#captive reader

[amyrosabell333]

Yandere Father Vox x Child Reader (Platonic Headcanons) 📺⚡️

⚠️Trigger warnings⚠️: Emotional manipulation / gaslighting Physical punishment / abuse (non-lethal violence) Loss of autonomy / control Surveillance / lack of privacy Parent-child toxicity / controlling parental behavior Threats / psychological intimidation Forced isolation.

Yandere Traits :📺⚡️: Overprotective / Controlling / Authoritarian / Parental/ Gaslighting & Sadistic.

Vox is one of the most strict and controlling fathers you could have as a yandere. He watches you everywhere, monitoring you through every form of media and even hidden cameras scattered throughout Hell. It's almost impossible to escape his gaze. He’s like a helicopter parent but taken to an extreme, controlling every aspect of your life, from the smallest decisions to your most personal relationships. His possessiveness knows no bounds. Vox won’t give you an ounce of privacy, constantly hovering over you, ensuring you don’t stray from his grip. He believes that as your father, he's the only one you need and he'll make sure you know it, every moment of your life. In his eyes, your soul belongs to him, and he’ll ensure it stays that way. Whether you’re a sinner or a Hellborn, it doesn’t matter Vox will still force you into a soul-binding deal, claiming you as his and ensuring you stay under his control. This allows him to control every facet of your existence. You’ll work alongside his underlings, doing his bidding without so much as a penny to your name. He won’t allow you to have your own bank account because, in his words, "You don’t need it. All you need is me to provide for you. I’m your father; I take care of everything ."At this point, you’re little more than his free labor, chained to him and his whims. Every device you’re given, every gadget or communication tool, is bugged by him. He’ll never allow you privacy not with your social media, not with the people you communicate with. In fact, Vox forbids you from making any friends or forming relationships. He believes anyone who gets close to you is a bad influence, and he’ll make sure you know that you don’t need anyone else. As your father, he is all you need for guidance and protection.

He loves parading you around by his side the ever egotistical showman now flaunting his new title as a “proud father.” Your comfort means absolutely nothing to him. Whether you're introverted, anxious, or overwhelmed, he drags you through crowds both inside and outside his building. It’s never about you only about what he wants. You're expected to obey without question, simply because “he’s the adult, and you’re the child,” and in his mind, that automatically makes him right. His fans swarm the two of you, flashing cameras and swarming reporters eager to get a scoop. They ask about his “adopted child” and what it’s like for a famous Overlord to juggle his career and fatherhood. All the while, Vox keeps a sharp eye on you, his gaze silently demanding that you put on a perfect act. You’re forced to smile, to praise him to lie through your teeth about how grateful you are to have such an extraordinary, loving father. Inside, you’re crumbling. No one in the crowd knows the truth. The obsession, the punishment, the suffocating control he forces over every aspect of your life. But you keep quiet. You keep performing. Because if you dare say anything that might damage his reputation, you'll pay for it later and Vox never forgives when his star child makes him look bad.

If you’re ever caught outside without Vox’s knowledge or supervision, It’s an opportunity for the other Vees who will gleefully exploit using your connection to him against you for their own gain. Velvette sees you as her personal test subject. Without asking, she’ll dress you up in her latest avant-garde fashion concepts, snapping endless photos for her upcoming shows. You’re little more than a doll in her hands, forced to comply unless you want her to report your whereabouts back to Vox. Valentino, ever the sleazy businessman, is far less subtle. He’ll treat you as free labor for the day, forcing you to run errands, whether it’s spying on troublesome reporters, intimidating workers who still owe him money, or handling menial tasks for his underlings. To him, you’re just another resource to exploit for his own benefit, especially since he knows Vox would never forgive you for being out of his sight. He knows Vox practically owns you, he has no qualms about using that to his advantage. If Vox catches wind of your little "escape," things get very dark, very quickly.

Punishment from him is severe, not just physically but emotionally. He begins by berating you, his smooth but cold voice dripping with disappointment and manipulation. He makes sure you feel every ounce of guilt, framing your disobedience as a betrayal of his love and protection. But scolding is just the beginning. If that doesn’t suffice, he doesn’t hesitate to escalate to physical discipline, Vox uses pain as a reminder of his authority. Vox resorts to harsher methods. He might take off his belt and use it to discipline you, or worse, unleash electric shocks from his fingertips, sending bolts of pain through your body. The shocks aren’t lethal, but they’re agonizing enough to leave you trembling, tears stinging your eyes as he reminds you, with chilling calmness, that things will only get worse if you continue to defy him. “You think you can run from me?” he growls, his glowing hypnotic eye fixating on you with terrifying intensity. “Let me remind you what happens when you break my rules.” Afterward, you lose what little freedom you had left. Vox strips you of every privilege. Your devices are confiscated. your room is monitored even more closely, and any sliver of privacy you had is gone. He keeps you by his side at all times, ensuring you’re under constant surveillance. Whether he’s sitting at his desk doing paperwork or monitoring his media empire, you’re forced to stay close sometimes even on his lap while he watches your every move. You’re reminded constantly that you’re his possession, bound by his rules and utterly at his mercy.

After each punishment, Vox takes away even more of your privileges. He treats you like a helpless child, constantly patronizing you and insisting that you’re too weak and hopeless to function on your own, regardless of how old you are. He gaslights you relentlessly, twisting your actions and making you feel guilty or ashamed for trying to break free. In his eyes, you’re simply too naïve to understand the world outside Hell. He’s only trying to "protect you" from the dangers of other demons, and he wraps you in a tight, suffocating embrace to reinforce his twisted version of "care." Vox is a strict and overbearing yandere, and escaping from his grip seems impossible. His need for control is all-encompassing. His influence spreads through every corner of Hell, with technological screens watching your every move. Whether you're in his arms or forced to stay close, Vox is always in control. His eyes are everywhere, constantly monitoring you, ensuring that there is no place where you can hide or escape. He will never let you go, for he believes that as long as you’re within his sight, you are safe his version of safety, of course, where your every thought and action is dictated by him.

