My blog features erotic imagery and gore/horror elements not suitable for minors.
My fics include sexual violence, coercion/non-con elements, physical harm, explorations of trauma, and other potentially triggering subjects. I do not romanticize harm, but I write dark content. If a trigger warning is present at the top of a chapter, assume the content is explicit.
Fandom: Over the Garden Wall
Pairing: The Beast x Reader
AO3 Tags: Psychological Horror, Dreamscapes, Body Horror, Mild Gore, Mind Manipulation, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Word count: 4,740
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Vacancy
No Cordyceps/Modern Day AU. A slow, intimate slide into a dynamic built on control, and the kind of closeness that takes more than it gives.
Fandom: Last of Us
Pairing: Joel x f!Reader
AO3 Tags: Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, POV First Person, POV Joel (The Last of Us), Dark Joel (The Last of Us), Joel Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Joel Needs Therapy (The Last of Us), Reader-Insert Has Mental Health Issues, Reader-Insert Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Psychology, Size Difference, Age Difference, Unhealthy Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Dubious Consent, Dom Joel (The Last of Us), Dom/sub Undertones, Predator/Prey, Rough Kissing, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Marking, Possessive Joel (The Last of Us), Coercion, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Bratting, Brat Tamer Joel (The Last of Us), Power Imbalance, Jealous Joel (The Last of Us), Competence Kink, Joel Has a Big Dick (The Last of Us), Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Creampie, Car Sex, Multiple Endings, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Aftercare, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Conditioning, Torture, BDSM, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Stockholm Syndrome
Word count: 101,226 (in progress)
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Fandom: The Last of Us (No Outbreak/Modern AU)
Pairing: Joel x f!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 3,960
Trigger Warnings: Dubious Consent, Toxic Dynamics
Tags: Dark Romance, Jealous Joel, Possessive Behavior, Size Kink, Age Difference, Praise/Degradation
Summary: A decision must be made.
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A dull, heavy light hung in the air. A slow-moving smear of gray light on the floor of the cell.
The air was thick with smoke and ash. It settled over everything like a fine gray blanket, coating the walls and ground with a layer of smudged grime. It made every breath taste like charcoal.
I sit in the corner, my knees drawn up to my chest, my head resting against the cool stone wall. My feet are bare. My clothes are dirty and torn. My eyes are closed. My breathing is slow and steady. My body is calm, still, a coiled spring waiting for the release.
The man shifts behind me. A restless movement. The chains rattle, the metal cuffs biting into his wrists. He is an animal in a cage. A beast in chains.
"Why are you here?" he rumbles, low and dangerous.
I open my eyes. I don't turn to look at him. I don't need to. I can feel him, behind me. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill.
"I'm here because I want to be," I say, calm, steady. Matter-of-fact.
He huffs. A dismissive sound. A snort of derision.
"Bullshit," he says. "No one wants to be here."
I turn to look at him then. His form warps in the air. A twisted shadow, looming over me. His eyes are black pits, sucking me in.
"I do," I say, holding his gaze.
He shakes his head. A slow, disbelieving motion. He leans forward, his chains rattling.
"What do you want?" he asks. His voice is a low, raspy growl. A predator's snarl.
"I want to understand you," I say, unwavering.
He huffs again. A humorless sound.
"You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls, his eyes narrowing.
I hold his gaze. I don’t look away. I don't flinch.
"Try me," I challenge.
He stares at me, his expression unreadable. The air crackles between us, thick with tension.
"Fine," he says, finally. "Have it your way."
I blink, and he's gone. The room is empty. The air is still, silent. The ash hangs in the air like a cloud of dust motes.
I stand up. I walk to the center of the room. The floor is cold, gritty beneath my toes.
I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. I exhale.
I open my eyes.
The room is gone. The ash and smoke are gone. I am standing in a clearing in the woods. The sunlight is warm on my skin. The trees are tall and green. There is a lake in front of me. The water is calm, clear. Reflecting the light like a mirror.
I walk to the water's edge. I dip my toes in. The water is cool, refreshing. I smile. I feel calm, at peace.
I hear a rustling behind me. A warmth pressing into my back. A clawed hand encircles my throat.
