to Joel.
“What’s this?” you ask, your voice betraying your sudden outburst of fear.
Joel looks up, eyes flitting between you and the owl mask. He raises a brow, his confusion evident across his face. “It’s a mask, sweetheart.”
“No no, I know it’s a mask,” you answer, breathless. “But why do you have it?”
“It’s Ellie’s,” he stands up, his pants still unbuttoned but pulled up. You fight the urge to step away, fight the urge to flinch when he touches your cheek. “They were makin’ Halloween masks last year in school. I didn’t even realize we still had it.”
“Really?” you ask and he nods.
“Really,” Joel claims your lips in a chaste kiss, thumb stroking lines up and down your cheek. His hand slithers down your arm to your wrist and when he squeezes, you drop the mask. “Why?” he breathes into you. “Is this about the damn thing Tucker wrote down?”
You remain silent and he pulls away, dark eyes boring into yours.
“You need to relax, sweetheart,” he mumbles. “Why don’t you just allow yourself to enjoy this? You deserve to be happy.”
Your eyes widen with surprise, his words crashing into you, “I. . . Do I do that? Really?”
“It’s normal, darlin’,” he answers. “I’m pretty sure we all have survivor’s guilt.”
You let out a shaky exhale. He’s right. You were just feeling guilty of being alive when so many had died. Joel smiles back and traces the curve of yours with his fingers. “There’s that smile that I adore,” he guides you towards the kitchen. “Now let’s go eat some pie.”
No matter what though, you can’t help but turn back to look at the owl mask one last time as it lays lifelessly on the floor.
“So, tell me about this book you’re writin’?”
You let out a low laugh, “I already told you about it. What more do you wanna know?”
You stare at Joel’s back as he takes the lead, he’d decided to join you in your explorations ever since you told him how nervous you had gotten the last time. You had appreciated the gesture but still felt a tad anxious around him ever since you found that damn owl mask—
A branch snaps into two under your steps and he turns, extending his hand to you. With a smile you allow him to lace his fingers within yours, your stomach jumping a little as he tugs you close so the two of you are walking side by side instead.
“If memory serves me right we got distracted when you told me about it,” he says with that southern drawl of his. “So tell me again what it’s about.”
“Okay okay,” you smile, squeezing his hand twice. “It’s all a big mess now but the premise is that there’s this guy obsessed with this woman and he stalks her and no matter what she does, she always feels like there’s someone watching.”
Joel looks ahead, “Sounds familiar. Isn’t that how you felt last time you were out here?”
“Yeah, and it’s when I started writing it.”
“So do these two people know each other?” his tone drops, his fingers suddenly feeling like barbed wire within your hand. You swallow. “I mean in their regular lives, does the woman know that he’s the one stalkin’ her?”
You roll your shoulders, a weak attempt to shrug off the eeriness that you feel.
“Exactly. I think that just makes the whole thing creepier. He’s just a normal guy, even a friend, but he’s also the one among the shadows.”
“Interestin’,” he murmurs. “You think that’s happenin’ to you?”
“I don’t think there’s someone stalking me, if that’s what you’re asking,” you utter every word hastily, your pulse quickening under your skin.
His lips curl in a half smile, “That’s good,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to be laying awake thinking about what might lingerin’ on the other side of the window.”
“I think I’m more likely to stay awake thinking about infected,” you say with a soft laugh. “But yeah, it’s all fiction. That day I probably just got scared because of what Poppy said about Ian.”
“Probably,” Joel trails off, his steps slowing. “How do you think it’s gonna end?”
“W-What?”
He stops and so does your heart. At least you think it does.
Joel faces you fully, his presence towering, he grips your shoulders and pushes you back until the air is knocked from your lungs by a tree right behind you. Your eyes go wide. He leans in, breath tickling your lips.
“How do you think your book is gonna end, sweetheart?” he asks again, eyes gleaming with something dark. “Is the guy gonna get the girl?”
“I—I don’t know.”
All you can think about is the owl mask and how it would perfectly fit his face. He cocks his head and taking a step closer, he slips a leg between your thighs. Slick gathers at your underwear—he feels the fabric dampening on his leg and grins.
“Fear turns you on doesn’t it?” he purrs. “Wicked thing.”
Relief drowns your senses. So that’s why he got all weird suddenly, he’s just teasing you. With a laugh, your head falls back against the tree trunk, “Jesus Joel, you scared the shit out of me.”
“It ain’t my fault,” he says, nipping at your chin. “You’re easy to scare.”
“Well, two brutal unsolvable murders will do that to a girl.”
Joel lets go and pulls away, smiling as he shakes his head, “What’s it gonna take for you to believe I had nothin’ to do with those? Even in death, Tucker causes nothin’ but fuckin’ trouble for me.”
“You don’t need to do anything, I’m sorry,” you pull him back, relishing in the way his strong arms wrap around your frame. “I’ll stop being such a chicken, promise. I’m still a bit jittery that’s all.”
“I forgive you,” he says against your lips, kissing you quickly before pulling you away from the thick trunk of the tree. “Now let’s find a place to settle down for the night.”
When you two return to Jackson three days later, the first thing you notice is the crowd. Your stomach drops at the familiar sight and instinctively you reach out to Joel, lacing your fingers together. He squeezes your hand two times.
The last thing you should be feeling is relief that now it’s not possible for Joel to be the one killing all those people but alas, that’s all you feel. Relief and love.
The trade fair sprawls before you. Stalls with makeshift awnings, tattered banners, and worn tarps create a patchwork quilt of colors, beneath which a diverse array of goods is proudly displayed. The air is thick with the scent of freshly baked bread, the tang of cured leather, and the earthy aroma of herbs. Laughter, chatter, and the occasional clinking of metal form a lively symphony, a chorus of life that drowns out the ever-present background hum of death and infection.
You’ve always enjoyed the time of the trade fair. People move like busy ants, weaving between the stalls. Children, their cheeks dusted with earth, dart through the crowd, their carefree laughter that should be comforting doing the opposite. Since Tina’s death— she was one of the council members— you had been sleeping at Joel’s. Neither he nor Ellie seemed to mind you staying there.
The purpose of the fair is to exchange goods – to exchange, to connect, to share stories of survival.
Your eyes scan the crowd for Joel's familiar silhouette. He and Ellie had headed out before you since you wanted a change of clothes. Just as your gaze begins to falter, a voice reaches your ears. "Hey!" It's Poppy, she waves you over.
You navigate your way through the bustling stalls until you stand before Poppy. She's leaning against a rough-hewn post, a glint of excitement in her eyes.
“Hey, Poppy,” you greet her with a smile. “I’m looking for Joel, or Ellie, have you seen either of them?”
“Well, Ellie is with Dina, hanging out,” She points to the forest that skirts the settlement. "I saw him heading that way not too long ago."
“Alright, thanks. I’ll see you later then,” Waving her off, you head after Joel.
The trees are a bit more scarce here, there’s more room between them. The forest opens up, revealing a sprawling expanse that stretches as far as the eye can see. It's a stark contrast to the dense woods you often travel to, where the trees stand like guardians, their branches interlocking in a tapestry of shadow and light. Here, the gaps between the trees create pockets of sunlight that dapple the forest floor.
However, the expanses between trees can be deceiving, and without the markers and familiarity of the well-trodden paths closer to home, it's easy to lose your way.
For some reason instead of calling out for Joel, you decide to wander aimlessly. You’re not sure why. You don’t come to this side of Jackson often enough to feel comfortable with your surroundings and shouting his name would definitely be easier than walking without aim.
Soon enough you hear faint murmuring beckoning you deeper into the forest.
Survival instincts kicking in, you slow down your steps, making sure to step onto clear dirt instead of gravel or fallen branches. Hiding behind a rather large tree trunk, you stare ahead. In the distance, you see two men: one with his back against the tree, while the other holds him by the neck, the sharp blade of his knife catching the sunlight and reflecting it directly into your eyes.
You hold your breath and your eyes go wide. You hear the thrum of your heart. It’s the killer. It has to be.
You can’t quite hear them but you can decipher the tone of begging for one's life. The man holding the knife tilts his head slightly, your mouth waters at the prospect of finally seeing the murderer's face—
It’s the mask.
The same mask you found in Joel’s home in the shape of an owl. Your stomach churns violently, bile raising to your throat as you watch on. You rub at your eyes, take deep breaths—anything you can think of that would erase the image before you.
Goosebumps raising across your skin, you shake your head. It can’t be Joel. He was with you the day Tina died and no matter how competent he was not even he could be at two places at once.
A muffled scream echoes within the forest and your eyes snap to the two men, the owl had driven his knife into the flesh and bone. He pulls it out, and the body falls. You recognize who it is; Jacob. You heard his name a couple of days ago from Ellie, he was bothering both her and Dina because they were hanging out.
He’s still alive when the killer stomps his head in, blood splattering across the leys.
You’re frozen in place. Your throat dry and tongue motionless. The killer kicks Jacob one last time for good measure and finally stops. You observe the way his shoulders drop as if a great weight had been lifted off of them, then he looks up into the sky, the golden sun highlighting his mask.
Very slowly, he lifts his hand and takes it off.
Every feeling comes rushing back, too fast and too soon. Your tongue is alive again and so is your body, the world is suddenly vibrant with life and horror. The sun continues to caress the countenance of the unmasked killer’s face, his sunkissed skin the perfect canvas to soak up the light.
Joel.
You take a step back, every thought of precaution dropping from your mind. The forest starts to spin. It spins and spins and spins until the ground slips from beneath your feet. You catch yourself at the very last second.
When you look up you see his gaze staring directly into yours.
“Fuck,” you hiss out, quickly staggering up. The last thing you see before you start running is his extended hand as he tries to reach out for you.
“Wait!”
You don’t. You do the exact opposite of that. You run. You run for your life and those in Jackson at the fair.
You run with memories loud in your mind. How Joel had listened to you, comforted you, fucked you—
Tears sting your eyes. Every part of this feels like a nightmare that you hope to wake up from anytime soon. But as the wind hits your skin, you know that every part of this is very much real. Your chest burns from how fast you’re going, your legs starting to falter underneath you.
Before you can react, an unexpected force slams into you. The impact sends shockwaves through your body as you collide with something—or is it someone?—their presence as jarring as the jolt itself. Your momentum falters, and for a fleeting moment, time seems to slow as you stumble, desperately trying to regain your balance.
Two arms grab at you and without even seeing who it is, you start to push the person away, fighting against it like a wild animal.
“Let go of me! Let go of me!”
“Hey hey hey,” you hear a familiar voice repeat. “It’s me, you’re okay,” you’re shaking all around, only when you feel his hands cradle your cheeks do you open your eyes. He smiles when he sees your eyes flicker in recognition.
“Tommy?” you whisper. He nods and without a thought you jump him, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging him close. His arms coil around you in response, promising to not let go. “Oh, thank fuck it’s you.”
“What happened? Are you alright?”
“I—I am okay but—Joel—It’s Joel, Tommy he’s been the one behind all those murders. We need to warn everyone, we need to tell Maria!”
You grab his arm and tug him along toward what you assume is the right way out of the forest. He remains still. Turning around, you shoot him a confused glance. 'Tommy, we need to tell people.'
“Can’t let you do that sugar, sorry.”
“Why. . . Why not?” you let go and slowly step back, heart pounding. “Is it because he’s your brother?”
You wish that was his excuse. Some moral obligation towards Joel because he’s his brother, that you can relate to. Your heart still pounds for Joel and in your brain, you’re still desperately seeking an explanation.
But Tommy allows the silence to linger, your fear and worry quickly turning into anger.
“Fine, I’ll tell them. It’s wrong.”
It only takes a blink of an eye; you feel Tommy’s iron grip around your wrist, yanking you back into his chest. He holds you. Oddly tender for someone who had made your arm nearly fall out of its socket. You thrash within his arms, pulling and hitting his chest.
“We’re doing good,” he grunts. “You gotta see that.”
You refuse to listen, your ear narrowing on the sound of your own blood rush instead of his words. By some miracle, you manage to slip your arm out and punch him square in the chin. It was a weak punch but strong enough to startle Tommy.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart, calm the fuck down—” he tucks your arm back against your body and turns you around so your back is flush against his chest. You’re breathing raggedly, chest rising with every deep gulp of air. His lips touch your ear, his tone menacing, “I really wish you would’ve not done that.”
“Why?” you gasp. “You’re gonna kill me too?”
Silence follows, and with every passing moment sweat beads on your forehead, “It was you wasn’t it?” you continue. “You killed Tina. Joel only came along with me to calm my suspicions.”
Before Tommy can confirm your suspicions, you notice movement within the forest and your eyes are immediately drawn to the shadow coming forth.
“Smart girl,” Joel remarks with a half smile as he emerges from between the trees. There’s a splatter of red over his shirt but the knife seems to be tucked away. For now. “But you’re only half right, darlin’. I came along because I like spendin’ time with you.”
“Is that supposed to make me ignore the fact that Jacob’s body isn’t even cold yet?”
Joel curls two fingers under your chin, lifting your gaze while Tommy continues to hold you back. You shudder against him, a soft sound parts the younger Miller’s lips.
“He was a piece of shit,” Joel grunts. “He was botherin’ Ellie, callin’ her names, he deserved what he was gettin’.”
“So what, you guys are just playing hero? Killing everyone who’s causing trouble in town? There’s a system for that.”
“Honey,” he tuts, an involuntary warmth spreading within your abdomen. “The system didn’t work before the outbreak, it ain’t gonna work now either.”