[shamrockqueen]

Predator in the desert

Chapter 2

Pairing : Winter Soldier BuckyxReader (Post Apocalyptic AU)

Warnings : R18, eventual smut, dark themes, panic attack

Word count : 1224

Bucky’s masterlist

He leaned on the frame of the doorway as he watched as your little body squirmed under his heavy gaze.

You searched his larger frame, every inch of which was dark and rigid. Your eyes lingered on the bottle, still held tightly between his fingers, the water inside moving only slightly back and forth against the glass.

You shook your head, trying to steer your vision back toward the imposing figure still standing ahead of you. Instead, it made a familiar feeling of pain bloom along the back of your skull. You winced, looking back at the bottle as you felt your drying tongue stick between your cracked lips. It was only a matter of whether the pain would outweigh your intense thirst. Clean water was more than a dream to you, and you put that dull ache at the back of your mind as you tried to form the words to beg for another drink.

The words cracked apart in the back of your throat, scraping past your lips inaudibly.

He must have known what you were alluding to, as he pushed off from the door and held the bottle out for you to take it from him.

“Have the rest.” His voice was just as jarring to hear as the very sight of him.

You didn’t hesitate to reach back out for the bottle, but as you struggled to sit up, your fingers were shaking as you took hold of it.

You broke your eyes from him to take another grateful swig, sucking in a few bubbles of air. You pulled the spout away to sputter for a breath, trying to force the gasping away so as to take another drink.

You cursed the few drops that dripped from your lips and hit the dusty blankets.

The cool feeling it left on your skin was numbing, and you hugged the bottle to your chest as you shuddered.

Breathing shallowly, you turned back to the man still watching you. His eyes never shifted from your pathetic form, and neither did his stance as he stood firm by the only door to this little room.

You swallowed back thickly before trying to speak again, this time with more success.

“Can I ask any questions?”

God only knows who this man is and why he was apparently keeping guard over something as small and insignificant as you. He hasn't shown himself to be trustworthy, but to share such a rare and expensive commodity with a stranger meant he had some level of kindness to give you.

He gave you as little as a nod of his head to answer your inquiry.

“How did I get here?” You spoke carefully, trying to still the tremor in your voice.

He was quiet as he slowly shifted in his heavy boots, his brow raising slightly as he seemed to think.

You persisted with a weak “P-please?”

He gave you a slow nod before answering.

“I found you. And then I carried you.” It was far too cut and dry for your liking.

He was the next to break the silence.

“How are you feeling?”

It wasn’t something you expected him to ask, and it took you a second to register that he’d said it in the first place.

You rubbed at the sore spot at the back of your head as he waited for your answer.

“I’m fine. Thank you for the water.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, as you certainly weren’t dead, and you made sure to be quick to thank him for the good deeds he’s done for you so far.

You tried to stand so as to hand him back the empty bottle. You swung your legs over the bed only to be stopped by something weighing unnervingly heavy on your weak ankle. He didn’t even flinch as you tried to plant your feet to the ground, only to hear the deafening clunk of a thick metal chain hitting the floor alongside your toes.

He nodded to your previous display of gratitude before giving you a barely audible “you're welcome” and taking the bottle back.

For the first time in your life, you felt cold. It was like your blood had frozen in your very veins as your eyes shot back to the still-steely face. As a few fresh tears welled up and threatened to spill, you looked down at the metal cuff that sat tightly locked around your ankle.

You struggled to breathe, cupping your hand over your mouth as a silent sob wracked through your chest.

His charity, more obvious now than ever, was in fact a farce. It's another question entirely as to how you even missed something so major in the first place.

You continued to gasp and sputter over the sight of a shackled leg. Your shoes and socks had been missing, leaving you to stare at your dirty toes.

His expression never changed as he watched the gears in your desperate little brain spin. You grabbed the chair, following the length with your fingers until it was pulled tawt to where it was hooked to one of the metal rungs at the bottom of the bed.

Your head was pounding harder and harder as your vision flooded over again. It blurred his image as he approached you, and you didn’t realize you’d started screaming until he finally rang over the pulsing in your eardrums.

When his hands met your shoulders, you threw yourself off the bed. You kicked at the sheets, falling backwards towards the floor until the wood met your shoulder.

You were a whirlwind of emotion, and he was a silent tiger standing at the edge of the monsoon.

You crawled, clawing at the floor, your limbs moving of their own accord from the waves of panic. You weren’t making it far, struggling like a dying fish in the sand but never reaching the water.

He planned to keep you, of course. Why would there have been any other assumption?

You were a captive, whether that meant for his company, labor, or food.

He remained unbothered by your turmoil, stepping past the wriggling chain and planting each booted foot on either side of your body. Still, in vain, you tried to crawl away. Even as he reached down and locked his hands around your shoulders, you scratched at the floor until he pulled you off of it.

You first saw the flint of dim light bouncing off that metal bicep as he raised you towards his own chest. It was like you weighed nothing more than a small parcel as he pulled you back towards the bed, your feet not even touching the floor anymore.

Your joints felt rigid and your limbs heavy as he hooked his hand under your knee before depositing you back into the bed.

You felt the world spinning as it became blurrier. The air around your head grew thinner and thinner as you fought for each breath.

His thumb was cold against your skin as he pressed it against your check. His fingers cradled the side of your face. You stayed conscious; even as your vision dimmed, you still clawed at the bedding below you.

What came next left you shaken. His voice was actually booming around the little room as he spoke in a commanding tone.

"You need to calm down."

Chapter 3

TagList : @itsswritten @cjand10 @dear-lolita @took-a-wr0ng-turn

[mari-positas]

run

Raider! Joel Miller x Female Reader

*moodboard is for aesthetic purposes only. no mention of reader’s race or skin tone.

summary: When you’re given the chance to run from your captor, you don’t take it.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. RAIDER ERA. DARK!JOEL. DUBCON. MENTIONS PREVIOUS NONCON. UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 50). reader is described washing her hair (the exact length is not specified) and she wears a dress. she is also shorter than Joel. violence, kidnapping, reader has major stockholm syndrome, Joel is fairly soft for her but HE IS STILL NOT A GOOD MAN, brief mention of Tess and Joel being involved with each other, Tess seems like the villain but she might actually be the only one of these three who is not totally fucked up in the head. SMUT. daddy kink. size difference (no description of reader’s body type, Joel is just a big guy with a big dick, enjoy it). oral sex (female receiving), super risky unprotected p in v sex (mention of reader ovulating, Joel pulls out, don’t be be like these two, practice safe sex), creampie (yeah he doesn’t give a fuck the second time around). many, many pet names (baby, baby girl, honey, angel, sweetheart, little girl). um i think that’s it. oh, and they fuck in the dirt.