I turn to look up at him. His eyes are dark, feral. His mouth is pulled into a snarl. His teeth are sharp, jagged. His breath is hot on my skin.
His hulking form wraps around me. His fur is rough, coarse, a thousand tiny needles pricking my skin. His claws press against my pulse point. His teeth graze the side of my neck.
"You're mine," he growls, the words rumbling in his chest. "Do you understand?"
I feel my body respond to him. The heat, the want, the desire. The need. I nod, my head heavy.
He smiles. A wicked, hungry smile. His teeth glint in the sunlight. His claws dig deeper into my skin.
Shadowy tendrils wrap around me, binding my limbs. They pull me down. My body submerged in the water. The darkness surrounds me, pulling me deeper. Deeper into the depths.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. I struggle against the restraints, but they hold firm. The darkness swirls around me, enveloping me, suffocating me.
I feel the pressure of his teeth against my skin. The sharp pain of his claws raking across my flesh. I feel him tearing into me, devouring me, consuming me. The pain is exquisite, agonizing.
"You're mine," he says, over and over and over again. "You're mine. You're mine. You're mine.”
I twist and writhe against the restraints, but they hold firm. I can't move. I can't breathe.
The darkness envelopes me, pulling me deeper and deeper. The pain is unbearable. The fear is paralyzing.
His eyes, big and black and filled with hunger, flame and swirl above me like two dark suns. His mouth, wide and full of teeth, opens to devour me.
I scream, but no sound escapes my lips. I struggle, but it's futile. I am helpless, trapped, lost.
The darkness pulls me under. I am drowning in it. It fills my lungs, my veins, my mind.
His voice echoes around me, the words breaking and reforming and shattering into pieces.
“Helps to know what’s comin’.”
I wake with a start, gulping rattling breaths as my heart races in my chest. The words echo in my mind, bouncing around like shards of broken glass. My skin prickles with goosebumps as the cold air hits me. I shiver and pull the covers tighter around myself.
My eyes adjust to the dim morning light filtering through the window. The room is quiet. The house is still. I can hear the soft, rhythmic sounds of Joel's breathing.
I turn my head to look at him. His face is relaxed in sleep, the lines of stress and anger smoothed away, leaving behind a vulnerable, almost peaceful expression. He looks younger. Softer. A boy, almost, with dark lashes fanning over his cheeks, his lips slightly parted.
The dream lingers, a hazy, nightmarish fog. The ash and smoke. The cage. The beast. His teeth on my skin. The words. The words that branded me. I can still feel them, a phantom sensation dragging along my flesh.
I watch him sleep, my mind tangling through the wreckage of the night before. I feel a strange, unfamiliar feeling. A warmth spreading through my chest. A sense of belonging, of being exactly where I am supposed to be, that is so profound, so terrifying, it feels like a trap.
I slip out of bed, my feet silent on the cool wood floor. I pull on a pair of sweats and one of Joel's t-shirts, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of him. I need a minute. A breath. A moment of quiet before the world rushes back in.
I head to the kitchen. The house is quiet. The morning light is a soft, hazy gray, filtering through the windows. It's a peaceful, domestic scene, and it feels surreal.
I make a pot of coffee, the rich, bitter smell filling the small space. I lean against the counter, my mug in my hands, the warmth a small comfort. My mind wanders. Back to the dream. Back to the cage. Back to the man.
I think about my life before this house. Before Joel. Before rehab. The chaotic blur of parties and drugs and meaningless encounters. The endless, desperate search for something I couldn't name. Seeing how many walls I could throw myself against before I finally broke.
I thought I was running from something. But now I wonder if I’m running to something.
"You're up early."
Joel's voice, that low, gravelly rumble, breaks the silence. I turn to see him leaning against the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. He's shirtless, wearing only a pair of boxers, and the sight of his bare skin makes my stomach clench.
I shrug, turning back to my coffee. I take a sip, savoring the bitter flavor.
I feel his presence behind me, warm and solid. He reaches past me to pour himself a cup of coffee, his body brushing against mine. I fight the urge to lean into him, to let myself melt against his chest.