“We protect our own,” Tommy says from behind you, breath fanning your neck. “We take care of it before it escalates. You have to understand that.”
“And why the hell would I understand?” you hiss, looking directly into Joel’s eyes while addressing Tommy.
Joel smiles, his lips curling slowly, “Because you’re one of us. And you like it when we protect.”
Your lips part with an exhale. He’s right, not that you still agree with them killing people, but you had enjoyed that primal protection coming from the Millers. It made you feel powerful, loved, cared for. All the things you craved deeply.
You ignore Joel and his words entirely, averting your eyes with embarrassment and shame.
“I just don’t understand why you did it, Tommy” you murmur. Tommy tenses behind you, his arms tightening around your frame, drawing the remaining oxygen from your lungs. “I understand the other’s to an extent but Tina didn’t do anything wrong.”
Joel looks towards Tommy, it was his kill after all and the older Miller had nothing to say about it.
“She was wrecking what Maria is tryin’ so hard to build,” he answers. “She’s pregnant, stress ain’t good for her or the baby.”
“Does. . . Does Maria—”
Tommy cuts you off, “No.”
Joel leans closer, mouth an inch away from yours as he parts his lips. “I killed for you,” You hate the way your body reacts to him, wanting to close the distance between you two despite how unsettled you feel. “Ian was a piece of shit, so was Tucker and Jacob. They don’t deserve your empathy, honey. And you can’t deny that you’re glad they’re gone.”
His hair is a delightful mess. Soft locks going in every direction. All you want to do is thread your fingers within and forget about all of this. Joel’s gaze is observant, dark eyes darting all over your face. You don’t know what he sees but whatever it is, he nods to Tommy for him to let you go and he does. Legs lifeless and shaking, he catches you, his warmth welcoming. He’s still tender with you. Hands delicate as they move over your arms, shifting you so you'll be facing Tommy.
Joel’s hand curls around your neck and holds your chin so you can’t look away. You can’t read Tommy’s expression. You’re not sure what he’s feeling. However, you think he looks almost relieved that you’re not fighting anymore.
You shudder as Joel drags his lips down your neck, taking deep breaths of your fear-induced scent. His hands slip under your shirt and cup both breaths, making you squeal. Your objection is short-lived when he brushes his thumbs over both nipples, awakening them with slow strokes.
Tommy’s gaze drops to your chest.
“He’s been watching you, you know,” Joel says. “When I had things to settle in town it was him who looked after you,” his voice drops, eyes observing his brother. “I think he deserves a bit of a show, don’t you think?”
The whimper you let out is enough for Tommy to meet your gaze curiously. Joel smiles into your skin and your eyes widen as he pulls out a knife—a different one from the one he used on Jacob, you realize with relief.
Your breath hitches as he slides the knife under your shirt and cuts your shirt clean from the middle, exposing you completely to his younger brother’s eyes. Sudden arousal pools between your legs and you clamp them together suddenly, the movement not unnoticed by either of them.
“You like it when my brother watches?” he asks loud enough for Tommy to hear. “You got a little crush on him too, sweetheart, hmm? Don’t worry, he’s always goin’ to be lookin’ out for you. That’s what family does after all.”
Your neck strains as Joel tilts your head suddenly, claiming your lips in a violent kiss. He doesn’t wait for you to part your lips for him and pushes his tongue into your mouth, licking the surprised sounds of pleasure right from your mouth. Your heart skips a beat. He presses the flat side of the knife against your warmed skin, the chill of metal settling in your bones.
When he parts away, a string of saliva connects you still. “You’re mine aren’t you?” Joel groans, lips moving over yours.
You nod in a daze and he smiles, “And I’m yours too,” he says.
Your eyes meet Tommy momentarily, the younger Miller’s lips twitch in a half smile. He doesn’t say a word as he closes the distance.
Tommy cradles your face tenderly, urging you to come close as he envelopes your lips with his own, taking you by surprise.
The kiss lacks the intensity compared to Joel’s. Tommy caresses your cheeks with both thumbs. You don’t even feel his tongue, it’s just a gradual movement of lips, a type of affirmation and comfort.
“You’re one of us now,” he says pressing his forehead against yours. You don’t know how to react or what to say and you end up just nodding, your hands fisting his shirt. Him, parting away from you almost feels painful but you’re not sure why. Tommy gives you a smile and Joel a nod before he leaves.
You and Joel stand like that for a while, in complete silence, bodies flushed together, knife still resting over your stomach.
“I only did what was right,” he breaks the silence. His tone isn’t one of asking for forgiveness or understanding. His arms tighten around you. “Are you afraid of me?” he whispers into your ear, the thick hairs above his lips tickling the shell of your ear.
You don’t answer him.
“You don’t need to be,” he continues. He allows you to move within his arms, you want to see his face, you need to see him to not fear for your life. You ignore the knife grazing your skin as you turn around, your bare front snug against his chest. “I’ll never hurt you. And you’re the only person in this whole damn town that can say that. You and Ellie.”
“What about Tommy?”
“Tommy’s priorities lay elsewhere.”
He doesn’t allow you to inquire further about what he means by that. All you can detect is a hint of anger that quickly dissipates when he claims your lips once more.
You’re lost in him. His tongue captures you in a way that makes you forget the blood on his clothes—on his hands. His tongue slides against your own, pressing until you’re moaning into his mouth, your knees faltering at the knife smoothing down your skin.
Before pushing you down to the ground, he takes off the shirt he cut in half completely off of you, your bra following the pile on the grass. Your breath hitches as he takes his place between your legs, his mouth devouring your neck, “Joel. . .” you moan, fisting his shirt and grinding up to feel at least a bit of friction.
A silent laugh seeps into your skin, his breath sending shivers up your spine, “Do you still feel bad for them?” he teases, laying a wet kiss between your breasts.
You don’t think much as you answer, “No.”
And as a reward, Joel closes his lips over a nipple, sucking hard until your breathing goes ragged.
“That’s my girl,” he groans, moving towards the other pebbled flesh. “You’re too good, too kind, but they don’t deserve that sweetheart.”
He hooks his fingers into your belt loops and tugs down your jeans, laving you with soft, ticklish kisses as he moves lower and lower. When you’re completely bare to him, you have the urge to cover yourself, the grass tickles your back and the wind feels colder now. Joel smiles and pulls your arms away. He lays the knife right above your stomach and your breath hitches.
“I want to taste you,” Joel says. “But not in the way you think, darlin’,” he kisses the sensitive skin right adobe your belly button, and brings the sharp edge of the knife to your skin. “I want to taste the life that pumps through your veins.”
Your eyes widen as he nicks you. It’s a small cut and blood beads at the wound instantly. He doesn’t allow it to gather enough so that’ll trickle down, he quickly presses his lips against it, your essence coating his tongue as he gives it a tender suck. You can the blood leaving your veins, a pleasant tingle echoing from the wound and spreading throughout your body. Your eyes flutter, a moan escaping your lips as he flattens his tongue against the cut and licks with board strokes.
“Fuckin’ delicious,” he rasps, pushing two fingers into you with ease. You gasp at the sudden stretch, your back arching into his touch. “So darn wet—All this for me, sunshine?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out, grinding down. “Joel, please—”
You hear the sound of his belt buckle coming undone, his breath heavy in your ear, “Since you asked so nicely, sweetheart, I’m obliged.”
You feel the head of his cock brush against your entrance, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. Your eyes close in anticipation and you whimper as he slowly slides inside you inch by inch. You can feel it, that intense fullness that can only come from him, taking his time to make sure it feels good. His size is intimidating but you feel yourself melting around him, eager and willing.
“That’s it. . . you’re takin’ me so well, such a tight little hole for me. Fuckin’ amazin’.”
He presses his forehead against yours, nipping at your bottom lip before thrusting, sending a wave of pleasure that makes your toes curl. You cling onto him for support as he pumps deeper and faster, hitting all the right spots. It takes neither of you long to climb the edge, ready to fall. You can feel the warmth of his breath, and his grip tightens on your hips. His pace quickens as the intensity builds, and you clench around him as he groans your name.
“Gonna come inside,” he slurs his words. “Gonna fill you up—shit—”
You can feel him throbbing and pulsing inside of you, his hard length contracting. As he pushes deeper into you, your insides flutter, squeezing around him. Your orgasm is ripped from you, shattering and mind-numbing. Your head spins and you cling to him, afraid that the world underneath you might slip entirely. His hot come warms you from the inside out, spilling from where his cock stretches you.
Joel remains inside until he starts to soften. He pulls out of you, leaving you feeling a longing ache deep within your core. You shudder as his come trickles down your thighs, your cunt clenching around nothing.
“Such a pretty sight,” he murmurs, entranced, as he gathers himself over his fingers and pushes it back inside you. “Try to keep as much as you can inside.” To emphasize his want for it, he slides your underwear up your legs.
You’re tied to him now. And even though you shouldn’t, you enjoy being the one near the beast. Joel helps you dress, at least helps you with what remains, and gives you his leather jacket to wear since your shirt is in ruins. Neither of you says a word as you walk back to where Jacob’s body rests. You help him bury the body, not feeling a single thing; no grief, no remorse, no sadness.
You always did have a complicated relationship with death after all.
monster!könig x f!rcursed!reader (no use of 'y/n') 6.6k words NSFW!
DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT‼️CW: extremely NSFW, descriptions of gore, implied consumption of human flesh by a non-human monster, mention of necrotic curse, monsterfucking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, knotting (no omegaverse), outdoor sex, ambiguous ending, pre-established relationship, 0% proofread, könig and reader are both fucking unhinged.
Day 01 of the Haunted Hoedown Challenge by @/inklore
taboo au (monsterfucking) + "i'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into." + oh no i'm dating the town serial killer
There is a beast in the woods, and it leaves so little meat on the bone that not even carrion birds find value in the corpses it leaves behind.
It’s a strange town in the foothills of the Austrian Alps, full of little sicknesses hiding in the corners, and you learned them well when you moved here. No one goes past the treeline at night. Hardly anyone is outside of home if they can help it. Tourists are the beast’s fodder.
Your boyfriend thinks it’s funny.
König, under his ever-present hood–a not altogether uncommon sight in your town, people come here when they have something to hide, something they are uncomfortable with or find hideous in themselves, and he has given an unimaginable amount for you out of love–laughs, sharp in the tooth.
“Anyone dumb enough to head into the trees is dumb enough to die,” he teases, but there is an arrogance and a contempt swimming deep in his bloodshot blue eyes.
“That’s coldblooded, but not wrong,” you tell him, from behind your own mask. Plain thing, blank in expression, modeled from the one from Eyes Without A Face. It covers the ravages of a curse, numb necrosis slowly spreading up your face through the years. “I still want you to get me a gun.”
“What’s a gun going to do against a thing like that?” he asks, tilting his head, the hood bagging off the curled horns that start at his temples and sweep back over his ears. “Something like that, you need silver. I’ll get you a knife. Big one. Nice and fucking sharp, Schatzi.”
The knife isn’t a comfort when the beast begins to hunt in town. It stalks from house to house, preying on people in their beds, their living rooms, their bathtubs–there is no rhyme or reason, not a whit of discernable pattern.
Only teeth-gouged bones and viscera ground into wall, tile, and carpet alike. Your neighbor falls victim, and you watch the police from your window, flinching when a veteran officer stumbles out into the fall-frosted grass to vomit, sobbing and pulling his hair.
“It got Emil,” you say, still watching through your sheer curtains.
König nearly cackles from your bed, lounging as he visits. “Good. Emil was a piece of shit. Depperte Fut.”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye, over your shoulder, before returning back to the circus in the yard next door. “‘Stupid cunt’ is a pretty strong insult. He was an asshole, but I don’t think he deserved to die like that,” you mumble.
“You don’t know all that much about your neighbors, Schatzi.”
You begin to rock side-to-side on your hips, the enormous silver blade König gifted you turning over and over in your hands, the point digging lightly into your palm.
It’s insane, the way you begin to tell yourself that you’ve seen König’s face nearly everyday for the last two years—you can see it right now. He lies on your bed, pointed teeth gleaming under his split philtrum in the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp and the red-blue flash of the cruisers. You know there is a man under the hood, however odd and satyr-seeming.
And yet. And yet.
The blade digs a little too deep, drawing a curse-blackened bead of blood. König’s eyes burn into the back of your neck, and you can only guess his horizontal pupils dilate into black holes.
Just quit your job. I’ll take care of you.
It’s a simple enough promise, and one you know König will keep, but not one you’re willing to make. You have few shreds of independence, hard-bought through years of fighting back against misfortunes and setbacks, and, no matter the depths with which you love him, you’re not willing to trade your shit wage on faith for love of a man. It doesn’t matter how helplessly besotted he is.
It’s this molar-cracking grit that delivers you right to the beast. Because you were forced to pick up an extra half shift at the hotel to fold towels behind the front desk, because you needed the money, because you wanted to pay back your beautiful, bloodthirsty boyfriend for the ridiculous blade he begat you.
The god forsaken thing lumbers down a deserted street, blocks from your little rental, and something fucking horrendous seizes you. It’s enormous, walking on cloven hooves and back-bent legs. Its arms are too fucking long, clawed, jagged. And worst is the skull, bleached white and glowing like a beacon in the dark, an enormous rack of brutally sharp horns dripping trinkets of bone and gold that glints in the street lamp it approaches.
A horrible fact hits you. It’s not lumbering, it’s wandering. Putting a massive, craggy hand on fences and peering into houses, taking its time, evaluating. You swear you can almost hear it humming.