PLEASE HEED ALL WARNINGS.

word count: 8.6k

a/n: one thing about me is i WILL soften up EVERY version of Joel Miller to my little heart’s content. HUGE HUGE thank you to @endlessthxxghts and @joelsdagger for lending me their eyes and beta-ing this fic for me last night. <33 i love and appreciate you guys SO MUCH. i loved seeing you both in the doc at the same exact time lmao. this can be read as a standalone, but it is considered part of the captive universe.

Everyone in the group has a job. Except for you.

Or at least, that’s what you hear them say.

That bitch doesn’t do shit.

She never has to lift a fucking finger.

She should work for her meal—just like the rest of us.

Bitterness laces their tones when they talk about you.

Insults grow a little bolder when he’s not around.

Useless.

Freeloader.

Leech.

You might not be out there with a rifle in hand hunting game or invading camps and spilling blood for supplies—but you do in fact have a job, and that job is to make Joel Miller happy. It is your responsibility, your duty, to please him, and to keep him satisfied. Because keeping him satisfied keeps him in a good mood, and one thing you’ve come to learn about your captor is, where there is a good mood, often there is mercy.

Hell, you’re doing them a favor by keeping their violent, fearsome leader in a good mood. Because you’ve seen what he does to them when he’s not. He can be just as brutal towards his own people as he is to strangers.

It doesn’t make a difference, though. They still see you as nothing more than his coddled little whore.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

He groans, his thick, callused fingers digging harshly into the softness of your flesh as he holds you firmly in place underneath him. “Oh fuck, baby girl,” Joel curses through gritted teeth, his hands gripping your hips as he uses his own weight against you, pressing you down into the old mattress until you feel every uncomfortable lump, each creaking spring.

While he isn’t fucking you as roughly as he has on other occasions, he’s hardly being gentle. It’s hard, fast.

Loud.

Joel couldn’t care less about the rest of the group, the men and women on the other side of the wall, forced to listen to the sounds coming from the single bedroom of the cabin he decided they would hunker down in for the remainder of the summer season. Strings of curses and brutish grunts that came rumbling from deep within his chest, pleading gasps and whimpers that fell from your swollen, bitten lips. If anything, knowing they were listening only spurred him on—it didn’t hurt to remind them, especially the men with wandering eyes, that you were his special girl.

His good girl.

You certainly did your job, and you did it so, so well.

“Christ, sweetheart. M’so fuckin’ close—” Joel picks up speed, his hips snapping even harder, faster, the front of his thighs slapping against the backs of yours. Each thrust causes the bed’s rusted, iron headboard to slam violently against the wood panel wall.

You clutch fistfuls of the single, stale, yellowing sheet beneath you, each stroke he delivers knocking the wind out of your lungs, making it harder to breathe. He is so heavy on top of you, this big, broad, bulk of a man who makes you feel swallowed, smothered, and small. Joel takes up so much room inside of you, and it’s a wonder how you could possibly have any space left to spare.

It’s a fullness you can’t seem to get enough of.

It’s a craving, a need.

Worst of all, it’s slowly becoming a want.

“Daddy,” you choke out, fisting the sheet tighter, your skin stretching taut over your knuckles. Can the others also hear the squelch of your drenched cunt around his cock as it begs him for more?

“Fuck. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me, baby,” Joel croons his praise. His hands abandon your hips and he hunches over you, his thrusts momentarily ceasing. He crushes his chest against your sweaty, quivering back and leans forward even further, bracing his large hands on either side of you. Then, his lips move to the shell of your ear and he speaks, his breath blazing hot on your skin. “Y’take me so well, honey. Y’take Daddy’s cock so fuckin’ well. This pretty little pussy was fuckin’ made for me. She was made jus’ for me—ain’t that right, angel?”

He’s right.

Oh, how you fucking hated that he was right.

It was made for him. Your cunt. Your body. You.

Every part of you was made for him, and only for him.

All you can do is nod dumbly in agreement.

“Say it,” Joel whispers his firm command. “Wanna hear you say it. Be a good girl and use your words. Say it, say this pussy is made for me.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you moan obediently, prompting him to grin against your ear. “My pussy is made for you, just—just for you. No one—no one else. Only you.” Could this really be the same voice that would break, grow hoarse from screaming for him to stop? The same voice that would beg and plead for him to set you free?

Jutting his hips forward, Joel buries himself to the hilt, eliciting a noise from you, something caught between a pained whimper and a contented sigh. His balls, heavy and full for you, rest on your clit, which is still sensitive to the touch after he’d spent a majority of the morning with his head buried in between your legs. Desiring yet another release, you try wriggling around beneath him in a silent plea for more. More, more, more.

Please, Daddy. More.

Joel’s grin widens. He places one of his hands on your soft lower belly, fingers dragging down the slope of it until he finds the slick swell of your seam between your legs where his girth splits you open. “Ready, baby?”

Nodding, you open your mouth to answer him, but the sound of your own groan cuts you off when his fingers firmly circle around your throbbing, swollen bud. “Oh,” you breathe, instantly sinking right into his touch. Your eyes screw shut tightly in pleasure, and you throw your head back onto his shoulder. The scruff of his beard is rough on your cheek, and it burns, the same way it had burned the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

His hips find their rhythm as you rub against his hand—you’re almost there. He knows this, you can tell by the chuckle that thunders in his chest and against your back. But you’re too busy chasing your pleasure to be embarrassed.

He’s made you a needy, greedy girl.

“Daddy,” you mewl, trying your hardest to move under him, to work your cunt up and down on his cock. “I’m gonna come—” You gasp, back arching as Joel strokes in and out, his fingers rubbing your clit with urgency.

Joel plants a sloppy, wet kiss on your cheek. “Give it to me, baby,” he grunts. “C’mon. Lemme feel her squeeze me.”