"Sleep okay?" he asks. His voice is softer now, less gruff.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I feel his hand on my shoulder, his fingers tracing light circles on my skin.
"You sure?" he murmurs. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I laugh, the sound hollow and brittle. I turn to look at him, meeting his eyes.
I shake my head. I don't know how to explain it, how to put it into words.
"Just a weird dream," I say, shrugging. "It's nothing."
He studies me, his gaze sharp, calculating. He doesn't buy it. But he doesn't push. He just nods, his eyes traveling over my face, drinking me in like he's trying to memorize every detail.
His hand is still on my shoulder. His touch is light, but I can feel the strength in his fingers. I imagine those same hands tearing apart the cage, breaking the chains, setting the beast free.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. I try to push the images away. The ashes. The smoke. The beast.
He must see the fear in my eyes. He leans closer, his forehead resting against mine.
"Hey," he murmurs, his breath warm on my skin. "It's just a dream. It's not real."
I nod, my eyes closing. I take a deep breath, the scent of him filling my lungs. Cedar and coffee and something else. Something dark and dangerous and intoxicating.
"I know," I whisper, my voice small. "I know."
I open my eyes. His are so close I can see the flecks of gold in the deep brown. He's watching me, waiting. His thumb strokes my cheek, slow, gentle. It makes my heart ache.
"Tell me," he says, quietly.
I hesitate. I'm not sure I can. I'm not sure I want to. The words feel too raw, too dangerous. But I know I have to.
"It's... hazy," I start, my words hesitant. "We were in a cell. You were chained up. I was there, watching you."
He doesn't say anything. He just listens. His expression calm, unreadable. A mask. But I can see the flicker of something in his eyes. Almost like a spark of recognition. Like he's been there too.
"You were... a beast," I continue, my words a soft, hesitant stream. "A monster. You were trying to warn me away. To scare me. But I wouldn't go. I wanted to stay."
I feel my cheeks flush with heat. It's humiliating to admit. To lay bare the twisted, masochistic logic of my own subconscious. The desire to be consumed.
He nods. His thumb stroking my cheek doesn't stop. A slow, steady rhythm. A quiet, grounding presence.
"You told me I was yours," I whisper. "Over and over again."
My eyes drift closed. I'm back in the dream. The water closing over my head. The darkness. The teeth. The pain. The fear. The desire. The all-consuming need to be devoured, to be owned, to be destroyed.
His other hand comes up to my face. He cups my jaw. His fingers trace the line of my throat lightly, almost reverent.
"You are," he says simply.
I open my eyes. His gaze is intense, unwavering. He's telling me. Making me see the truth. Making me acknowledge it. Making me face it.
He moves closer, his body pressing against mine. I feel the heat of him through my clothes, through my skin. I feel his heartbeat, slow and steady.
His hands move down my sides, settling on my hips. He pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine in a searing kiss.
I cling to him. I feel myself start to fall, to spiral into that place where I can't breathe, where the walls close in and the air gets sucked out of the room. But he's here. His arms around me. His hands in my hair. His lips on mine.
He is real. He is solid. He is the only thing keeping me from drowning.
But he is also the one pulling me under.
We pull apart, our foreheads touching, our breath mingling in the space between us.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. My chest feels tight, like there's a weight on it. My heart is racing. My skin is crawling with goosebumps.
I'm not sure what I'm feeling. Fear? Exhilaration? Both? Neither? I don't know.
I just know that I need him. I need him more than I've ever needed anything in my life.
"Joel," I whisper, my voice small, like a child's.
His name tastes strange on my tongue. Like an incantation. Like a prayer.
"Yeah?" he murmurs, his voice low. His fingers brush my cheek lightly, trailing down my jawline.
I don't say anything. I can't. The words die in my throat, too big, too much. Too terrifying.
I turn my head, my lips finding his hand. I kiss his palm, the rough skin, the scars, the calluses. I feel his pulse under my lips. Strong and steady. A constant reminder. He's here. He's real. He's solid. He's alive.
He pulls me closer, his other arm wrapping around my waist. He pulls me into another kiss, his mouth hot and insistent on mine.