You don’t know when your hand found the handle of the silver blade strapped to your belt under your coat, but the leather on the grip bites your palm with the force of your grip, a nauseous, cold sweat terror tearing apart your ability to think.
It’s a primal fear, one that makes you want to protect your soft, vulnerable neck, even if the blood that warms it runs venomous.
It’s a bad choice, but there are no good ones. When the beast lifts its head and scents the air, skull snapping your direction and shaking its grisly trophies, you run. You snap the huge blade off your hip and drop into a dead sprint, cutting between yards, trying to escape the horrendous bellow that reverberates through the bony chambers of the monster’s skull.
Choosing to run instead of freezing maybe bought you a few extra minutes before death decided it was time to seize your pulse in reclamation, and it hurts. The physical exertion it takes to bomb through the last stretches of suburbia before the forest closes in feels like you are breaking every bit of your body by forced choice, listening to that awful fucking thing chase after you.
Your blade makes a slicing sound cutting through the air at your side, the monster’s hooves pound the dirt as it digs in and chases after you, but, good god, it doesn’t sound like it’s even trying.
You don’t dare look back, pushing your body past agony, your lungs shredding in your chest. You’ve never moved this fast, you’ve never run this hard for this long. Your body is TV static—hissing, popping, distant—and, insanely, the urge to cry drills into your eye sockets.
You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to fucking die, stupidly and dumbly and pointlessly, because you wanted to pay your boyfriend a stupid sum of fucking money, for a stupid fucking knife that he bought you on a stupid fucking joke.
Two meters from the second worst decision of your life, the monster snaps out, rough hand between your shoulder blades, crashing you into the goddamned dirt. Your eyebrow splits on a tree root, your eyes roll in the back of your head, your hand stays manically tight on the blade, slicing your other arm.
“Schaaaatzi,” the miserable fucking thing hisses, pressing that same hand between your shoulder blades, pinning you into the freezing dirt.
Oh, god, no, it has König’s voice. It’s—it’s not him, but it has his voice, thin and washed out as low-hung fog, but you would know that voice. In hell, in high water, in the dirt with a massive, bark-rough hand grinding your skin raw through your coat—you - know - his - voice.
Furiously, you slash the blade over your head, behind your back, screaming and digging your feet in the dirt. For a brief second, as you hack at the wood of the monster’s hand and wrist, you’re even able to push yourself off the ground by mere inches. The beast growls and shoves you back down twice as hard, knocking the wind out of you, spasming your hand open. The knife drops, and you begin to blindly try digging and dragging yourself away.
“Stop…hurting…me,” the beast lows, still in your boyfriend’s voice, and you imagine a bathtub full of gnawed bones, a living room with scattered body parts, your kitchen smeared with blood like cave wall art, and you start to scream as loud as your lungs will allow, your mask filling with dirt in your horrendous and futile bid to escape. Bloody murder bellows, filled with rage, wanting to kill and consume and conflagrate.
If König is dead, you will take your pound of flesh. You will either die fighting, or win, and you will hack apart this freak-fuck’s corpse to burn in your woodstove to warm your home. You’ll mount its fucking skull on your front door, so anything else in these woods will know you won’t hesitate to make trophies of them either.
Bone, warm to the touch, presses against the back of your head. When it breathes, the air is as hot as exhaust, almost scalding your back. “Schatzi,” it bids you slowly once again.
“I’LL KILL YOU!” it rips your throat raw to shriek it, reaching back and almost dislocating your arms to rip at anything you can. Your hands fall on the dressings attached to its horns, you tear off a vertebra, and a gold wedding band, and a bracelet of rave kandi in plastic beads. “IF YOU HURT HIM, I’LL YOU FUCKING KILL YOU!”
The head presses harder, driving your face into the dirt. There is something desperate in the pressure. It spits all at once, grating and wide in a voice you know better than your own, “You pissed off a fucking witch, because you ran out of riddles to tell her, when she was ransoming you to your arshloch grandmother. She never paid. That’s why you were cursed—no one gave a fuck. But I gave her my face for you, to stop it halfway, better than fucking nothing.”
Your rage freezes immediately, your chest heaving under the weight it presses down on you.
No one knows that. Only König. He’s the only person who would know about his lonely and quiet climb up to the Scottish highlands. Besides you, and the witch, König is the only one who would know why his human face was distorted, malformed, made animalistic.
“Lee?” you pant, unleashing part of his first name, the only one he ever tolerates. And, fuck, instantly the pressure pulls away, the skull rubbing against your back to soothe it.
“It’s me, Schatzi,” the slow voice promises, nuzzling you. There’s rustling above you that you don’t dare turn to see. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
A tinkling piece of jewelry lowers in front of your eyes, and you can see that it dangles from an enormous, ligneous finger. You’re being shown a sterling silver charm bracelet. You’re being shown your bracelet, the one you thought you had lost months ago.
Your hand shoots out, wrapping around the finger, the peeling bark shearing off under your grip. You find instantly that you can pull yourself up on your hip, sitting, caged and protected under the beast’s massive body—under König’s massive body.
He shifts back onto his digitagrade haunches, holding himself over you, still offering your bracelet. He shudders at your touch on his hand, and you imagine that he may’ve never been handled with kindness in this shape. Which makes a certain amount of sense. Because he fucking kills and eats people.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, staring dead into the hollow sockets of his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, turning his head. “Why—you have me so fucked up—what have you been thinking—?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, do you have to—”
“Yes, I have to, fucker.” It’s impossible to wrap your head around the magnitude of what a simple secret and a silver bracelet has done to your understanding of the world. A complete unraveling—upheaval, utterly.
You take the bracelet from his finger, on which it fits like a ring, and push it into your wrist, sitting up on your knees and grabbing him by the underside of his jaw. Though it puts you in his blind spot, staring dead center at the sinus dimples between his eyes, it feels like you have a mote of power over him.
(If he were asked, he would say the power you hold over him could corrupt, absolutely. He would badly like you to ask someday.)
“Why are you—what are you? Have you always been like this? Or was this new, with the fucking witch? Are—Jesus Christ—why are—the monster isn’t supposed to come into town, why are you in TOWN?” you run off at the mouth, words stalling and crashing and fusing together as your thoughts overwhelm just how quickly you can speak.
And up from that impossibly deep throat–simultaneously from the center of your brain, and from all around you all at once–crawls König’s pitchy hyena-laugh, edged, always, with cruelty. He butts the jagged end of his nasal cavities into your stomach, catching on the threads of your sweater.
“Leshy, Schatzi, say it for me.”
Your hands pull his jaw closer, digging the bone into your stomach, wondering if he can feel the pressure of your deep breathing. Oh, fuck, you could crack. This is your König. You start to wonder how many of his perverse buttons you can hit, the part of you that felt shame for your attraction to what the world discarded as ‘ugly’ long ago removed from your emotional bank.
“Leshy,” you say, really leaning into the word, saying it deep in your chest. One of your hands travels the long length to the hinge of his jaw, gripping tight, directing his head to turn so you can meet one of his empty eyes. “Answer my fucking questions.”
The laugh doesn’t come this time. In its place is a near-violent whole-body shudder that wracks through you.
“Old! Alwaaays been this way,” and even in the strange disconnect of his voice from his physical form, you can tell his arousal is eating away at him in big bites–clipping his speech, broiling his brain with body heat, “can’t remember ever being young, haa-haa. And why do you think I’m hunting in town?”
Another trap, a stupid pop quiz, wanting to test your knowledge of him, or a gotcha! to check your observations and what you had missed.
Your hands get tighter, and you pull his jaw open, marveling at the sharp grooves ground into his teeth, like nightmarish, ivory rook pieces, tall and straight in the dry sockets. His chest begins to heave, his breath fogging into steaming clouds over your hands, and, remarkably, it smells like nothing at all apart from pin needles and snow.
You’d thought you’d smell decaying flesh or rotten blood. The only blood you can smell comes from your own busted brow and sliced arm, crusting black on your skin and in the fabric of your sweater as it coagulates.
“If I was working on a hunter’s instincts, I would say that Schladming has become too good at keeping people out of the forests. Even during daylight hours. It cuts down on prey,” you say, ice cold and clean as a slit throat. Your eyes flick back up to the socket, surrounded by the feeling that those glass-blue eyes of his humanoid form are drilling into you. He’s waiting for you to hit the hook. “But I’m working on your logic.”
“Oh, yeeaah,” he drawls, his hips shifting, and you feel as if he would bite his lips in anticipation now, if he could.
“Oh, yeeaah,” you echo him, “the logic of a fucking crazy asshole.” He feels like a huge grin, hands on his muscular, bunched, and flexing thighs. That detail is not lost on you. “You’re hunting in town because you’re pissed off. You reached a limit, and you got tired of sitting on your fucking reaction.”
You swear to god he moans a little. Just softly. It could be a breath, but you know him too well to dismiss it out of hand.
“That’s good, Schatzi. I like that. I like that you figured that out,” he says, definitely panting in rhythm now, his fogging breath giving away the rhythm secondary. “People are looking at you too much. I don’t fucking like it when they look at you too much.”
That’s a sudden thought that had not occurred to you, and you lash yourself silently because it hadn’t. König has always been possessive of you. Jealous. Protective. And he held grudges in ways that could spark blood feuds and successive generations of death.
Like a curse.
It’s a testament to how fucking cracked and perfectly matched the two of you are that you start laughing, stroking his orbital bones in big, pleased pats, kissing the bridge of his nose.
“Schatzi, please,” he groans, pressing into you insistently. “Promise you won’t tell. Promise me.”
“Why the fuck would I tell?” you laugh, losing track of your faculties, your very sense. What does it matter? What does it all even mean? You’ve found a man that loves you so deeply and truly and twistedly that he slaughters those who desire or deign you. You’ve found, and fallen in love with a man that would sell his face to save as much of yours as he could. “Who the fuck would I tell?”
The slope of his shoulders relaxes, and he moves closer to you, once again shielding you with the massive bulk of his body, warming you in the cold air. Tucked under his chin, you can study the soft suede-like material of his body, how the bark covering his arms gives way to a ruff of dense, double-layered fur around his shoulders and his long, muscular neck.
The rest of the muscle on him is horrendously hard, flexed like steel cabling under a layer of fat. There is something about this body that reminds you of the shape of the human one so well–long legs, a nipped waist, and flat hips built to strut and rock, all of it buttressing a broad set of shoulders.
You press your face into the ruff, pushing your fingers into it. Dear god, your hand goes deeper and deeper, and it just never seems to stop. His scent is–it’s almost familiar. He’s in there, somewhere–his musk, the metallic tang of blood seemingly sunken into his skin–but there’s so much more to it. Green, and earthy, almost like soil and moss.
A sound comes from his body, like a house settling. A deep, broad creak. The trophies on his horns rattle together, clinking like dull wind chimes. “More,” he says simply, leaving you to figure it out. Simple enough.
Your hand drops from the ruff, tracing over his convex chest, down to his stomach. Another shudder, and he pulls those big arms around your entire body, a fuller, more protective hug than you’ve ever felt.
“Schatzi–would you let me…” he breathes, a heaving sigh.
Another laugh cracks out of you, hysterical, constricted by your mask. Why not? Why shouldn’t you? You’ve always been a woman that loves monsters. You, yourself, are one. You can’t find a reason to halt your hands, nor your body, nor his desire.
In an odd show of tip-to-tail, you push the mask off your face, and kick off your boots, going for your zipper. “Yeah. Yeah, honey, come on. Show me,” you urge him, pawing at his massive waist as you struggle out of your jeans.
He groans and this obscene trill escapes his body–a low, rattling moan that travels miles through every cell of your body, his legs spreading wider. You laugh in delight and mania, watching rapt as his cock slides out of a sheath you hadn’t even caught sight of, his monstrous body a foreign land you hadn’t traveled yet, but, fuck, do you want to learn the lands well enough to call them home.
It’s heavy in your hands, a little slick, and, childishly, you almost giggle (holy shit, that is a sound that has never left your mouth in your living memory, and yet, here you are). It’s hot, hotter than you expected, and a vulnerable shade of pale, like a plant slip. Oh, and it’s elegant, almost spiraling. He huffs as you stroke the length of it, pushing your fingertips into his sheath at the base.
“I don’t think this is gonna fit,” you warn him, and it somehow feels as if you’re challenging yourself with the statement.
He takes it as a challenge for himself, though, and an aspiration to hold for you, “You are going to take all of it. I’m going to make sure.”
His massive hand comes to the back of your waist, finding your fulcrum without needing to search, pulling you off your knees to hold to beneath him. “You naked yet, or still fucking around?” he asks, breathing heavily, and you shove your jeans off the rest of the way.
“You’re being a little bitch,” you snipe, a dumb swipe at reclaiming dignity after you realize you’re so wet that it slicks your thighs, having darkened the crotch of your freshly abandoned jeans pathetically.
He throws another coarse laugh, haa-haa, shifting his massive body long, pulling you into place.
It’s on you, then, to figure out the logistics. Somehow, it just works, even through layers of physical translation. Under your hands, he reads König, loud and clear.
There’s a brief, flighty moment of terror as you rub the head of his cock between the lips of your cunt, rolling your hips to stimulate your clit against it. It is just fucking enormous, almost half again the size of his human cock. But then you grit your teeth, tipping your weight back so your shoulders rest against the dirt, bleak and unyielding ruthlessness seizing your mind.
You do not back down, you have never done it once in your life, and tonight is no different.