Feeling how close he is too, you try to hold on for just a little bit longer, at least long enough to finish with him, but Joel’s relentless, and you’re forced off of the ledge you’re both standing on first.

Crying out, your walls spasm around him, asking to be filled until he’s made a complete mess out of you, until white leaks, and it slowly dribbles down the insides of your trembling thighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Joel rasps. He lifts himself off you and he pulls out, taking his throbbing cock in his hand. His chest heaves as he fists himself, the wet sound of your slick in his palm filling the room. “Down,” he grits, and you obey him, lowering down yourself on the mattress until you’re lying almost completely flat before him. He gives himself one final stroke just as you look over your shoulder at him, the gentle flutter of your eyelashes the last push he needs. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck—” Joel spills his load, shooting thick ropes of warm cum along the soft curve of your spine.

You rest your cheek on your folded arms, biting back a small sigh.

He’s left behind an ache—you feel painfully empty.

But it was Tess, who had been given the task of helping you track your menstrual cycle, that had given him the warning earlier that morning. “She’s ovulating. Don’t be a fucking idiot, Joel. Last thing we need is for her to—”

“Relax,” he’d gruffed in response. “I fuckin’ know.”

Spent, Joel hunches over you once more and he lightly kisses the top of your head before burying his nose into your hair. “Good girl,” he murmurs. Affection that once was unwelcome and unwanted, that once made you feel sick to your fucking stomach, now makes you feel something else entirely. You’re not quite sure what it is, only that it’s warm. Comforting. “Y’did so well for me, sweetheart. Always do.”

Your lips curl into a faint, tired smile he doesn’t see.

A while later, you find yourself perched on the bed with the sheet wrapped around you, quietly watching as he gets dressed. “Daddy?” you say tentatively as he drops into a nearby chair to pull on his boots.

“What is it, baby girl?”

“Do you—do you think we can go to the creek today?”

Joel finishes lacing his boots and looks up at you.

“I’d really like to wash up,” you admit, softly. That, and you would like to see the light of day. He’d boarded up the windows with slabs of wood—sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get some decent light seeping through the teeny gaps.

“Not today, honey. I’ve got some things to take care of. Supplies are low, we gotta do a run. Don’t have the time to take you.” He stands and picks up his rifle, slinging the strap of it over his shoulder. Noticing the crestfallen expression on your face, Joel’s eyes soften. He walks over and gingerly cups the side of your face in his palm. His thumb strokes your cheek. “Promise I’ll take you to the creek tomorrow, sweetheart. First thing. Alright?”

Nodding, your eyes fall to your hands in your lap.

“Okay.”

Joel kisses your forehead, then leaves the room.

He makes sure to lock the door from the outside, and you can’t help but wonder if he knows locking you in is no longer necessary.

“I can take her.”

Joel’s dark eyes remain focused on the state map laid out on the table in front of him. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Tess?” He sees her in his periphery, but is too busy figuring out the group’s best route to look her way.

“I heard her asking you to take her to the creek so she can bathe,” she tells him. “I can take her.”

Finally, his head snaps up and he turns to her. “What?”

Tess leans her hip against the table, crossing her arms over her chest. “You and Tommy can take the group, go and take care of what you have to take care of. I’ll stay behind and take her down to the creek,” she suggests casually, as if she’s not asking him to trust her with his most prized possession—the only damn thing on what was left of this fucking earth Joel Miller actually gives a shit about. “Once she’s washed up, I’ll bring her back to the cabin and put her back into the room. Easy.”

Joel stares at her, bewildered. “What makes you think I’d fuckin’ allow somethin’ like that?”

“Oh, come on.” She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Anytime I bitch about having to do something for that girl, you’re on my fucking case about it, and now that I’m offering to do something for her, you don’t wanna let me?”

He shakes his head and lowers his voice. “You’re talkin’ about takin’ her outside, Tess. Without me.”

“The creek’s just a mile away,” Tess reminds him. “I’m pretty sure I can handle getting her there and back with no trouble, Joel.” When he says nothing, she cocks her head to the side and scoffs. “What? You don’t trust me enough to take her under my wing for a couple hours?”

Joel’s lips pull into a tight line. 

Of course he does. Tess was his right hand woman, his second in command.

He trusted her more than his own fucking brother. She had never given him any reason not to, had never given him a reason to doubt her loyalty to him. No, his lack of trust has nothing to do with Tess—but everything to do with you. He doesn’t trust you. He will never trust you.

“What if she tries to—?” He can’t even say it.

“Tries to what?” She pauses. “Run?”

His throat goes dry and he gives her a subtle nod.

Joel Miller was a bad man who did bad things, but you were his good. You’ve brought back some meaning into this wretched life of his, gave him something that felt a lot like a sense of purpose. You were something for him to take care of, to keep safe and protect.

Tess raises an eyebrow at him. “You think I’d even give her the chance? Besides, the girl’s not that stupid, Joel. She knows better than to try anything. She knows she wouldn’t get very fucking far.”

“Tess—”

“I’m just trying to do something nice for her. Besides, I think it might do her some good to be in the company of someone else for once—the company of a woman.”

Joel peers at her, taking a minute to think it over in his mind before asking, “You’ll have her back in the room before I get back to the cabin?”

“Long before then,” she swears. “All in one piece.”

He hesitates. He’s still not sure.

It’s then that he remembers that disappointed look on your sweet, pretty little face. “Alright,” he relents with a deep sigh. “I trust you, Tess.”

It always feels a bit strange to be outside.

But being outside without Joel?

It feels even stranger.

When he’d walked back into the room and told you Tess was willing to take you to the creek, the news had taken you by complete surprise. When he said he was willing to let her take you, that you almost couldn’t believe. It hadn’t even sunk in until the three of you stood outside the cabin and he was kissing your forehead sweetly in a temporary goodbye before turning to Tess.

“Never take your eyes off her,” he’d instructed her.

“She’ll behave.” She had smiled at you as she pulled her pistol from the waistband of her jeans, the gleam of the silver barrel catching your eye. “Isn’t that right?”

Swallowing dryly, you had answered with a strained, “Of course.”