We stay like that for a long moment, lost in each other. Lost in the feeling of skin on skin, the taste of coffee and cigarettes on our tongues, the smell of cedar and pine and wood smoke.
It's almost enough. Almost. But there's still a hollow space inside me. An emptiness. A hunger. A need.
I pull away, breaking the kiss. I look up at him. His eyes are dark, hooded. I can see the desire there. The mirrored need. But there's something else. Something darker.
"Joel," I say, my voice shaking. I don't know what I'm asking. What I'm begging for.
He doesn't say anything. He just looks at me, his gaze intense. I feel like he can see right through me. Like he can see into my soul.
His hand moves down my back, coming to rest on my ass. He pulls me against him, grinding his hips against mine. I can feel his erection through the thin fabric of his boxers.
My breath catches in my throat. My heart is pounding so hard I think it might burst.
He leans down, his mouth finding my ear. He bites my earlobe gently, his breath hot on my skin.
"I know," he whispers, his voice rough. "I know."
I let out a shaky breath. I'm trembling all over. I feel like I might collapse if he lets go of me. But I don't want him to. I don't want him to ever let me go.
I close my eyes. I feel his hands moving over my body, touching me, exploring me. His mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. I feel like I'm floating. Like I'm not here. Like I'm in another place.
His hands move down my body, over my stomach, between my legs. He finds the waistband of my shorts and starts to pull them down.
I gasp as the cold air hits my skin. My eyes fly open. I look at him, wide-eyed. I'm not sure if I want this right now. My thoughts are spinning, racing, a blur. I can't think straight.
He pulls my shorts all the way off, tossing them aside. I'm standing naked before him, trembling. I'm not sure what to do. I don't know what I want to happen.
I feel his fingers between my legs, stroking me. I'm already wet, already aching for him. He's barely touched me and my body is already desperate for more.
"Joel," I whisper, my voice barely audible.
His fingers slip inside me. I gasp, my whole body tensing. The feeling of him inside me is almost too much. He strokes me, his fingers sliding in and out of me. He knows exactly how to touch me, how to make me lose control.
I lean back against the counter, my knees starting to buckle. I feel like I'm going to fall apart. I feel like I'm going to shatter into a million pieces. There’s a storm kicking up inside my head, thunder and lightning and rain. Memories clash with dreams, nightmares with fantasies. The lines between are getting blurred, smudged. I can't tell what's real anymore.
I feel his thumb brush over my clit as he thrusts his fingers in and out of me. The sensation is almost too much for me to bear. My whole body shudders, my knees giving way.
He catches me, his arm wrapping around my waist, holding me up. I cling to him, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Joel," I gasp, my voice shaking. "Please."
This doesn’t feel right. This isn't what I need. This isn't what I'm asking for. But I don't know what I am asking for. I don't know how to ask.
He kisses me, his mouth hot and hungry on mine. His hand moves between my legs, his fingers still inside me. I feel like I'm falling apart. I feel like I'm losing my mind.
"Joel," I whimper against his lips, his name straining from my throat. "I can't."
He stills inside me. The sudden absence of movement is jarring. My body is strung tight like a violin string, humming with a tension that has nowhere to go.
He pulls back, looking down at me. His expression is a carefully constructed blank, but I can see the conflict in his eyes. A war being waged behind the dark, placid surface.
He slowly slides his fingers out of me. He wipes them on his boxers. The gesture is almost clinical. A deliberate reset.
He turns away from me, gripping the edge of the counter. His back is a wall of muscle, a barricade I can't breach.
"Tell me what you need," he says, not looking at me. His voice is flat, emotionless.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold. I'm standing in the kitchen, half-naked and trembling, and he might as well be a million miles away. I feel exposed, vulnerable, and utterly adrift. I'm not even sure what I need. I'm not sure I know any longer how to want anything other than what he decides to give me. That's the dangerous part.
The words are stuck in my throat. I try to force them out, but they're tangled and twisted and I can't make them make sense.
"I... don't know," I finally manage to whisper. It's the truest thing I've said in a long while. "My head is... a mess."
I can feel the anxiety start to build again. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts. My heart rate picks up. I feel like I'm back in the dream. In the cage. The walls are closing in.