His head lifts, bottom jaw dropping, and he bays as you push yourself down on his length. The sound crashes into you, rocking your entire body, and the stretch burns, but you buckle down. What are the people in the houses just at the edge of suburbia thinking? Has the fucking abberation that has been slowly killing its way through their number taken to a different form of punishment? Has someone unlucky fallen to its new tastes?
It cuts your mouth into a horrid grin. If they only knew that you were no victim at all, if only they had an inkling of the fact that you are a victor. That you are the hand holding this nightmare’s collar, and he attacks for the sake of you.
Inch by inch, a slow journey, he fills you, pressing completely against your walls, body shaking with the effort it takes not to thrust fully into you. Oh, what destruction that would result in, what a wreckage that would make of your body, what lengths he would go to not ruin you in such a fashion.
“Fuck–fuck–Liebes,” he mutters, just for you, the moment he is as deep in you as he can go, most of his length still outside of what your body can handle, pleading, “I can’t–I. I have to move. Please, meine Liebes.”
“Go. Go-go-go,” you answer back, almost frantic, too full and occupied, needing motion or you might split apart into atoms. The way he answers is instant, undeniable, desperate, rocking into you as if testing waters, going faster as if he finds them warm and welcoming.
You lose yourselves to it, and your eyes threaten to roll back into your head, gripping onto the elbow of the arm suspending you, blood rushing to your head in an ache from the way you hang off him, forcing you lightheaded. Sap-like blood from where you’d hacked at him in rage drips down your arm, your waist, clinging to your skin in a way that feels permanent.
He tenses all around you, panting, clouds of steam fogging the air over your head from his pants. Words escape him, leaving nothing but animalistic grunts, the grinding of his dry, exposed teeth as your desperate pussy sucks him deeper and tighter.
You’d taught him as a human to find your g-spot, to destroy your brain with a steady climb, and he doesn’t even need to search now, every movement pressing every inch of his cock into it, and unrelenting onslaught that makes you shake and nearly drool, being fucked like a sacrifice.
König raps his other fist above your head and pulls out without warning, shaking his head and breathing roughly.
You imagine brutally grabbing him by the scruff and biting his ear–what kind of punishment would that even be, no worse than a bug bite to him, more likely than anything else–for the loss of his cock. Mostly just an impulsive fantasy, too barbaric and stupid to actually act upon, but you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, and it feels like hell to be split open against him with nothing inside you.
Breathless–and naked, sweating, and trembling in the woods–you start to sit up on your elbows, cunt throbbing. "What is it? Are you okay?" you ask, your love for him–your fear for him–overwhelming even your damnation-worthy starvation.
König, massive and so dark he's almost indistinguishable from the night apart from his skull, shakes his head again and puts up a clawed hand. Fine, the gesture says, and you’re realizing he’s beyond words now, but trying his best to communicate. Then he curls it into a loose fist and pantomimes masturbating and finishing.
"Christ!" But you’re laughing, tugging at a tuft of fur on his chest, spun out in your giddiness. It’s still him, you’ve already known, but to see it. To find him through this–this utterly new reality. "They teach you that signal in the forces?"
In his hollow sockets, twisting his body to watch you closely, he looks pleased with himself, ducking forward, bracing on his free hand to one side of your head as he nuzzles into your neck and breathes deeply.
He huffs, rough fingers running over your back, claws trailing the parts of your spine he can reach as he holds you, before he taps the side of your thigh with his other hand. At your eye level, he turns his finger in a slow loop. Roll over, maybe? It's worth a shot.
"Okay. Alright," you sigh, relieved. When you try to roll in his palm, he shakes his head and sets you down, pressing down against your body, pushing his arm under your ribs. With his other hand, he gestures a flat line on the ground. You ask, "On my stomach?"
Two knocks against the ground next to your head. Yes.
You stretch out flat over the frost-crisp grass, too hot to even register the chill against your bare skin, and König lowers with you, sliding the arm under you down to your diaphragm. With his knuckles, he taps your outer-thighs until they're drawn back together, and your breathing hitches when you understand what he intends.
With his legs on the outside of yours, he uses his free hand to run his cock up the length of your seam to tease your pussy, but he takes his sweet time with it. Impatient, you slide onto your knees with near-perfect timing, driving your entrance against his head, snarling with indignation when he bows away. "Fucker!"
He rumbles something almost humanoid, between a laugh and a gruff, trilling ‘rrrr’ you recognize as cousin to a sharp, challenging hum he makes when faced with an idiot comment in his human shape.
"Stop teasing me. I can't stand it," you try instead, turning to give him big eyes over your shoulder because you know that it works well on him.
He bends down and barely-barely nips the top of your ear, a startling move that leaves you perfectly inflamed all over again again. Greedy brat, it says to you, so pleased in the fact he is so desperately wanted.
The feeling of him inside you is extraordinary. He lubricates in this state, but you hardly need it with the nearly absurd way you’re wet, slick down your thighs. You wonder if your cunt is glimmering under the dim moon and streetlamps, because he'd said that to you once. Heilige sheiße, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen, could just stare at how wet you get for me forever, he'd laughed during one delirious, marathon session of staying sunken between your legs.
He begins to rock his hips, growling quietly and pleased at the wet sounds of your of cunt squelching around him–another sound he enjoys, a marker of pride, how wet can I make my girl get–settling onto his forearm and pressing a little weight against your back.
He rests his head across your shoulders, burying his snout in your hair, breathing in hard-bought bursts of restraint.
"Yes, honey," you almost seethe, loosening your body, giving up a little of your own iron will to become just a little lost in the feeling of him. You relax your walls in a bid to take more of him, breathing tight, voice pitching up into a plea, "Yes, baby, that's perfect. That's so perfect, keep going. Just like that."
He rocks a little faster, thrusts a little deeper, breathes a little harder. The hand around your waist shifts up to your breast, but isn't dexterous enough to do more than give it an encompassing squeeze.
With your thighs pressed together, you feel as if your body can't stretch properly to take as much of him as you want (and you want all of him, every burning hot inch, fucking him so well that he cannot disappear into one of his miseries where he will not let you follow, because they all live in his head).
He ratchets back his speed, tries a new motion with his hips. He rolls instead of thrusting, a more fluid movement, brushing your insides in new ways that leave your swollen clit screaming for attention and your eyes watering. You breathe in ragged pants, fingers digging into the turf over your head, trying not to rip it with the force of your grip by the fistful.
You might cum. You might cum. You want to cum, and you might, and he's so much deeper now, panting hot as fire against your shoulders. You can feel the muscles in his abdomen clench and dance, his horns cutting the air in swipes of agitation above you, and he is so much this way. König: bigger, sometimes bloodier, but always so, so amplified.
"Honey, honey, honey," you whine in a chant under your breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to encourage him. You squeeze your thighs together for the extra stimulation, but you know you’re going to orgasm from him alone, no extra assistance needed. You’re just greedy, you just want it all, but you want him the worst.
When he pulls out this time, you snarl loud and gnash your teeth, digging your dirt-packed nails into his unyielding skin. You were full to the brim and on the wire-edge of climax, and he is so suddenly fucking gone it's almost as abrupt as violence.
"KÖNIG!" you shout, his callsign cutting from between your teeth like the desire to slit a throat, shattering the quiet around you both, reeling to find him with your burning eyes.
He collapses onto his side, cock jumping and leaking, and he whines deep in his throat, pulling at you with the flat of his hand. Your thigh, then his hip, your chest, then his–more hand signals, a story-told like a man with a sucking chest wound needing saving. He snakes his arm under you again, whining growing deeper, and you understand.
You roll, throwing your thigh over his hip, tucking tight against his chest. You give yourself one second of feeling cool air against your overheated pussy before you take him in hand and direct him home, and his deep, slick slide into you knocks the air out of your lungs like a punch to the solar plexus.
You’re only seconds away, and he can't be much farther, driving his head under yours to give you something to rest on that isn't the ground.
You don't utilize his offering, craning your neck as if you'll somehow get a glimpse of your connection from this angle–flat against him from belly to breast, resting your cheek and forehead against his heaving chest. His whine turns into a series of small, strangled howls and gasps as your voice crawls from whimpering to keening.
You’ve known you were going to cum, but you’re still somehow surprised with yourself at how quickly it's raced up, and how overwhelming it feels like it's going to be. You feel like you’re going insane.
His other arm wraps your ribs, too, squeezing you to him like you’re the only thing in the world worth keeping close, and damn him for it. You don't know why, but damn him.
"Cum, baby, cum," you instruct, gasping when you aren't clenching your teeth. You curl close to him, as close as your body will allow, spreading your legs as wide as you can. You drive back down into his thrusts, giving as much of yourself as you can, taking as much of him as you’re able.
You want it all–everything–every little bit of blood and bone that's built him into a home he offers only to you. "Cum in me. I'm ready, I want you to cum," you demand, finding it truer than true, finding yourself right on the razor-edge.
The command is all it takes. Three hard thrusts, and he's buried in you to the base, punching the wind out of your lungs, and filling you to the point of what feels like impossibility with his spend. It forces you to finish as well, lighting you up like a lightning storm, swallowing him deeper as you cum and cum like you'll never be able to stop, soaking the both of you.
You gasp a raw-throated howl, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and you praise him as his cock kicks and kicks, emptying everything he's got to give into you.
A pressure builds inside you, beginning nearly unpleasant, until something just gives and his knot anchoring him to you feels right.
It feels special and dazzlingly intimate, and you’re boggled, again, with the knowledge you’re the only person in the world that he's ever shown himself to this way. It’s just a thing you know in your marrow, an immutable truth, like the sun setting in the west, or the cruelty of witches without their wants.
You wind down, sweating and panting and filthy in each other's arms, and you rock against him, holding him inside, clenching around him what little you can. You feel so wonderfully safe, so immaculately powerful, so stupidly, crazily, fantastically in love.
When your combined breathing evens, and the knot between you retreats, you groan when König shifts back into his human form, but only for the resituating you both have to endure.
The body against yours is familiar again, and you’re dreadfully sleepy, though you want to clean yourself and eat. You crave something raw, something bloody. You hunger the way an animal hungers after a hard fuck. His spend drips out of you now that his cock's returned to normal, and it forms a trail of cooling wet down the crease where your thigh meets your ass.
You feel lovely.
König laughs, rough and spent, tucking hair out of your face and kissing your closed eyelids. "Holy fucking shit, Schatzi," he marvels, looking at you like you are the only god that has ever mattered.
Your smile cuts sharp, and your fingers find his pulse point, tracing it thoughtfully. “You hungry? I bet you're fucking starved,” is all you say in return, eyes trailing the way his hand finds the charm bracelet newly returned to your wrist, touching it like a token.
It’s late and dark when you both manage to stumble your way back to your rental. He stays close, needy and soft, his hand on your hip, tugging you into his body when he can, careful of not knocking into the big, silver knife you’d placed back in the scabbard on your belt.
The hood is back on his head, rolled up to his nose, and his split mouth kisses against your neck and behind your ear, his eyes closed like he endures a waking dream. You, in your own filthied mask again, allow it, craning your neck to give him more room, anchoring him with an arm around his waist in return.
It is late now, and the neighborhood is silent. Again, you wonder what the quiet lives inside must be thinking–whether they think the crimes have increased into a new field of brutality, if they are fearing and wondering what body parts they will find at the treeline come dawn.
You know they will not leave the safety of their homes to investigate. They would be stupid to do something like that.
“That shower is going to feel so goddamned good,” you mutter, unlocking your door, and he nods against your skin.
“Oh, yeeaah,” he says, and the familiarity of the phrase makes you hum a laugh, shutting your eyes as you push through the threshold. "Get that blood off your skin before it stains. Your poor face, your poor arm. Poor Schatzi."
He splits off from you with a facsimile of a kiss–your masks pressing together at the mouth–and he pinches your ass before he takes off to the kitchen, his stomach growling, not even bothering to take off his boots.
You, however, kick off your shoes, and pull together clean clothes, heading toward the bathroom in the hall, the one with the big shower, in case he decides to join you.
Sleepy and content, you listen to his boots move heavily over the kitchen tile, the sound of the fridge door hissing snickt as he pulls it open, and shoves things around in his search for food. You nearly sway up to the closed door–why is it closed, you barely manage to wonder–your eyelids lead-weighted.
It takes only one thing to make them snap open wide, your back going ramrod straight. A dark smear, curling around the knob, around the edge of the door where it seams to the jamb.
Cold grips your lungs, sending your heart galloping painfully in the cage of your ribs, wondering if it really is copper you smell, or if it is a trick of your mind. The hall is too dark to tell if the swipe on the white door is red or black–if it is blood, if it is König’s or yours.
There is a presence at your back, and enormous hands on the door on either side of your head, so fast you cannot tell if you were even able to blink before you saw his wide, scarred, and knuckle-broken limbs spreading wide across the wood.
Your hand finds the grip of the knife, looking at the brutal gouges you had hacked into his forearm earlier in the night, and you are thinking faster and harder than you ever have in your life, realizing in a terrible microsecond that you will have to make a decision–that you will have to choose what reality you are willing to live with, or that you are simply mistaken.
Either way, you are moments from learning.
“Something wrong, Schatzi?” your boyfriend’s familiar voice asks, low and raspy, hot against the nape of your neck.
The laugh in his tone is cruel, and you can’t tell whether it belongs to König, or something pretending to be him.
prompts: sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)
summary: everyone comes and goes from the slaughter residence, either as survivors or stacks of meat. but as you escape and run further into the woods, johnny won't let you go that easy.
tags: DEAD DOVE - read at your own risk. smut. MINORS DNI. fem!reader. non-con. hunter/prey. knife/blood-play. descriptive injury. narcissistic johnny. fem penetration. blood hunger. choking. roughplay. slapping. kidnapped ending.