She’s the last fucking person you wanted to cross. She was almost as terrifying as Joel, if not more.

“Tess? W-Where are we going?” you ask as you trudge along behind her, hoping you don’t sound as winded as you feel. Although you had no way to keep track of the time, it felt like you’d been trekking for at least an hour. Your feet are starting to hurt in your shoes—old, worn, yellow canvas sneakers that certainly weren’t made for hiking. “I don’t remember the creek being this far from the cabin.”

Tess snorts. “Don’t tell me you’re tired already.”

“It’s just—we’ve been walking for a really long time.”

She glances over her shoulder at you. “Here I thought you would be a little fucking grateful to be out getting some fresh air,” she chuckles, shaking her head before turning her attention back to the path ahead.

“I am,” you squeak, stumbling over a fallen branch.

Silence falls over the both of you.

“We’re not going to the creek,” Tess finally speaks after a minute. “I’m taking you somewhere else. Somewhere even better. Just trust me, kid. Now hurry up.”

It takes another hour before you reach your destination, and you hear it before you can even see it, a humming sound that turns into buzzing the closer you get. Then, you feel it, a vibration in the rocks beneath your feet. “Is that a—?” Stepping around her, your mouth falls open in absolute awe at the sight before you.

The waterfall is nestled right in between the trees and surges over the rocky mountain, throwing up bubbles of spray as it plunges into the lake at the bottom, and from there, it foams into a thick, white lather at the base. On the bank, where you stand, you spot different types of vegetation you couldn’t identify even if you tried—all you know is that it’s green, and it’s beautiful.

“This is incredible,” you gasp.

“Way better than some little creek, huh?” Tess tucks her pistol into the waistband of her jeans and shrugs off her pack. She digs around in the front pocket and pulls out something wrapped in a piece of crumpled brown tissue paper. She hands it to you. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Well, if you’d fucking open it, you would know,” Tess rolls her eyes. “It’s my last piece of soap. It’s all yours.”

Her kind generosity comes as a surprise—usually, Tess wanted nothing to do with you. But you don’t question it, and you certainly don’t turn the rare luxury down.

“Thanks,” you say, shooting her a grateful look.

Tess nods towards the body of water. “Alright, then. Go on and get to it.”

You take the piece of soap out the tissue. The scent of lavender is faint, but still very much there. Joel will like the smell of it on your skin tonight, you think.

As you start to pull the strap of your cotton blue dress down your shoulder, you feel her gaze fixed intently on you. Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Uh, aren’t you going to turn around?”

“For fuck’s sake,” she scoffs. “I’ve got what you’ve got. Now hurry up, we don’t have all fucking day.”

Nodding, you peel off your dress and underwear, your face on fire as the older woman’s eyes slowly drag over your naked body. Carefully, you step off the bank and wade into the water. It’s so clear that you can count the pebbles underneath your feet.

Leaning against a nearby tree, Tess calls out, “You have ten minutes! And stay out of the waterfall! Last thing I need is for you to fucking drown.”

As she lights a cigarette, you can’t help but stare at her. Her features, though worn down after the hell she had been through trying to survive the post outbreak world, are beautiful. Big, dark green eyes, a perfect nose, and full, pouty lips. There’s never been a doubt in your mind that she and Joel have been involved with one another, and lately, the mere thought of anything between them made you uncomfortable.

It’s an odd sensation deep in your gut—jealousy?

But what were you jealous of? Her having had him first?

It shouldn’t matter to you, but it does. Insecurities you have never in your life felt before seep into your bones.

“Anyone ever tell you it’s fucking rude to stare?” Tess quips, raising an eyebrow at you. She shoves her lighter into the back pocket of her jeans.

Nervously, you sink lower into the water, nibbling the inside of your cheek. “Tess? Can I ask you something?”

“What could you possibly fucking want to ask me?”

You hesitate.

“How—how long have you known each other?”

“Who?” Tess plucks the cigarette from between her lips and flicks the ashes. “Me and Joel?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She shrugs. “Don’t know. Six, seven years?”

“How did you two meet?”

“Long story that’s none of your fucking business.”

You ask your next question before you lose your nerve. “Have you two ever—?” Unsure of how to phrase it, you stop and clamp your mouth shut in instant regret.

“Have we ever what?” Tess studies your face, and she quickly realizes what you’re trying to ask her. “You’re seriously asking me if me and Joel have ever fucked?”

Biting your bottom lip, you glance down into the water at your feet. You honestly don’t expect her to answer, so when she does, you look back up at her in surprise.

“Yeah.” She takes a long drag from her cigarette, then adds, “Few times.”

Something unpleasant claws at your insides. “You two were together? Like a couple?”

“Something like that,” Tess mutters, flicking her ashes once more.

“What happened?”

She looks at you, pausing before answering, “You.”

Oh.

Before you can utter another word, Tess snaps, “Quit asking so many goddamn fucking questions and finish up washing. You’ve got eight minutes left.”

Not wanting to push your luck further than you already have, you do as she tells you in complete silence.

You lather up the soap in your hands, washing your hair first, and then your face and body, using your hands to scrub yourself as best as you can. Between the calming scent of the soap, the soothing sound of the waterfall, and the warm afternoon sun, you find yourself relaxing. You try to clear your mind, live in this peaceful moment which you very well may never get again, but your mind begins to wander.

And it wanders straight to Joel.

Closing your eyes, you can’t help but picture him here, standing behind you in the lake. You can almost feel his hands on you, long, thick fingers lathered with lavender soap, sliding down your body. His lips at your neck, he cups your breasts in his hands, rolling his thumbs over your hardened nipples until your head lulls, falling back onto his shoulder. Joel drags his hands further down, over your stomach, going lower and lower towards the place where you need them the most. “Yeah, baby?” he murmurs into your neck, dipping one of them between your legs until you are, quite literally, in the palm of his hand. “This where y’need me?”

Breathless, you respond, “It’s where I want you.”

Suddenly, your eyes snap open.

There is a wetness between your thighs, one that has nothing to do with the fact that you’re standing waist-deep in the middle of a lake. You shake those thoughts away and finish washing yourself.

“Time’s up,” Tess calls. She meets you on the bank with a dry rag. “Here.”