He turns back to me. He studies my face. I can see him watching me, assessing me, cataloging my panic. He's not looking at me like a lover. He's looking at me like I'm a frightened animal. A problem to be fixed. A fire to be contained.
He pushes himself away from the counter and crosses the small space between us. I flinch, expecting him to touch me, but he doesn't. He just stands there, a solid wall of quiet authority.
"Breathe," he commands, his voice low. Calm.
I stare up at him, wide-eyed. I try to do as he says. I take a deep breath, the air shuddering in my lungs. He holds my gaze, his own breathing a slow, steady rhythm I can follow. In. Out. In. Out.
My breathing starts to even out. The panic starts to recede, just enough for me to think again. To feel again.
"That's it," he murmurs, “Easy.”
He moves closer. He reaches out, his hand cupping the back of my neck. He pulls me toward him. I go, my body pliant and yielding in his hands.
He leads me to the small, worn-out couch in the living room. He sits down, pulling me into his lap. He wraps his arms around me, holding me against his chest. I lean my head against him, my ear pressed to his chest. The steady, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat is a slow, calming drum. I close my eyes, focusing on the sound, letting it ground me.
His hand moves up my back, tracing slow, soothing circles on my skin. I feel the tension start to drain from my body, the knots of anxiety starting to loosen.
We sit in silence for a long while. The only sounds are our breathing, the steady tick of the clock on the wall, the soft sigh of the wind in the trees outside.
I'm not sure how long we sit there. Long enough for the sun to climb higher in the sky. Long enough for the light in the room to change, to become brighter, warmer.
I shift in his arms, turning to look at him. His face is a study in concentration. His brow is furrowed, his jaw clenched. He looks like he's trying to solve a complex equation. I can almost see the gears turning in his head.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice breaking.
He looks down at me, his gaze intense. "Don't," he says softly. "It's not your fault."
I nod, looking away. I feel my face flush. I'm suddenly embarrassed. I feel like an idiot. Like a child.
I shift in his lap, trying to pull away from him. His arms tighten around me, holding me in place.
"Stop," he commands. "Just stop."
I still, staring down at my hands. My fingers are clenched into tight fists, my nails digging into my palms.
"I don't know what I want," I whisper, the words falling from my lips like stones.
He's silent for a moment. I can feel him thinking. Processing. Analyzing.
"What do you need?"
I shake my head, looking away. I don't know how to answer that question. I don't even know where to begin.
"I don't know.”
I feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I blink them back, trying to hold them in. I feel like such a fucking idiot. Like a child having a tantrum.
His hand moves up my back, stroking my spine. The gesture is so small, so gentle, it takes my breath away. It makes me ache.
I look up at him. His face is a mask. A blank slate. I can't read him. I don't know what he's thinking. What he's feeling.
"I'm sorry," I say again, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry."
He shakes his head, his brow furrowing. He looks angry. No, not angry. Frustrated. Disappointed.
"Stop sayin’ you’re sorry," he says, low, commanding.
I nod, looking away. I feel the tears threatening to spill over. I feel like a complete failure. A disappointment. A mess.
I feel his fingers on my chin, tilting my head up. I look up at him, blinking back the moisture.
He looks down at me, his gaze intense. Piercing.
"You need a reset," he says, soft. Calm.
I stare at him. I don't know what that means.
"You trust me," he says. It's not a question.
I swallow, nodding.
"Yes," I whisper.
He looks down at me for a long moment. His expression is impossible to decipher. I can see the wheels turning in his head.
Then, he nods, his gaze shifting to my mouth. He leans down, brushing his lips against mine. His breath is warm on my skin, his lips soft and pliant. He tastes like smoke and ash and cedar. He smells like the forest after a fire.
He pulls back, looking down at me. His eyes are dark, fathomless. Impenetrable. Unknowable.
Fandom: The Last of Us (No Outbreak/Modern AU)
Pairing: Joel x f!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 773
Tags: Dark Romance, Jealous Joel, Possessive Behavior, Size Kink, Age Difference, Ambiguous Ending
Summary: Joel POV
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I find her in the small hours of the morning, the air still holding the metallic bite of the argument we’ve been circling for days.