It would help to know the surroundings. Sprint the track to get to the finish line. But you’re bleeding. Your legs ache, and the tree branches are tearing at your skin. The calls of the Slaughter family echo in the distance.
Running for your life is supposed to be the escape. You’re out of the house, but your heroic end is not at a close. You have to keep running. You have to survive. And one person, in particular, will not give you up so easily.
“You’re the reason this is happening. You brought them damn kids here. You go get ‘er!” Drayton told off Johnny, waving his bloody stick towards the exit you stumbled out of.
Johnny was cool in his stance. He is cleaning his knife, sharpening its blade. He admires the glint of it in the moonlight, a sly smirk winking back at him in its reflection.
“Keep yer panties on, old man. I’ll get her,” He brushes off the Cook, swaggering towards the gate.
With his family seeing him off, Nubbie chuckles and cheers him on. Sissy claps and howls. “Bring her back fresh now, ye hear!”
Johnny was not going to share. He wants to play with his food and keep you all to himself. Once he finds you, you’re going to scream. He will have your insides, grip your flesh and suck your blood. His family will not have a nip of you. You’re all his.
The beginning of the hunt sent Johnny’s instincts into overdrive. Your shadow mystifies into the forest, and he picks up the pace to dive into the belly of the beast. He grunts as he sprints, inhaling the air. He was only human, but everything in his attitude was animalistic. A coyote in a man’s body, wanting to catch your scent, embarks on the trail you left behind and chases you until your soft flesh is between his teeth.
Deep within the sun-dried trees, Johnny halts his speed and listens to the silence. He peered his hearing for the snap of a twig, the ruffle of a leaf, anything to assume you were close by. He crouches to the earth and calculates the ground. His eye caught an indent, your shoe print heavy in the dry dirt, the heel dragged out, exposing your struggle. Johnny was mesmerised for a moment, then he advanced, tailing the track of your footprints to the direction of your hiding spot. He arrives at a dead end, cursing under his breath. He catches a look above, checking the trees, but both the trees and you are too fragile to hold weight. His eyes scan the horizon, wondering how far you have gone.
“I’m gonna find ya soon enough, sweetheart. Why don’t you come out, and we can get this over with?” Johnny called into the night, his skin tingling at the thought of you nearby.
He was closer than you thought. Tugged low in the dip of the earth, you bite the inside of your cheeks and muffle any sound of panic that threatens to burst. You may be bleeding, tired, and traumatised, but you will not give up. If he wants you to meet the same faint as your friends, he will have to come and get you.
At the deafening silence, Johnny sighs. It was long and drawn, but it soon shifted into a chuckle, and he gripped the handle of his knife tighter. “Fine, I like the challenge.”
Johnny advances, his footsteps descending to whisper when you decide to leave your hiding spot. You drag your limping body in the opposite direction, clenching your side as a cramp takes over. You look around with alert eyes, hoping to find an opening or another hiding spot if he is close. Your hope dwindles at the same scenery repeating: trees, branches, dirt. Over and over. No sounds alert you, making your eyelids droop and blur your vision. You look down at your body, your clothes drenched in blood, giving sense to your lightheadedness. The blood loss and dehydration were slowly creeping up and taking over you. Legs wobbling, making you fall.
“Come on,” You whispered, “You can do this.”
Johnny had his eyes on you. He watches you struggle, crouching within the dry branches. Your pain and fatigue amuse him, reassuring him that mortality can be handy for this line of passion. He loved a prey’s fear, how it ignites them with the endurance to keep living. Yet, the thing that is chasing them will always catch them. It can only get them so far. It lets them die with a fight still in them. People call that honour, but to Johnny, it is the thrill of the game.
It has been long enough. Johnny watches you collapse, grunting at the pain taking over, your knees buckling as you try to crawl your way further. Johnny cracks his neck and readies his blade, his heavy steps approaching you.
“I gotta hand it to ya. You got some fight in ya,” Johnny mused, towering over your struggling state.
The widening of your eyes made Johnny chuckle, tuts leaving his mouth as you began to sob.
“Come on now, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Not yet, anyway,” Johnny grips the back of your hair, yanking your head from the ground and crouching down on top of you. His legs saddle your sides, squeezing in to hold you in place. You catch the glint of his knife hovering over your throat, threatening to slice if you struggle.
“Ma mama always got at me for playing with my food as a kid. I never grew out of it. Y’know why?” Johnny presses his lips to your ear. You could now hear the husk in his voice.
“Because I fuckin’ love it,”
Your hands grip the earth, and a scream bellows from your strained throat, sirening through the trees, making birds take flight. Johnny shoves your head to the ground to silence you, pressing his blade tighter to the skin of your throat.
“You shout one more time, and I’ll cut you,” He spat, causing you to dwindle your struggle into small whimpers.
“Just kill me, please,” You plead, Johnny on top of you, detecting that you would rather be dead than be at his mercy.
Johnny enjoys having the upper hand far too much, grazing his gloved hand down your spine, lingering on the skin exposed from your summer blouse. He glances at the cuts littering your exposed arms, blood dripping from a knick on your shoulder. Johnny licks his lips in anticipation, locking his lips on your wound. You gasp, cringing at the suction from his mouth, his tongue swirling around the cut and soaking his mouth with your blood.
As if energy surged through him, Johnny groans at your taste, licking his lips dry. Your taste is sweetly metallic. He has never tasted something so pure—the blood of a lamb or a calf, laced with innocence and avoidant of bitterness. Johnny’s eyes wander down at you like the discovery of the Holy Grail. “You taste amazing.”
Johnny grips your arm and manhandles you to lie on your back, your arms feeble in your struggle. Johnny scans your body for more wounds, grunting in annoyance as most were muddy grazes. His legs add pressure to your sides, his hand nipping at the hem of your blouse.
“Keep still,” Johnny orders sternly, moving his knife to your shirt and cutting the thin fabric with the blade. You whine in defiance, but your top is torn off completely and tossed to one side. Johnny stares at the curvature of your bra, tucking his knife under the band and slicing it swiftly. Your breasts graze with goosebumps at your exposure. You squeeze your eyes shut from the humility. Johnny runs his knife down your left breast, the blunt end teasing your hardening nipple.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” He breathes out, removing his glove with the pinch of his teeth. His bare, rough hand grips your breast, making you squirm. You glance up at Johnny, the maddening of his eyes, the flex of his muscles as he holds you in place. Sweat glistens on his face. You feel warmth between your legs as Johnny’s bulge presses against your stomach.
Without warning, Johnny slices a small incision on your soft breast, making you gasp from the shot of pain. Johnny immediately locks his lips on the fresh slice, his tongue collecting your new blood, letting a groan vibrate against you. He sucks your breast as he would with your nipple, except his infatuation is solely on your blood. Your fingers lace through his hair, and you attempt to yank him away, but he points his blade quickly to your throat.
“Move your hand, or I’ll cut you open,” Johnny threatens, pressing the blade hard, alerting panic within you.
“I can’t- I can’t do this, please,” You beg, “I want to go home,”
“Is this not want you want, darlin’?” Johnny teased, “Your cunt says otherwise.”
His head motions down and between your legs, sliding his fingers along the denim fabric of your shorts. Your throat hitches, and your legs tense, locking eyes with the darkening stare from Johnny.
“You want this, I know you want this,” Johnny mutters against his lips, “Let me make you feel good. I need this, darlin’, you gotta give yourself to me.”
His lips lock roughly with yours, his kiss hard - possibly laced with a lingering passion. You taste your blood on his tongue. You moan unexpectedly.
“See? You taste so good. Let me taste you more,” Johnny said as if he were asking, but you know you have no choice.
The sound of panic bubbles in your throat as you feel Johnny’s hands unbutton your shorts, yelping as he tugs the tight fabric down your legs. He crawls his fingers under your pants, catching your slick cunt with the tip of his fingers, collecting your wetness. Johnny groans, reaching his fingers to his lips and licking your juices. Just as sweet as your blood, warm and intoxicating.
Johnny grinds his hips down onto you before unbuckling his jeans, tossing his belt to your eye level. Your eyes trail to the sky, your mind dissociating at the sound of his jeans undone. Johnny preys your legs wider apart with his thighs, the tip of his cock at your entrance.
“You’re so wet for me, darlin’. Still sure you don’t want this?” Johnny’s pride swells at your defeat, pupils dilated at the sight of yours glazed and lost.
“I would rather be dead,” You said airily, almost inaudible. Johnny narrows his eyes, power swelling in his muscles. He wants you to beg for his cock or mercy; it does not matter.
Without warning, Johnny thrusts his cock inside, and pain shoots up your spine. He was big, more significant than you have ever taken, and he was stretching you out. You squeeze your eyes shut, and the tears trapped in your waterline pour down your cheeks. You silence the yelps filled with pain to adjust to the horrible feeling. But your cunt was wet, wet enough for Johnny to thrust deeper inside you and hold his length firmly inside you.
“Fuuuck,” Johnny groaned. Your walls clenched around his cock, and his hands grip the sides of your waist. “Sucha tight little pussy,” Johnny chuckled.
You shift your body back and forth to adjust to the pain, but it paralysed you, and Johnny drilled you deeper into the ground with the weight of his body. The cool earth stings your wounds and gathers in the grooves of your skin. It is disgusting. It is revolting. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Fuck you,” You spit at Johnny, manifesting your cunt to grow teeth and bite his cock clean.
Johnny furrowed his brows at your revolt, burning a glare to your core. “The fuck you say to me?” Johnny smacked your face, stunning you, but you force eye contact.
“I said fuck you, you fucking-“ Your rage stopped short at the shuddering pain shooting through you. Johnny digs his knife into your side, toying with an open wound. You squirm, scream, try to pry him off you, but his other hand pins your wrists above your head, and his cock is stuffed deeper inside you.
“You really think talking to me like that is a good idea?” Johnny scoffs, watching the pain in your expression with perverted fascination. “Such a stupid ‘lil brat. I need to teach you a lesson.”
The pain melted into numbness. Your eyes drift further away from reality, and Johnny amps his stamina. It seemed neverending, his cock pumping into your cunt, the depth of his thrusts consistent. Johnny’s body towers over you, his knife tossed to the side. It proved useless as your body grew limp, the strength of Johnny’s arms pinning you in place enough to restrict your escape. No more were you retaliating to Johnny’s dominance.
“That’s it, good girl. Take it,” Johnny grunted, but he was not satisfied with your reaction. Lying there as you get fucked dumb, staring into space. He needs you to be compliant, to be grateful. Johnny tugs your hair and forces your gaze onto him, bathing in your bewildered stare.
“C’mon girl, I know you want this. Say how much you want it,” Johnny demands, continuing to rut into your pulsing cunt.
“I-” It was hard to string words together, but you had nowhere to look except deep in Johnny’s hunter eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours.
“Say it, fucking say it,” Johnny grew impatient, smacking his fingers over your cheeks, hoping that knocked sense into you.
“I want you, Johnny,” You sobbed, mesmerised by his insanity.
“Yeah, you fucking do. Start thanking me for fucking you so good,” Johnny enfolds his cock deep inside, holding it in place until you speak what he wants to hear.
“Thank you,” You swallow the lump in your throat, “You’re so good at fucking me. I want you to keep fucking me.”
Swelling with pride, Johnny exhales a deep groan and continues to drill into you, picking up the pace. He felt his climax ascending from his core, gazing at the bounce of your tits, your plump skin covered in the blood he poured from you. He bites the inside of his cheek.
“I’m so close, darlin’. Fuuuck,” Johnny wraps his callous hand around your throat, suppressing your air flow until you see stars.
Johnny rutted his cock to ride his high. You feel the strips of warmth melt from your slit as he pulls out, his pants hot and misty against your neck. Your eyes trail over to Johnny, buckling his jeans and quickly putting on your underwear and shorts.
“Sorry about your blouse,” He mutters, removing his tank top and putting it on you. There is no point in convincing yourself he did it out of the kindness of his heart, as it is to carry you back to the place you tried to escape from and not make the rest of the family suspicious.
Johnny lifts you and tosses your body over his shoulder, your mind and body too exhausted and petrified to wiggle from his grasp. “Let’s take you back home,” He says.
Home. That place was not your home. But to Johnny, he is making it your home. There goes the days of elaborate escapes, deception and retribution. He will have you wrapped around his figure. He shall convince you that no one else cares for you. Only he will protect you, care for you, and love you.
𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you."
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ okay, I haven't exactly finished a piece in a good while. so this one is sort of serving as a warm-up and if it's terrible (which I have a good feeling it is lmao), I'm gonna have to ask y'all to be gentle on me. I've loved this man for a while now and this is sort of experimental. tl;dr: I am a sensitive little baby right now so treat me as such.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), obviously a pretty massive gap in both age and power, depictions of blood and death, could be read as dub con at first (if you squint really hard) but firmly lands on the side of full con, a lot of religious mumbo jumbo (lmao let's ignore the fact that I know almost nothing about Catholicism <3), so much blasphemy, oral (female receiving), a twinge of sub!Paul, and that's all I can think of!! let me know if more is needed!!
(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)
Behind closed eyelids, all you saw was darkness. And through that darkness came white hot agony. It was practically blinding as it shot up your spine before detonating in your brain. Those little fragments of pain speckled across the inside of your skull.
You wanted to scream, hurl, cry, something. Anything to physically release the intense pain assaulted your nerves. But you wouldn't be granted that mercy. No.