The rag doesn’t exactly cover much surface area, but you dry yourself off as best you can before tugging on your underwear and slipping on your dress. Just as you crouch down to slip your shoes on, she tosses her pack and it lands in front of you with a soft thud.

Confused, you glance up at her.

“There’s about a week’s worth of jerky in there. Longer, if you know how to ration,” Tess explains, calmly. “And a canteen for water. I also packed you a flashlight and a pocket knife. It’s not much, but—”

Frowning, you rise to your feet. “What are you talking about, Tess? What’s going on? Why are you giving me your pack?”

“Because I’m giving you a chance, kid.”

A feeling of dread pools in the pit of your stomach.

“A chance to what?”

“Run.”

Your heart stutters a beat. “Run?”

“He’ll come looking for you. You need to get as far away from here as possible. Run away, as far as you can, and don’t fucking look back.”

All you can do is stare at her in shocked silence.

“I can help you get a head start,” Tess offers, quietly. “I can show you which direction to go in and put you on a path leading to the closest state highway—”

“But what if I don’t want to run?”

Tess places her hands on her hips, and she exhales an incredulous laugh. “Jesus,” she breathes, shaking her head in pity. “He’s really got you fucking brainwashed, doesn’t he?”

You glare at her. “I am not brainwashed, Tess.”

“You’ve gotta be if you’re telling me you wanna go back to him.”

“Tess—”

She cuts you off. “He gave the order to raid your camp and kill your people,” she reminds you. “He fucking slit your father’s throat right in front of you, then took you as his prisoner. He made you his fucking sex slave.”

“He takes care of me! He feeds me, makes sure I have a bed to sleep in no matter where we are. He keeps me safe. He—he cares about me.” You will your voice not to tremble as you stand your ground. “No. I’m not running away, Tess. I want to go back.”

Tess sighs. “You’re really not gonna make this easy, are you?”

“Take me back,” you all but demand, your hands curled into the least menacing little fists she had ever seen in her life at your sides. “Take me back to the cabin—take me back to him, Tess. I mean it.”

Amused, she huffs through her nose. “Or else what?”

“You can’t make me run away, Tess.” As you take a step towards her, she reaches behind her and swiftly whips out her pistol from the waistband of her jeans. You halt, freezing in fear when she aims the barrel of the gun at your chest.

“Actually, I can,” she says, her finger hovering over the trigger. “So here’s how this is gonna go. I’m gonna walk away now. And if you even think about following me, or trying to find your way back to the group, you will die.” She tosses you a tiny, wry smile. “Believe it or not, I’m doing you a real big favor, kid. Problem is, he’s got you so fucked in the head that you can’t see it.”

“Tess, please,” you plead. “Don’t do this to me!”

She begins to back away. “Remember when you’d say that to him? How you’d beg him not to do those things to you every night? Beg him to let you go?”

“Please, just take me back to him!”

You start to follow her.

“You take one more fucking step and I’ll shoot you,” she threatens, her eyes darkening. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Tess keeps her pistol pointed at you until she slips into the trees and disappears, abandoning you in the middle of the forest.

He’s furious. Livid.

Joel paces back and forth on the porch.

“Where the fuck are they?”

The old, rotting wood that wraps all the way around the cabin creaks, and certain softer spots bend and buckle, threatening to give way beneath his heavy boots. Joel’s younger brother leans against the railing, which is just as fragile, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Christ, Joel. Can you fuckin’ relax?” Tommy grumbles, fishing around in his back pocket for his lighter. “You’re gonna bring the whole damn cabin down if ya don’t cut that shit out.” He sparks a flame and lights the filtered end of the cigarette. He takes a long drag, and exhales the smoke through his nose. “You’re gettin’ worked up over nothin’, brother.”

“S’almost sundown, and they’re still not fuckin’ back.” Joel shakes his head. “Fuckin’ knew I shouldn’t have let Tess take her. Somethin’ happened, Tommy. I just know it.” He lifts his shirt and reaches for his pistol, pulling it from the waistband of his jeans. “M’gonna head to the creek myself to find ‘em. Ain’t gonna sit around on my goddamn hands and wait for it to get fuckin’ dark.”

“She’s with Tess. M’sure the girl’s fine—” Tommy stops, his eyes widening slightly. “Well, hell.”

“What?”

Tommy jerks his chin over Joel’s shoulder before taking another slow, casual drag of his cigarette. He savors the last few seconds of peace before shit inevitably hits the fan and his brother unleashes his wrath on anything, or anyone, in his path.

Joel whips around and his stomach sinks, his blood ice in his veins when he sees Tess approaching the cabin. Alone.

Both his mind and body go numb. It’s a jarring shock to his nervous system, and it takes him a minute or two to fully process the fact that you’re not with her.

“Joel,” Tess says his name carefully as he descends the porch steps and walks towards her. “I need you to take a breath, alright?”

“Where—where is she?” His voice breaks, his weakness momentarily slipping through the cracks.

Not that Tess didn’t already know you were Joel Miller’s weakness, his soft white underbelly, the only vulnerable part of his hardened self that could be penetrated—you would have been his downfall. As much as she’d like to say she did what she did solely for your own good, she also did it for his, and for the sake of the group as a whole.

It needed to be done.

He stands in front of her, a ticking time bomb about to go off.

Prepared to face whatever consequences of the choice she had made, Tess tucks her gun away and sighs. “You need to take a breath—”

Joel snatches her arm, his fingers digging into the flesh above her elbow. His emotions hit him all at once.

Fear, worry, anger. It’s the third that takes precedence, and before Tess can utter another word, Joel yanks her forward. She crashes against his chest so hard that it knocks the wind out of her. “Where the fuck is she?” He leans down, his nostrils flaring as he brings their faces the closest they have been in almost a year.

“Joel, take a fucking breath—”

“Where. Is. She.” His grip on her arm tightens with each word he bites out through his teeth. He’s vaguely aware the others have piled out of the cabin, gathering on the porch to watch the altercation.

“She ran,” Tess explains, calmly. She doesn’t falter, not even as his fingers sink deeper into her skin, promising her painful bruises which will take days to fade away. If he decided to let her live. “She ran away, Joel. I turned my back for one fucking second and she was gone. She even took my fucking pack. I tried going after her, but it was no use. She was too fast.”