She sits at the kitchen table with her hands curled around a mug gone cold long ago, her expression soft with exhaustion rather than fear.
That, somehow, is what undoes me. Not terror. Not defiance. Just the naked, wordless hope that maybe, maybe, things really can be better.
I pull out the chair across from her. I don’t touch her yet.
She thinks I’m giving her space, that I’m learning.
I know I’m calculating.
But my voice, low, rough with something like regret, lands warm.
We talk. Quietly. Slowly. About boundaries, tone, presence, fear. I keep my breathing even, my posture open. I listen, ask questions, apologize with just enough sincerity to be plausible and just enough vagueness to avoid incrimination.
I’m good at this.
She doesn’t know how good.
And she, brave in a way that makes me dizzy, admits she wants to try again. She doesn’t want to leave, she says. She doesn’t want this house to be a battleground. She still believes there’s something worth saving.
It is the exact sentence that softens my entire expression, the exact sentence that seals her fate.
We stand, then. Slowly. And when she steps into my arms, it’s gentle, almost shy. I touch her back like she’s breakable, like I’m worried she’ll bolt. She closes her eyes. Her body doesn’t flinch.
I press my cheek to her hair. Breathe her in. A long inhalation, deep and trembling, like I’ve been underwater for months.
We hold each other for a long time, swaying slightly to music that isn’t playing. The house around us hums with a fragile, tentative peace, one both of us think we chose, though only I truly did.
Eventually, she pulls back, touches my face, whispers,
“We’ll be okay, right?”
I smile. Warm, dusky, disarming.
“Yeah, baby. We will.”
And I mean it. God, I mean it. Because I know now exactly what it takes to keep her.
I will not make the same mistakes.
She goes to bed first, exhausted. I kiss her temple at the doorway, murmur something domestic and soft; I’ll lock up, I’ll turn off the lights, I’ll join her soon.
I watch her disappear down the hall.
Wait until her footsteps fade. Wait until the mattress sighs beneath her weight.
Then I exhale, slow and shaky, and turn toward the back of the house.
Not to lock up.
To check.
I pad down the hallway, past the laundry room, past the silent refrigerator’s hum, until I reach the narrow door at the far end. The one I keep closed, always. The one she’s never opened. The one I know she felt drawn to once or twice but dismissed, trusting me when I said it was “a mess not worth her time.”
The peace of the evening settles over me like warm wool, comforting and heavy. The fight is over. She chose me again. She believes in me. She trusts this new version of me, the careful one, the soft-spoken one, the one who breathes before he speaks.
I curl my fingers around the doorknob.
Just a light touch. Just enough to feel the metal cool under my skin, to reassure myself the lock is still set, still firm, still unchanged. My thumb traces the keyhole with something like tenderness.
I don’t open it. I don’t need to. Not tonight.
Instead, I lean my forehead against the door, eyes falling shut, and whisper, so quietly even the house can barely hear it:
“I won’t lose you.”
The lock stays steady beneath my hand.
I linger there for a long moment, breathing slow and full, until my heartbeat settles into something calm. Controlled. Certain.
Only then do I push off the door, flick the hallway light off, and walk toward the bedroom, toward her, carrying the peaceful, honeyed illusion we built tonight like a gift.
I slip into bed beside her.
She stirs, half-asleep, nestles closer. I drape an arm around her waist.
And for a fleeting moment,
a perfect, dangerous moment,
it really does feel like a good ending.
A safe one.
A chosen one.
But down the hall, the locked door waits. The truth waits.
And I sleep with my breath warm against her shoulder, dreaming of a future secured by the things she doesn’t know.
Fandom: The Last of Us (No Outbreak/Modern AU)
Pairing: Joel x f!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 5,853
Trigger Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, Noncon, Dubious Consent, Psychological Conditioning, Toxic Dynamics
Tags: Dark Romance, Jealous Joel, Possessive Behavior, Size Kink, Age Difference, Praise/Degradation
Summary: Pleasure is noise. It doesn't last. It can't be sustained. But this...this is quiet. This is foundation.