For now, your suffering was confined to this unending darkness. For now, you waited in the void of your own being for the tragedy to subside.
For weeks you anxiously waited for the return of Monsignor Pruitt from his mission trip. Though spending your afternoons looking after the dementia ridden clergyman wasn't exactly your idea of a good time, it was far better than slumming it with Beverly Keane. After all, you were 99% sure that whatever Bev heard managed to make its way all around the island.
Crockett Island was a melting pot of rumors. By now you'd heard the stories; the mythology of the island's residents had woven together to form a complex tapestry. And the longer you stayed, the more you realized how little you desired to be a part of it all.
But you didn't have a choice. Whether you liked it or not, Crockett's citizens had already spun your narrative.
Everyone knew how your mother had taken you away from the island at the ripe age of five years old; saving you the heartache of being raised by an alcoholic father. Part of you had always been grateful for it despite how tough it had been being raised by a single mother who hardly had anything to her name. Yet you couldn't help the guilt that poured into your lungs like cement whenever someone mentioned how much your father had suffered before he died.
Because that was the only way you would've gone back to the island that lived in the shadows of your memory: death. And upon meeting Monsignor Pruitt, it became clear that death would also be the only way you'd want to leave.
The relationship that had bloomed between you and him was a humble one. He'd offered to talk you through your grief which you'd promptly denied. Though you attended services, you weren't much for religion and you weren't about to embrace it fresh off of the death of a father who was practically a stranger. It felt disingenuous.
Finding God is reserved for real tragedies, right?
You'd asked the question like it was a joke.
Monsignor Pruitt had merely tilted his head before replying in that lilting, raspy voice of his: Depends on what you think qualifies as a tragedy.
With a quick eye roll, you'd written the answer off as one of those unbalanced moments of his. Over the course of a few months, you'd become well acquainted with them. Going to services and keeping him company was something to do. Something other than rifling through decades of your father's clutter and further entangling yourself with the community. Something other than being reminded of your own wasted potential.
Strangely, the monsignor felt less like an all seeing eye and more like...a friend. And now, faced with his "temporary" replacement, you were finally certain of what qualified as a tragedy to you.
From the moment Father Paul had addressed the church, you were unsettled. He may have been perfectly kind and personable enough, but his mannerisms edged on the uncanny valley. It was the way he spoke during sermons and how that tone rarely changed during one-on-one conversations. Though he couldn't have been older than thirty, he often held himself as if he'd been around the block more times than anyone could fathom. It was easy to chalk it up to his nature. Of course the man of God had an eerie way of making you feel like a puny mortal.
But Monsignor Pruitt had never made you feel like that. You couldn't brush the thought of the old man out of your mind.
Every time Father Paul attempted to placate your worries, it only pushed you deeper into the depths of distrust. Somehow you just knew he was lying.
And for all of Father Paul's wisdom and mystique, he wasn't a good liar. His tone would shift as he glossed over your concerns with a quick reassurance that Monsignor Pruitt was recovering just fine on the mainland. When you felt brave enough to press him for more, he'd wring his hands or squeeze them into fists. Almost as if he had to physically stop himself from reprimanding you. After all, who were you to question him?
When your eyes finally opened, your vision was overwhelmed by the light. Softly, slowly, the light haloed around the head of a figure that carefully came into view. As your sight sharpened, you quickly realized who stood over you.
The man you held the most wariness for was kneeling over you. His long face wrought with concern, the alarm bells were already blaring in your muddled mind. But as much as you tried to force the air from your lungs to scream, you could only let out a pathetic, strangled squeak.
That was when he spoke. His voice shook with what sounded like uncertainty, "You mustn't overexert yourself. You're still coming back. But don't worry, you'll be yourself again soon. All in due time."
No matter how much you tried to speak, to move, neither of the actions came to you. All you could do is watch as Father Paul pulled your paralyzed body into his arms and cradled you. And as the potency of your helplessness settled in, you vaguely felt tears prick at your waterline.
Normally, you would've rather died than allowing yourself to cry in front of someone, especially in front of the father. This time you couldn't control the few tears that slid freely down your cheeks, landing on the father's hand where he gripped your still aching shoulder.
He noticed them immediately and let you out of his grasp long enough to stare into your glossy eyes.
You couldn't quite decipher the intent behind the softness of his gaze. But somehow it was enough to allow the nausea that had slowly been rising in your chest to subside.
Father Paul raised a hand to cup your face. His thumb carefully stroked your cheek, sweeping away the wet trails left by your despair. And whether it was from your sensitivity or the intimacy of the act, you didn't know. But your skin shivered.
As you gradually regained the feeling in your body, you realized that the first thing you felt after the pain was him. The inherent warmth of his embrace. And in some fucked up way, it was comforting. Feeling like prey, you blinked back the rest of your tears and allowed yourself to soak up as much of him as you could; anything to get rid of the dull pain that plagued your nerves.
You noticed there were tears brimming his own eyes as he smiled softly. "There, you mustn't cry. You've been so brave and in return you've been blessed."
It was then that you began to regain enough cognizance to question what was happening.
Flashes of memory played each time you blinked.
That damned question had been on the tip of your tongue again.
So you found him in the recreational center. There he’d been, on his knees, praying fervently.
Hopefully you're praying for the monsignor's return.
You regretted the words almost as soon as you'd said them. Because as soon as Paul turned, he gave you that dark look that rarely graced his features. This time he hadn't even tried to hide it with his usual discretion.
He merely stared right past you with his eyes wide and pleading.
You hadn't had the chance to see the thing that attacked you fully. But you felt its teeth at your neck. You felt your own blood dripping from your neck in such a thick stream that the dizziness came almost as soon as you hit the ground. You felt the rough, pale skin of the creature as it smothered you, greedily devouring every ounce of your life.
Of course you were surprised to find yourself lying on the sheets of Paul's bed in his modest home, but that shock was the least of your worries. How were you still alive?
He told his tale as your body mended itself. You didn't know how much time passed. All you knew is that you were enraptured with the sticky sense of dread that was growing in your stomach as he spoke.
You were acutely aware of just how much it sounded like a sermon. How, whether he was aware of it or not, he was pulling out every stop in the preacher's handbook to try and convince you. And if he didn’t sound so convinced himself, you would swear this was deliberate manipulation. But nothing else could possibly explain his youthful appearance and all that he knew. He could recite your history right back to you despite the fact that you’d never once trusted him nearly enough to give it. Only the monsignor knew your deepest fears and your darkest secrets. But this wasn’t your monsignor.
Father Paul was some new beast; an amalgamation of the sweet old man you’d once known, the deceptive preacher who took his place, and some other supernatural force that you couldn’t quite name.
Though you’d only caught half a glimpse of the creature, you attempted to express your terror. That only spurred him on further as he contended that when an angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds upon the birth of Jesus, it deliberately told them to not be afraid.
But none of that explained himself. None of it allowed you to comprehend how Monsignor Pruitt could've shed decades of life; how the old man could now stand there, blood drying on the bottom half of his face, and look at you as if you were something he could have.
You didn't have to ask. You knew by then that when the creature had had its fill of your blood, Father Paul had pulled the scraps of you away for himself. The thought hit you dangerously and made something deep inside you rumble. Like a natural disaster, this had unearthed a litany of complications that you never could’ve anticipated.
“We are at a crossroads," Father Paul said gently before letting his conviction surge again, “Now, you once said that finding God was reserved for those experiencing tragedy, correct?”
You nodded sagely.
Father Paul grasped your trembling hands in his own, “Have you not experienced one of life’s greatest tragedies? The ending of it? You fell right over the edge of life and before the waters of death could claim you, He brought you back. Hebrought us together.”
You shook your head in defiance.
“This was meant to happen. This was part of His plan, for our faiths — our lives — to be renewed.”
With your throat still stiff and dry, you croaked angrily, “There was nothing wrong with my life! There was nothing that needed to supposedly be renewed!”
He raised his voice suddenly, “Why did you come to this island?”
“Because my father died.”
“A father who was no better than a stranger to you,” he recalled your own words quickly. If the monsignor had been wise, Father Paul was as sharp as a knife, taking his jabs at you with complete accuracy. “You didn’t have to come here. You didn't have to make friends with a crazy old man. By the grace of God, you were led here. You were led here so you could be shown this truth; this gift. And you are denying this gift."
You had to admit that your draw to Crockett had been strange. At first you'd attested it to some childhood curiosity. But you'd deliberately put off taking care of your father's run down property, instead opting to spend time walking in the light of Pruitt. In truth, his companionship had been a breath of fresh air.
Though the people of Crockett adored him, it was always tinged with pity. You'd never pitied him; only admired him for his wisdom and his resilience.
Paul's expression softened as he held your face in his hands. "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you." That was when you saw the edges of his wisdom begin to lift and fall away like a second skin he'd crafted over his own vulnerability.
Underneath it...he was simply a man. A man who wanted to save you.
“Let me give you more. Let me show you how you can trust me," he whispered.
The first kiss inspired an odd mix of emotions in your chest. There was the coppery tang of dried blood on your tongue, strong enough that it took everything in you not to flinch away from his hold on you. But you remembered his reference to the angel and the shepherds.
Do not be afraid.
So you continued, deepening the kiss with a turn of your head. And for all of the worldly experiences Paul had, you became acutely aware that this sort of connection was not among them.
Whether there'd been any true romantic feelings for the aging monsignor, you couldn't quite say. But your fondness of him had transferred to the man before you. Granted, the transfer wasn't smooth, but it was there nonetheless. Somehow it was stronger than ever as he took your hand and brought it to his lips. The kiss he pressed against your palm was slightly tacky with your own half dried blood still lingering.
You brushed a lock of his wavy, dark hair back so you could properly meet his gaze. With the shroud of time having fallen away from his features you could see just how handsome the man was. It was a hesitant sort of attractiveness; as if the banner of God had prevented him from seeing his full potential.
He'd fed on your life and made himself new. And the thought of your monsignor living on in that small way...all because of you? The electric twinges that sparked in your chest were almost too much to bear.
Without fear you devoured him in another kiss. Quickly the mood turned from reverent to ravenous as Paul attempted to keep up with your fervency.
He couldn't remember the last time sin had overpowered his sense of morality. Because he knew in the traditional sense, this was pure sin. No matter how wrong he believed it might have been to let his hands roam your figure, in his bones it was a temptation that finally felt correct. There was none of that hesitance or shame or fear that he'd felt before. The pendulum had shifted on morality and he knew exactly what he needed to do.
Hardly a moment was spared as he tore into the long skirt and the underwear that had kept you modest for far too long. Perfect beauty like this had to be cherished.
So that is what he did. Planted firmly between your legs, he stared up at you with eyes that gently pleaded for permission; for salvation. With your own half lidded eyes, you nodded before spreading yourself open for him.
Like a flower, you bloomed beautifully and Paul groaned at the sight. He could practically feel the thrumming pulse before him as it waited to indulge him. His hot breath teased you and made sparks dance right beneath the surface of your skin. Still you stayed in place, patiently allowing him time to drink in the sight of your folds already puffing and glistening with slick.
Quietly, you heard him mumble something that you only caught the tail end of.
“–forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
It wasn't too long after that when his tongue found a home in that tight, warm crevice. Your hand knitted itself into his dark hair as you searched for something to ground yourself from the overpowering sensation. Something about this new condition of yours heightened every aspect of pleasure.
If you were in your right mind, it would make sense logically considering you'd felt the unbearable pain of your spine shattering and being put back together again. But this was overwhelming in the entirely opposite direction.
You experienced the pleasure on a cellular level as your climax rushed through your limbs. You seemed to feel the vibrancy of every emotion and atom that comprised your being. Nothing was spared from the glory of this blessing. Not your spasming cunt as it contracted around Paul's blessed tongue. Not your heart that was firmly on the track of restoration. And not your mind as it all at once fell apart in time with your quivering thighs. Blood pulsing, every single one of your pores felt more alive than ever as you finally embraced the higher power that had been waiting for you in the shadows all along.
At that moment, you believed it all. From the Angel to Father Paul's divine transformation to the euphoric paradise that enveloped your entire being...it was all real. And most of all, it was all yours. Thanks to the father's grace and generosity, you would create paradise with him. And that seemed possible. After all, with his head between your thighs, you’d both already created one.
so this is a small contribution to the 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 challenge by @inklore and @psychedelic-ink, thank you guys for helping with getting the creative juices flowing <3 hope you all enjoy this freaky thing, as always reblogs and comments are super appreciated xoxo
dark! stephen strange x reader, stephen strange x reader
based on the prompt: i keep seeing them in my dreams and i wake up with bruises and marks on my skin, it's definitely just wild dreams, right?
warnings: dubcon/noncon elements, hints of somnophilia, smut, i'm pretty sure this is not how the astral dimension works but lets indulge!!!!, this is 18+ content, minors dni.
You dont know what it is. This feeling you get when you wake up in a cold sweat after an incredibly vivid dream about him.
The air around you feels like its sort of humming, like the ringing silence after the sound of loud music stops.
Its not empty, its lingering.
You think you feel him lingering. The fizzling yet tingling feeling of his lips against your skin. You swear you can even smell his cologne, the overpowering scent enough to make you dizzy.
The quickness of your breath almost makes you embarrassed. Like you had just run a marathon in your sleep.
Pathetic. You chuckle at yourself.
Its been weeks since he had let you down easy, or at least thats what he had decided to call it. He had told you that whatever it was you two had going on needed to stop for the sake of keeping you safe.
From what? He never really told you what he did for a living.