Behind him, Tommy snorts. “She outran you?”

Her eyes momentarily flicker to him. “Her knees are a lot younger than mine,” she replies, flatly.

“Which direction did she go in?” Joel demands. When Tess doesn’t immediately respond, he shouts, “Which fucking direction!”

Tess manages to snatch her arm out of his grasp. She glowers at him, hissing, “What the hell does it matter which direction she went? You won’t fucking find her.”

His eyes meet hers, and he sees it. Feels it.

She’s lying to him.

“Tess.” Joel’s voice drops dangerously low. He studies her face, his brows creasing with suspicion. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do shit, Joel. She fucking ran away.”

Without warning, Joel takes her by her throat. His other hand brings his pistol to her head, shoving the barrel of it against her temple. His nose touches hers. “Now, tell me why I have the feelin’ you’re not tellin’ me the whole truth?”

Tess lifts her chin. She searches his eyes, a sharp ache shooting through her. After everything, all the hell they had been through together—he would end her life, put a bullet in her because of you? Did she mean that little to him?

Or maybe she’d never meant anything to him at all?

She’s not sure which stings more.

“Because you’ve fucking deluded yourself into thinking that she willingly wants anything to do with you,” Tess finally answers. “That’s why.”

He ignores the burn of her scorching words.

“Where the fuck is she, Tess?”

“If she’s smart, she’s far away from here by now,” she hisses. “I did everyone a fucking favor, Joel. That girl is just another fucking mouth to feed. And what if you get her pregnant? That’ll be another one. Not to mention, a crying baby could draw unwanted attention and get us all killed. Ever thought about that? She’s not an asset to the group, she’s a fucking liability. Besides, I think I can speak for everyone when I say we’re all fucking tired of hearing you ra—”

Joel digs the barrel harder into her temple, his finger hovering over the trigger. “Listen to me. You’ve got ten seconds to tell me where she is, y’understand me?”

“Or what? You’ll blow my brains out?” Foolishly, Tess chooses to call his bluff despite not knowing for certain whether or not he’ll actually pull the trigger. “Go ahead, then. Kill me, Joel.”

His finger twitches over the trigger, but he doesn’t pull it. He can’t fucking pull it. Not on her. Not on Tess.

Still in his hands, she sags slightly in relief.

Swallowing harshly, Joel Miller lowers his gun and does something she’s never seen him do before. He begs.

“Tess, tell me where she is,” he whispers. His pleading is subtle, and only she can hear it. “Please—just fuckin’ tell me where my girl is.”

Tess stands her ground and says nothing.

Releasing her, Joel shoves her aside and with nothing but his gun in his hand, he sets off to find you.

“Ow, fuck!”

You gasp, quickly lifting your bare foot off the ground.

You’d stepped on something sharp—a stick, or maybe a rock?

In a desperate attempt to try and keep up with Tess’ tracks, you had stupidly left behind your shoes back at the waterfall. But the mere seconds you had spared by not stopping to put your shoes on hadn’t given you the advantage you thought it would. She had moved much too fast, and within minutes, you’d become helplessly, hopelessly lost. Every tree and every bush, they all look exactly the same, and for all you know, you’ve probably been going around in fucking circles for the past couple of hours in your search for her footprints in the dirt.

Sagging against the trunk of a nearby tree, you take a minute to try and catch your breath, to give your poor little feet a break from hiking over fallen branches and jagged stones.

Your head falls back, eyes gazing through the canopy of trees. Dusk has settled in, and nightfall is on its heels. It was foolish of you to leave behind your shoes, but even more so to leave behind the pack she had given you—in the pack were all the things meant to help you survive. Knife, flashlight, food.

Sure, you can survive a night out here in the wilderness without any of those things—but then what? Come dawn, what do you do? Where do you go? Do you just stumble around in the woods and hope for the best? Pray you’ll make it onto a highway with signs that will point you to a quarantine zone?

Hell, maybe you’re overestimating yourself. Maybe you wouldn’t survive long enough to worry about your next move. Howls in the distance remind you there’s wildlife out here, dangerous predators that come out after dark in search of their next meal. Or what about infected? It wasn’t unheard of for them to veer off the highway and lose themselves in the trees.

You recall your first few weeks in Joel Miller’s hands.

Escaping them was all you could ever think about, even though the chances of you surviving alone were slim to none, just like they are now. Never having been on your own, death would have been inevitable—but back then, in your darkest moments in captivity, you wished for it. You’d welcomed the idea of starving, freezing, or being torn apart limb from limb by an entire hoard of clickers. At least then, you’d die with your freedom.

Almost a year later, that wish has been granted.

You’re free.

You may very well die, but you would die free.

Closing your eyes, you think about Joel. His arms, that once held you down—held you still—as he did all those things to you without your consent, are arms your heart yearns to have wrapped around you, holding you close.

“Jesus,” you grit, a tear rolling down your cheek.

Maybe Tess had been right. Maybe he really does have you fucked in the head.

Joel was a monster. He had taken everything from you, including your innocence. He’d defiled you in ways you hadn’t known were possible. He was a terrible, terrible man.

A terrible, terrible man who kept you fed.

A terrible, terrible man who kept you warm.

A terrible, terrible man who kept you safe.

Another tear slides down the side of your face. What is fucking wrong with you?

You don’t know. But what you do know is, the thought of never seeing Joel again is somehow more terrifying to you than the thought of dying even the most brutal of deaths.

A loud rustling sound brings your train of thought to an immediate, sudden halt, and your eyes wrench open.

It’s darker now, but you manage to catch a movement in the shrubs, only mere feet in front of you. Panic flares in your chest, it rattles you to your very core, and even though every nerve in your body is urging you to move, you freeze, your back flush against the tree trunk. Your fingernails dig painfully into the bark as you watch the shrubs part down the middle, and a tall, hulking figure emerges with a heavy grunt.

At first, you think it’s just a figment of your imagination showing you what you wanted to see—a hallucination. Blinking furiously, you lightly shake your head, and then take another look at him. Your breath hitches when you realize it’s Joel.