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The days bleed into one another. A slow, syrupy drip of existence. The outside world has faded into a distant, irrelevant dream. My life has been reduced to this room, this bed, this man. My world is the space between the four walls of his bedroom.
The chain is always on my ankle. Sometimes, he lets me move around the room. I can go to the small, adjoining bathroom. I can sit in the worn leather armchair by the window and watch the light change on the trees. But the chain is always there.
He feeds me. Every meal. Piece by piece. I open my mouth, I chew, I swallow, and a small, treacherous part of me feels a flicker of… safety. The responsibility of feeding myself, of surviving, is no longer mine. It's his.
Each morning, the ritual is the same. He wakes before me. Dresses me in one of his shirts. Straps on the harness, fills me, locks it in place. He calls it "being centered." An anchor in the storm of my own mind. He leaves for his shed, his work. Hours pass in a hazy blur of enforced stillness.
Sometimes he’ll add the vibrator. He’ll turn it on a low, maddening hum before he leaves, and I’ll spend the morning hours in a state of low-grade, simmering arousal; a prisoner of a constant, unfulfilled need. My mind becomes a blank slate, my only focus the thrumming pulse between my legs. He’s teaching me a new kind of patience. A new way to exist.
Fandom: The Last of Us (No Outbreak/Modern AU)
Pairing: Joel x f!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 5,697
Trigger Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, Noncon, Dubious Consent, Psychological Conditioning, Toxic Dynamics
Tags: Dark Romance, Jealous Joel, Possessive Behavior, Size Kink, Age Difference, Praise/Degradation
Summary: He sees everything. Nothing is hidden. Not the rhythm of her body, not the secrets in her blood. This is what it means to have no decisions to make. To simply be. A satellite in a steady orbit.
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Warm and yellow on a patch of green grass. The chirping of a specific kind of insect, a cicada I think. The weight of a small, solid body in my lap.
A little girl with dark, curly hair and Joel's eyes.
Sarah.
I am not myself. I am a watcher, a camera behind my own eyes. I'm wearing a gingham dress, the kind I've only ever seen in old photographs. I am stroking Sarah's hair, and her small hand is clutching my index finger with a surprising strength. There's a contentment in me so profound, so alien, it almost hurts.
Joel is there, stretched out on a blanket nearby, shirtless, a paperback book lying face down on his chest. He's smiling, a real, unguarded smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes. A look of pure, uncomplicated peace.
A cold dread seeps into the scene like dye into water. The air grows heavy, charged with wrongness. I try to stand up, to get away, but I am glued to the spot. My hand is still tangled in Sarah's hair.
“Helps to know what's coming,” a voice says. Not Joel's voice. My voice. But colder.
Sarah looks up at me, her wide, dark eyes holding a sudden, terrible awareness. She opens her mouth to speak, and a sound comes out. The grinding, groaning shriek of metal twisting, of brakes failing. The sunlight goes out, replaced by the sudden, blinding flare of headlights in the dark.
I wake with a strangled gasp, lunging upright in the bed. My heart is a frantic bird beating against my ribs, my skin clammy with cold sweat. For a disorienting moment, I don't know where I am. The darkness is absolute, the air still and cool. My hands fly to my stomach, to my hair, seeking the phantom feel of a small girl, the scratch of a gingham dress.
Joel's hand lands on my back, a heavy, grounding weight in the dark.
"S'alright. Just a dream."
The sound of his voice, even in this rough, sleepy state, is the anchor. The frantic bird in my chest slowly begins to still its wings. My breath comes in ragged, hiccuping pants. He pulls me back down, maneuvering my body until I am lying against his chest, my head tucked under his chin. He wraps an arm around me, a cage of muscle and bone, and I let myself be held. The dream recedes, leaving behind the sour taste of grief that isn't mine. Or maybe it is now.
Fandom: The Last of Us (No Outbreak/Modern AU)
Pairing: Joel x f!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 6,682
Trigger Warnings: Dubious Consent, Toxic Dynamics
Tags: Dark Romance, Jealous Joel, Possessive Behavior, Size Kink, Age Difference, Praise/Degradation
Summary: Jealousy ignites a dangerous confrontation. In the wreckage, a door opens.