And yet here you were, dreaming of him. Again.
Stephen Strange had broken your heart, yet at night you were living out your most shameless fantasies about him. As if your brain hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that he had ended things with you.
It had been happening often. But this time, when you walk over to your bathroom to splash some cold water on your face, you see it.
In all its purplish blue hue. A mark, on the side of your neck.
When you go to touch at the skin there it makes you flinch with the sensitivity, and the shock of it makes a gasp get stuck on your throat.
What the hell?
The feeling brings to your eyes fleeting images, of the way Stephen would relentlessly attach his lips to your skin. Holding you in place, forcing you to take what he was giving to you. The vibration of his groans mixed with the lewd sound of his harsh suckling.
"I have to show my face tomorrow you know?" You would tell him. Just to feel his rumbling laugh hitting against your pulse.
"Im counting on it sweetheart" Stephen would reply, because of course he wanted everyone to know the things he did to you behind closed doors.
The last time that happened was a month ago though. Why does it feel recent?
A thought crosses your mind, Was it really a dream?
You stumble back on your feet, heart pounding in your chest.
No, no. Its just a bruise. You tell yourself. Just another random bruise.
…
Stephen was way past the point of no return. The guilt had vanished after the first two visits in his astral form, when you had starting showing signs of being so affected by his presence even when you remained unaware.
His ego had soared to an even higher plane, if that were even possible.
He remembers the first time you had whispered his name in your sleep, at the time he thought that somehow you could detect him being inside your room. His eyes grew wide in surprise in that moment, all movements of his ceased.
But he kept watching, and then a proud smile overtook his face. You were only dreaming, of him.
Days after now, he’s watching you sleep again, carefully observing. Memorizing the rhythmic sound of your breaths. You’re so close. Close enough to touch.
And he knows he’s an idiot, to have ended things with you. To make you think he wasn’t good for you.
If you could only see him now. Taking desperate measures just to have you near him again.
And then it happens again, like so many of the nights before.
Your breath hitching in your sleep, a high pitched sigh of his name. Just his name.
You’re dreaming, and by the way your body writhes he can tell its no ordinary innocent dream. He can't help the knowing smile that spreads on his face.
He watches, how your chest begins to rise and fall with shallow breaths. How little desperate noises escape your lips.
What are you thinking about sweetheart? He wants to ask, but he knows he actually can't do that in his current state.
God he wants to taste you again.
He didn’t know that touching you in the alternate dimension would have such real world repercussions. He remembers your panic at the sight of the mark he had unabashedly left on your neck, and oh had that made him wild with something evil and possessive.
Its not like he had a choice, when you were so enthusiastically moaning in your sleep during the whole process.
He wished he could have seen what intense dream you were having about him that night. But of one thing he was sure, it was his doing. Even if he were yet to understand how.
Every time he visits and sits on the side of your bed and graces his hand against your unsuspecting skin its as if he watches in real time your subconscious kick out every single other thought and just leave space for him.
Sometimes you're sweet, most of the times you're naughty. He cant help but shake his head in disbelief whenever he knows its the latter. Needy girl.
Stephen flinches only for a second when you shoot up in bed, panting, red flooding your cheeks. And he expects you to do the same as every other of the recent nights, to go freshen yourself up, maybe go make a cup of tea and wind down.
He doesn't expect you to slip a hand down your barely-there underwear.
You dont know, but while you're touching at the most sensitive part of your body Stephen is staring at you in awe. Almost as if pain were tearing apart his features. Breathing so sharp it punches out of his lungs.
He's starting to regret remaining imperceptible to you, that he would have to head home and drive over to your apartment to actually do something about your poor little desperate moans.
That and that every time he thinks about getting off from your bed and return to his body, you elicit an even more pathetic whine of his name.
It makes the most selfish of thoughts flood into his brain. And then an idea pops into his head.
I wonder, the thinks.
He lets a hand of his roam slowly across your chest and down to your stomach and he watches your eyes widen in surprise, maybe even fear.
Your heart is jumping out of your chest, uncontrollable goosebumps keep rising on your skin. Its making you start to shake with something a-keen like dread, like your body is trying to escape an unexisting threat.
"Stephen?!" You ask, feeling like you're losing grip on your sanity because in reality you're just speaking into the dark empty space of your room.
A shame, that you cant really perceive the roguish way his eyes are glued to his traveling hand that eventually reaches beneath your own.
Theres my girl. He thinks, when you inevitably moan at his invisible touch. This is going to be fun.
tags/warnings: cursing, sexual content, jealousy/possessiveness, choking/breathplay, edging, begging (mdni, 18+)
a/n: as a horror fanatic, i am doing my civic duty and participating for one (1) day in the haunted hoedown. i randomized the prompts and received the following combination:
au: vampire/supernatural
dialogue: “tell me what you want me to do and i’ll do it, no matter the cost.”
trope: cursed/fuck or die
kink: jealousy/sharing/possessive
prompt: i keep seeing them in my dreams and i wake up with bruises and marks on my skin, it’s definitely just wild dreams, right?
let's see how ridiculous this gets :)
It started about a week ago.
Every night you would go to bed and have the same dream. You were standing in nothingness; a complete void of darkness swallowed you. There was no sound, scent, or feeling you could latch onto to ground yourself in reality. You were alone in a perpetual state of limbo.
Until you weren't.
Like clockwork, a pair of brilliant, emerald eyes cut through the haze like a blade. They move slowly, gleaming as they float towards you. At first, they terrified you. The otherwordly vibe they possessed used to have you backing deeper into empty space. But now? You swarm to them, as they've become your only comfort in this godforsaken place.
"Welcome back, [Y/N]." the familiar, sultry rasp is deafening in the silence.
"Hi." It comes out as a pitiful whisper as finally, the irresistible owner of those eyes emerges from the darkness.
"Hi yourself," she purrs, a smirk stretching across her sharp features. Her teeth are on display. They're jagged, like a shark's.
You want her to devour you.
She always acts first. Her hands are on you, slotted on your hips as she buries your body into hers. Hot, wet lips are dragged down your neck as her teeth mark the base of your throat. You forget how to breathe and instead, hug your arms over her shoulders. A hand snakes into her hair, your firm grip keeping her stationary.
Her chuckle makes your clit throb.
She must know that too because one of her hands withdraws from your hip, only to slip underneath the front of your pants. Her finger pads brush against your clothed cunt and you keen. You're rutting against her hand, stealing as much friction as you can get away with.
Thankfully, she lets you do what you please. In fact, she is all too happy to slide underneath your underwear and plunge two fingers into your weeping pussy. You stumble forward from the sudden intrusion, allowing her to support your body weight as her fingers piston in and out. You feel the heel of her hand grazing your clit and your head jerks back, breath sputtering. You're close.
She drags the flat of her tongue up the column of your neck before nipping at your earlobe. Her lips part and her breath fans against your cheek. Her tongue darts around the shell of your ear; you wish it was on your cunt instead.
"You'll get that tomorrow, honey."
And that's exactly when you wake up: painfully edged, completely horny, and with the sinking feeling of someone sitting on your chest. Every morning presents new bruises and marks for you to find on your body. It's getting harder to cover them up. This isn't normal.
None of this is normal.
But the mystery woman haunting your dreams—she said her name was Shane at some point—was too alluring to ignore. You didn't understand where the amalgamation of her came from; there was no one you knew or knew of that resembled her. Was she some random figment of your subconscious?
No, she felt too real for that.
Maybe you just needed to get laid. In the real world.
And that is exactly what you decide to do tonight. Dressed up in your best outfit and with your friends on speed dial, you go out clubbing. Dancing, drinking, and debauchery ensue, and in the early morning hours, you're saying your goodbyes and bringing a girl back home with you. You don't remember anything about her, but hopefully, she'll help you forget.
You like how she eats pussy. It's slow, deliberate, and patient. Writhing in bed, your thighs clench around the stranger's head as she kitten licks from your slit to your clit. Her hands knead your breasts and a moan bubbles from your throat.
"Sha—" You catch yourself. "Shit."
"This okay?" the girl garbles and you pull your knees in, pushing her face deeper into your pussy. She gets the hint and picks up the pace, twisting your nipples so that you arch off the bed. An electric current ripples through you as you cum in her mouth, panting heavily. It was good, but the rogue thought of Shane doing better runs rampant in your mind.
The girl doesn't stay the night; it's almost as if she knows her role in your fucked up experiment. Once she finally cums, the both of you dress and you walk her out. You close and lock the front door before exhaling a long, heavy sigh. The sex was good, but she wasn't Shane. You were nauseated with yourself, desperately trying to think about anything else but her as you shower. This was sick. Real or not, Shane had you in a chokehold.
You needed sleep—real sleep.
You step out of the shower, dry yourself off, and wrap the towel around yourself. Turning off the lights, you exit the bathroom before stepping into your bedroom.
"Who the fuck was that [Y/N]?"
You knew that voice.
Seated at the foot of your bed was the woman you'd seen in your dreams for the past week. Shane. Except, she didn't look like she usually did.
Far from it.
Ram horns protruded from her head and curled around her pointed ears. Fleshy, batlike wings were tucked into her back, and—what the fuck—was that... a tail swishing behind her? None of these features were visible in your dreams... besides those teeth. You must have been too busy fucking yourself on her fingers to notice.
You open and close your mouth, gaping like a fish as you try to form something coherent.
The chance to is lost. Shoving you into the wall, Shane's fingers are squeezing your throat, and her other hand pins your wrists up. Your towel drops and her tail slips around you, gathering your wrists together to free up her other hand. You don't know if the wetness between your thighs is from your shower or arousal.
"Who is she?" she seethes and you are so overstimulated that you can't even comprehend the question being asked. All you can manage is:
"You're real?"
Wrong answer. Her grip tightens and you choke. The corners of your vision begin to darken. Shane bares her teeth in a grimace and the fact that her fangs are a comfort to you is appalling. You clench your thighs together.
"Of course I'm real," she hisses. Her intense gaze drops from your face to your groin, watching your thighs shuffle. Suddenly, her chokehold loosens and you greedily suck in a much-needed breath. It soon turns into a strangled moan as her free hand shoves at your thighs and cups your cunt. Two fingers slide easily through your velvety folds before she looks back up at you.
"You didn't answer my question."
Shane uses her knuckles to pinch your clit and your hips cant forward. This was real; she was real.
"I don't remember her name," you stammer, writhing against the wall as she stares at you. At this point, you don't even remember what she looked like. Shane pauses for a moment as if she's deliberating with herself. She then nods her head, releasing the oversensitive nub before wiping your slick against your thigh. Something possesses you to speak again.
"Shane, are you jealous?" There's a smile in your voice, even when you're the one pinned between her and the wall. Her gaze snaps back up at you and she scowls. Your eyes are gleaming with the realization and you can't stop your dopey grin.
"You are so jealous."
"And you like being manhandled," she quips, causing you to clam up and flush. The pressure on your neck returns and you wheeze, shuddering against the wall. Shane watches you intently, a permanent smirk growing across her face.
"Sue me," you rasp, eliciting a genuine laugh from Shane.
Suddenly, her hand releases your throat. As you cough, you feel both of her hands now on the backs of your thighs, pushing you farther up the wall. Your pussy is at Shane's eye level and she examines your swollen lips intently.
"No human has satisfied me like you have."
You observe her as she dissociates into your cunt, noting the way her fingers bury into the corners of your inner thighs. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, slipping through the top row of her spiky teeth. Shane knows you're watching her and her green gaze flickers back to your face. Her tail slithers up your back.
"But," you begin, furrowing your brows. "You've never let me—"
"I feed off your sexual energy," she states mundanely, as if the two of you were discussing the weather. The tip of her tail slides over your shoulder and begins to wrap itself around your neck. Shane's legs shift and the tail squeezes gently around your throat. You twitch, swallowing a moan. She turns back to watch your pussy as it involuntarily contracts.
"Your pleasure is my sustenance." Shane's face sinks further between your legs as her tail is taut around your neck. "Even if I don't make you cum."
The thought of this encounter playing exactly as your dreams do elicits a frustrated but garbled growl from your lips. Your fingers are threaded in the brunette's hair, death grip tight. It served as a warning with the limited power you had in this situation; Shane was going to finish what she started.
"I like edging you, [Y/N]," she whispers, her teeth gliding across the soft skin of your thigh. "It reminds you how much you still need me."
She snickers at your impatience.
Just like now, the sentence dies on her tongue and reverberates throughout your head. Her mouth envelops your cunt and you gasp, arching into the wall. Shane is everywhere all at once. Her tongue slips through your folds, flicks your clit, and burrows itself inside of you. Her thumbs pull back your labia for better access and you buck your hips as far forward as you can. You yank Shane's head forward and her tail squeezes your neck. Your exhale comes out as a croak and you blink back tears.
"Shane," you warn hoarsely, canting forward desperately. You weren't going to last much longer at this rate.
So she completely recedes. Her lips pull away, but you can feel her breath dissipate on your pussy. The grip on your neck completely loosens; her tail is now draped across your shoulders. Gulping in a ragged breath, you groan.
"Shane!"
She doesn't react.
"Shane, please." You can't believe yourself. You were going to beg a literal demon to make you cum. If you weren't so hyperfocused on your own pleasure, you would have cackled at the absurdity.
But the begging does something to Shane. Her ears twitch and she perks up, staring at you through her lashes.
"Please what?" she simpers, watching you squirm. She bites the flesh of your pubic bone and you yelp. "Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it, no matter the cost."
Your mouth goes dry.