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The quarter ends in a cascade of deadlines and a pervasive, gray exhaustion that clings to me like damp wool. I move through the world behind a shield of borrowed cheerfulness. In class, I nod and take notes, I contribute to discussions, my voice a calm, academic drone. I am a master class in dissociation.
Ben/Bob, I still can't remember his name, and the guilt is a dull, persistent ache in my chest, tries to talk to me again a few times. I see the look in his eyes. A mix of concern and a lingering, wounded confusion. I give him the same polite, hollow smile I give everyone else. A well-honed skill. A barrier between the girl with the library books and the girl who gets on her knees for a monster.
On the last day of classes, as students are gathering their things, he corners me by the door. He’s a little bolder, a little more desperate. “Hey,” he says. His voice is a low, earnest murmur.
“Are you… okay?” He pauses for a moment, gathering his courage. "That guy… your ride…"
My insides tighten, frost creeping through me in a thin, merciless line. I know what he’s asking. He sees the possessive grip, the territorial glare. He sees the bruises and the fear in my eyes, and he thinks it’s for the wrong reasons.
“I’m fine,” I say. My voice is a little too bright. A little too brittle. “Joel’s just… protective.”
The word hangs in the air between us. Protective. A lie that tastes like ash in my mouth. I wonder what he sees in Joel’s face. I wonder what he sees in mine.
“He seems… angry,” Ben/Bob pushes, his brow furrowed. A genuine, compassionate worry that makes a sharp, ugly pang of something I’m not ready to name pierce through my carefully constructed armor. “You seem scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I say. It’s an automatic response. A reflex. But it’s not the truth. I am scared. I’m terrified. Not of Joel, but of what lives inside me. The part of me that craves the very thing he’s asking about.
I see it flicker in his eyes then. A brief, flickering flame of hope. He thinks he can be the hero. The knight in shining armor. The one who rescues the damsel from the dragon’s keep.
"Listen… just take my number," he begins, already fumbling in his backpack, a clumsy, earnest motion. The crinkle of a receipt, the scrape of a zipper against fabric. "If you ever need to talk. Or… anything."
He wants to give me an escape hatch. A lifeline. He wants to be the good guy.
And the knowledge is a cold, hard stone in my gut. He is everything I should want. Everything I'm supposed to want. Kind. Safe. Normal. A clean, well-lit path away from the cliff edge. The world he represents is a world of coffee dates and studying in libraries, a world of quiet, steady affection. A world without bruises. A world without ghosts.
He pulls a pen from his pocket and scribbles a number on the corner of a crumpled piece of notebook paper. He holds it out to me. A white flag. A peace offering.
I look from the paper in his hand to his face. His eyes are earnest. Full of a naive, guileless concern that feels like a foreign language.
I pluck the paper from his fingers. I fold it into a neat, tiny square. A small, precise origami of regret. I don't look at the number. I don't need to.
"Thank you," I say. My voice is a quiet, hollow sound. A polite lie.
A flicker of relief washes over his face. He thinks he's won. He thinks he’s planted a seed of hope.
Fandom: The Last of Us (No Outbreak/Modern AU)
Pairing: Joel x f!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 5,541
Trigger Warnings: Dubious Consent, Toxic Relationship Dynamics
Tags: Dark Romance, Jealous Joel, Possessive Behavior, Size Kink, Age Difference, Praise/Degradation
Summary: Your car dies. Joel doesn’t wait for you to ask.
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I kick the tire of my car with a frustrated huff. A solid, satisfying thud. It doesn't fix the problem, but it makes me feel better for a split second.
My car is being a stubborn, uncooperative beast. It won't start. Just a pathetic, wheezing groan and then… silence. I’m an idiot. I’ve been so consumed by the strange, insular world of the house, of him, that I’ve let the practical, mundane details of my life slide.
I check my phone, an anxious buzz in my stomach as I read the time. Class would be starting in less than an hour. And I'm trapped in the driveway. I let out an anxious huff.
“Car trouble?” a low, rumble of a voice asks, the sound a warm vibration in the cool morning air. I look up from my phone with a sharp, involuntary start. Joel’s standing on the porch, leaning against the doorframe, a coffee mug in his hand.