"Please," you begin again, chest heaving. "Please don't stop; Shane, I'm so close."
"Yeah? You want to cum for me?" You nod frantically, shifting your legs as her tongue drags across the bruise already forming.
"Yes, for you." A primal switch flips inside Shane and she halts entirely. Her fingers grope your thighs and she allows you to vice her head back between them.
Only for you.
It's exactly what Shane needs to hear before devouring you entirely.
My entry for the Haunted Hoedown created by @inklore and @psychedelic-ink. Day 7- stranded au or slasher / summer camp au + sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)
Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO)
Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader
Rating: 18+ (Major character death, stranded in the woods, post apocalyptic life, non con, mentions of previous experiences of non con, suicidal reader)
Summary: Stranded alone in the woods and left to die, all you can ask of Joel Miller is the mercy of a quick death. He is willing to give it to you, but he needs something for himself as well.
A/N: It’s another Joel Miller weekend here at lokischocolatefountain. I have a husband!Javi locked and loaded, ready to go. But Joel demand my attention once again for the haunted hoedown. So Javi has to wait another week.
You were safe.
Well, safe from the men who had captured you. But other dangers awaited. If you were lucky, it would just be starvation, an encounter with a wild animal or a fucking heart attack. But you didn’t think your good luck would stretch that far. You were already that the raiders who killed and raided the belongings of the men who captured you did not seem interested in you. It was a goddamn miracle.
Ropes bound your arms behind your back and your legs to each other. Either the ropes were tied too tight or you had become weaker over the past ten days of captivity. They didn’t have much food to spare you. Only the small pieces of rotting meat that they fed to you on the condition that you suck their cocks.
It wasn’t as though you had a choice when tied up the way you were. There were other women held captive with you- younger, prettier, less willing to comply and more appealing to the men as they liked a challenge. You were one of the older models, beaten ragged by life both before and after the world fell apart. For them, a woman was a woman. No matter how broken you were, there was always more to break. No matter your age or how fucking crazy you’d gone from survival, you had a pair of tits and three holes. For most men, it was more than they could dream of. For you, separated from your group and all alone, it was the only thing you could barter.
Now there was no need for any of it. You would decay on the ground along with the fallen leaves and the blood you’d spilled when the men cut through your clothes. The last of the women after another one decayed just a couple feet away from you. Yours was a fate better than the girls who were taken away by the raiders. Experience had taught you that. The last time you’d been in the hands of such a group, you were younger. They used you to their heart’s content and then sold you to a man for a good price- a whole goat, a bag of rice, a record player and a couple of vinyls, and a leather jacket. Pretty good stuff. If you had to valuate yourself now, you’d probably go for a small fraction of that- maybe just the leather jacket.
You would no longer go for the same price. You no longer had the strength to kill the man who purchased you like you were just a thing.
You swallowed, your throat aching for water. But all you got was the piercing pain of a hundred jagged pebbles scratching your throat. One of the factoids from an old encyclopedia popped up in your head: It takes x days for dehydration to cause death. Unfortunately, your brain hadn’t thought to pay more attention to the number, leaving you with no information.
What you knew was that it took one day of dehydration to wish for death.
Daylight withered away and darkness descended in the woods, matching the darkness of your thoughts. In the pitch black night with no stars or even a sliver of the moon, whether your eyes were open or closed did not matter. In the times before, it was advised for women to return home before nightfall. As though danger only lurked in darkness. As though men did not behave atrociously in broad daylight. Shaking on the ground from the cold, dehydrated, near death, your biggest fear was still man.
It was why the snapping of twigs and crunching of leaves under a heavy footfall struck more fear in you than the sight of the infected ever did. Man.
Measured. Careful. Not infected. Man.
He could just be passing by.
It could’ve been delusions inspired by dehydration and starvation, but the footsteps sounded just a little louder as the seconds passed. He was getting closer.
Joel Miller didn’t know, but your body already played to his beat, your heartbeats responding to the sound of his footsteps. Pills from Atlanta passed on to him from his contact rested in his backpack, the currency with the highest value in the QZ. His hand itched to take one pill for himself. Just one. The nightmares of losing his child flashed before his eyes even before he could succumb to the weariness of the journey and sleep. A pill would help.
Don’t get high on your own supply.
He needed to be at his best state of mind since he was traveling alone now, his companion having been taken out by a clicker on their journey. But God was it tempting.
Darkness enveloped the woods. The moon and stars had abandoned Earth for the night, afraid that if they shone their light on the land, they’d see its haunting wreckage. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but it still played tricks on him. For a second, he believed he might have seen a figure move on the ground.
Leaves rustled and crunched beneath his feet. His hands immediate grabbed the gun he had at the ready, the muzzle pointed to the ground. It hit something— someone, he realized when it gasped.
“Please,” your low, shaky voice begged. “Please shoot me.”
He would’ve thought he misheard. Who’d ask to be shot when threatened with a gun? But such was the world in which they’d lived. Death was sometimes more desirable than whatever horrors life had to offer. Joel had survived, somehow. Violence and the sheer human instinct for self preservation kept him around until now, even a decade and a half after the collapse of society.
He brought a lighter close to the ground and lit it, the little golden flame illuminating your bloodied and bruised. He noticed that your arms were bound behind your back and legs tied together at your ankles.
Joel understood you didn’t have long. A day maybe. Longer if you were fed and hydrated. He himself was not interested in charity. If someone else happened by you and you were able to convince them to toss you a piece of bread… But you didn’t want charity. You asked for his bullet, not sustenance.
Bullets didn’t grow on trees.
“Good news. You’ll be dead by daybreak.”
“Please,” you whimpered in a low gravelly voice, mustering up all your energy to beg for this small act of mercy.
You hadn’t asked for his precious rations or water. Only that he finish you off with the weapon he pointed at you. He dropped his belongings somewhere in the vicinity, not bothering to dignify your request with a response.
Joel lied down on the ground in the vicinity in a sleeping bag, his pack serving as a pillow. Sleep did not come easy. He merely rested his eyes, his sense attuned to his surroundings even when he was meant to rest.
When the sun rose, he rolled his sleeping bag and set it inside a hollow tree before heading to the pond nearby. He returned, having washed up, ready to resume his journey back to the QZ. Curious about you, he went to the site where you were last night.
“Please,” you begged once again. “Before you leave. Please.”
He nudged you with his boot, your weakening body rolling to the side and giving him a good view. One bullet. But what a waste of a good body. He could help you in return for something for himself. There was a brothel in the QZ, of course. The oldest profession carried on right under FEDRA’s nose. They pretended to not notice. Sometimes, they’d conduct a raid and arrest some women under the guise of maintaining the law. An excuse for the FEDRA guys to have the women for themselves for the night.
Joel did not indulge in such services. He didn’t see the point in spending precious ration cards just to get off. His spit and left hand were enough for him to get by. But you were free of cost.
“Since you asked so nicely…” he drawled, withdrawing his knife from its holster. He sliced through the ropes that bound your ankles together. You didn’t know his intentions though you’d come to expect it from men over the years. If he wanted to take advantage, he surely would’ve gone ahead with it last night. Sure, Joel hadn’t intended it at first. But now that you were available…
Reliable contraception had died with the world. Too risk averse in this specific matter, he’s contented himself with the rare blowjob. Pussy was a delicacy he hadn’t had in a while. You didn’t protest as he tore your pants off of you, finding skin beneath.
“Be good and I might just kill you in the end, darlin’…” he promised and you spread your legs, cooperating, being good so he would consider it. You didn’t know when the next person would pass by this place. Even if someone did before you could die a slow death, there was no assurance that they’d kill you rather than prolong your miserable existence.
“Wha’s your name?”
“Joel.”
Joel. Joel brought a damp cloth to your face, wiping the blood and dirt off you. It was…strange. It felt as though you were being taken care of. It wasn’t the case of course. But it felt good to believe he was taking care of you. It was the first bit of humanity you’d experienced in a very long time.
The blade slipped under your half torn t-shirt, cutting up the fabric that had done a poor job so far of giving you any dignity. His large hand roamed your now naked torso. Calluses caught on your somehow soft skin. The sensation was the first pleasant thing you’d felt in a long time. You attempted unconsciously to lean into his touch, but your weakness kept you glued to the ground. Even the cold blade of his knife felt good. You’d gone mad, surely. This was definitely a stage of delusion caused by your dehydration and starvation.
He cupped your cheek and leaned down, capturing your lips with his. It was as though you’d forgotten to kiss. The men who took interest in you were less concerned with making use of your lips for a kiss. If Joel had put his cock between them, you would’ve known better what to do. It seemed he’d also forgotten. He wasn’t kissing you. He bit and sucked and devoured.
Your hands were still tied behind you. They dug into your back. But it didn’t hurt as much as Joel’s hand supping your tits. Even the animals who last had you under their control were gentler than this. But you weren’t too offended. It hurt. But there would be sweet death at the end of all this pain. So you embraced it fully, letting out nothing but a little whimper as a sign that you were at all affected by his touch.
Even in your state of near death, you could tell that he was a handsome man. Grey interspersed black curls on his head. Patchy beard hid rugged, sun damaged skin. His aquiline nose would’ve inspired sinful thoughts in you had you been further away from death. In a normal world, he would’ve been getting a drink at a bar and you would’ve noticed him.
Joel spit on his hand and rubbed it around on your dry cunt. With his thumb and forefinger, he parted your cunt lips before inserting his middle finger. Inch by painful inch, he penetrated your unwilling body that was attached to a very willing mind. There was no water left to be spared to wetten your cunt for the man.
“C-cut me,” you suggested, desiring the penetration to be smoother. If this was the last time you got to be fucked, it wouldn’t hurt to hurt a little to enjoy the last few minutes on the mortal plane. “Bl-blood.”
He seemed to understand your weak implication. You hissed as the sharp edge of his knife cut through the top layers of your skin. Red blood oozed out and he swept his hand over it, collecting the blood and smearing it over your cunt. He slipped a finger inside you, lubricating your hole with your own blood.
He knelt over you, his knees on either side of your body. Then he unzipped his jeans, the teeth of the zipper making a scratching metal sound. He was a good length, girth and veiny. He stroked himself as he stared at your bloodied hole.
Fucking a dying woman using her own blood as lube. Of all the messed up things he had done, this was easily on the top ten. Not that he maintained an actual list. Despite her decrepit state, she looked welcoming with her legs spread out and eyes on his cock. He bent your legs at your knees, your body pliant in its weakness. You were a thing of rare beauty in his journey. Nature had reclaimed its place, growing between abandoned cars and splitting into giant overpasses. This, you, were another part of nature to him.
Woman, all beautiful in your vulnerability, laid out to be claimed.
He guided his cock between your legs and forced himself in. Red lube you’d given up for him to use on you coated his cock, reminding him of the violence of his desire. He twitched inside you as he pushed in, a perverse sort of excitement stimulating him.
He brought the knife up to your neck and rested the blunt edge against your throat. You gulped. Your eyes widened. Your breaths quickened. Your cunt clenched around his cock and Oh God how divine you felt this way.
You’d asked for death, practically begged for it. But fear was not something you could prevent. Your wretched mortal body was programmed with the foolishness of wanting to stay alive.
“Been so long,” he muttered when he bottomed out inside you. Though you’d had many men inside you, it’d been long since any stretched you out so good. You took a deep breath and wished you had your hands free. You were overcome by a sudden urge to touch him. To run you hands down his sturdy arms and solid chest. It’d been so long since you wished.
“Good?” You asked, squeezing his cock. He smiled and bent forward to kiss you. Your lips, your chin, along your jaw. It was tender. Too tender for sex in the woods with your clothes torn off and your thigh bleeding into the soil.
He began to move, pulling out just a little before pushing back in. He savored it. After all, this could be his last chance at a cunt for a very long time. He grabbed on to your tits to use as handles, making you squeeze around him. Your lips let out a painful little whine, but he didn’t feel guilty. What bad did a little more pain do? You were going to die anyway. If you weren’t making use of your tits and cunt, at least he could enjoy them.
“So good…” he praised and you responded in kind, thrusting back weakly. “Yeah? You like that, cunt?” He asked, using the crude word in place of your name. He didn’t even know your name. But Cunt was appropriate for the purpose you served. You nodded. “I really struck gold in the fucking woods of all places, huh.”
“Good cunt,” he praised, the words shooting straight into said body part.
“Feelin’ good?”
You nodded, unable to say much else under the assault of the sensations. You didn’t have to for he claimed your lips once again in a kiss. He was better this time and so were you. Your lips stayed connected with his just like your pussy with his cock, devouring each other in desperation for a taste of something good in all the wretchedness.
Joel’s cock drilled into you. Merciless, fast, painful. All you knew before was hunger and suffering. With him, it had all disappeared. It was just Joel now. He consumed you, turning you from a discarded body passed from one raider to the other to Good Cunt. You liked the sound of those words on his lips.
“Just like that, Cunt,” he hissed as you milked his cock, your thighs cramping as your muscles contracted. Something pulled somewhere and you screamed in pain and your cunt tightened for him. Warm cum spilled inside you, the sensation a distracting relief in the midst of the pain.
Tears slipped down the sides of your face, cooling your skin.
“Did well. Did so well, Cunt,” he praised as he tucked himself back inside. He hadn’t felt so good in forever. Such a relief. Such an unburdening of stress and anxiety over his smuggling and its chances of success. He zipped himself up and bent over to retrieve his weapons.
“How do you want to go?” He asked, weighing the gun in one hand and knife in another as he looked down at your debauched body.
You made your choice, thanked him for his mercy and closed your eyes.