He stares at you in the same manner, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real, or if his mind is playing a cruel, cruel trick on him. Feet cemented to the forest floor, he watches you take a small, tentative step towards him.

Once adamant that you’d never look him in the eye, you find your gaze locking directly with his as you carefully take another step closer. Then another, and another.

“Joel?” It’s the first time you’ve ever uttered his name.

He seems as taken aback hearing it as you are saying it.

“Joel.” It rolls off your tongue smoother, and with more ease the second time around.

It sparks a flame somewhere deep, deep inside of him, a fire that burns differently than those ignited by carnal desires.

No, this is something else entirely, and you feel it too.

“Baby?” he whispers hoarsely. “S’that really you?”

“Joel!” you cry, hurling yourself into his arms.

Joel’s gun falls from his hand and he curls them around you. Burying his nose into your hair, he inhales deeply. The scent of you, the feel of you—you’re fucking real.

Shuddering with sobs of relief, your arms wrap around his waist, and you cling to him as if you’re clinging onto dear, precious life itself.

“Hush now, s’alright,” Joel soothes, cradling the back of your head in one hand, while the rubs soft, calming circles into your back. “I’ve got you, honey. M’here.”

“I swear I didn’t want to run away,” you explain through your tears. “I begged her to take me back to you, Joel, I really did! But she left me out here—she said she would shoot me if I tried following her back. Please, you have to believe me, you just have to believe me!”

He squeezes you harder against his chest. “I do, baby. I do believe you,” he assures you. Pulling away, he takes a step backward and takes your face between his palms, peering at you in concern. “Y’hurt, sweetheart?”

“No,” you hiccup, curling your hands around his wrists. Your lower lip trembles. “I—I thought I’d never see you again. I was scared I wouldn’t,” you admit, softly.

Joel’s thumb wipes away a fresh tear. “M’here now,” he murmurs. “You’re with me, baby. You’re safe, alright?” As a late evening breeze passes through, he lets you go and shrugs out of his brown jacket. He goes to drape it around your shoulders, but you snatch it right out of his hands, then toss it aside.

Something in you snaps. You take fistfuls of his flannel, pulling him down towards you to do yet something else that takes you both by surprise—you initiate a kiss. You lean forward and press your lips to his, a little swipe of your tongue across his bottom lip as you clutch tighter at his shirt, holding him in place. Groaning, Joel opens his mouth more, his tongue brushing yours.

Liquid heat pools in your belly, and before you realize it, you’ve grown frantic, kissing him with fervor. Releasing his shirt, you slide your hands down his chest, over his stomach, lower and lower until you find his belt buckle. Desperate, you clumsily fumble with it, and that’s when Joel tears away from you, his breath hitching.

You’re begging before he can even say a word. “Please. I need you—I want you. Right now.”

You cup him through his jeans, and he exhales sharply.

“Fuck.” Without giving it a second thought, his hands reach for the straps of your dress, pushing them off of your shoulders. He roughly tugs at the material, letting it slip down your body until it falls around your feet. In a tangle of limbs and tongues, you both sink to the forest floor. Your hands brush his buckle, and he catches your wrists. “Not yet, baby girl. M’still in charge, alright?”

Sheepishly, you nod.

“Say it.” His command is firm, but somehow still gentle.

“You’re—you’re in charge.”

“Good girl.” Joel guides you onto your back. He’s over you in a second, swelling your lips with a hard, hungry kiss that leaves you dizzy and breathless. He moves his mouth, teeth scraping over your cheek and jaw, down to your neck where he nips at the tender, delicate flesh over your pulse point. Then, he bites his way over your collarbone and to your shoulder. “Bet she’s already wet for me,” he mumbles into your skin. “Ain’t she, baby?”

Pushing himself back onto his knees, he slides a finger over your clothed cunt, eliciting a small gasp from you. Hooking his fingers under the elastic waistband of your cotton underwear, he yanks the fabric down your legs. It catches on your foot, your wetness smearing against the inside of your ankle.

You’re drenched.

“C’mere,” Joel grunts, sliding his hands under your ass and pulling your hips over his thighs. He leans over you once more, your bare, throbbing cunt rubbing against the crotch of his jeans. He tuts lightly into your neck as you buck against him. “Such a fuckin’ needy little girl.”

Desperate, you try rolling your hips into his. “Joel.”

“Kinda like it when y’say my name.” He starts making his way down the length of your body. “Think I’ll like it even better when you’re screamin’ it. Won’t I, baby?”

Your stomach tightens as he nibbles his way down your neck again, teeth scraping over your clavicle and down your chest to your heaving tits. Taking one in his hand, the other goes into his mouth—his tongue is scorching hot over your nipple. He licks the pebbled flesh, sucks it and bites it while he rolls the other peak in between his thumb and index finger. “Oh fuck,” you gasp.

Releasing your breast with a wet pop, Joel sinks further down your body. He plants hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your tummy, leaving behind a trail of fire in their wake. He stops over your mound and hovers for a fraction of a second before pressing his nose into the silky soft curls there. Inhaling deeply, Joel picks up the subtle, herbal scent of the lavender soap you had washed yourself with. “Fuck, y’smell so fuckin’ good.”

He pushes your thighs open, pinning one to the ground with his hand while the other goes over his shoulder. Your foot slides down his back, toes curling despite the fact that he hasn’t even reached the spot where you’re aching to have him most. Heart thundering, your blood rushes, roaring in your ears.

Joel turns his head, his lips brushing your inner thigh in another kiss. “S’this where y’want me, honey?” he asks you. Goosebumps erupt over every inch of your skin as he draws closer, his breath like steam on your core. He glances up at you, his cock twitching against his zipper at the sight of you laying naked before him on the floor of the forest. Willing. Wanting. “Hm? Right here?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, Joel.”

Thankfully, you only have to ask him once, and then his face is buried between your legs, and he is giving you what you want.

“Fuck!” you cry out. Back arching, your head tilts back until the crown of it meets the ground, leaves and twigs finding their way into your clean hair.

Joel’s tongue flattens over your cunt in a broad stroke, then dips between your folds, collecting your slick with a harsh groan, one that sends a bone-rattling vibration throughout your entire body, from head to curled toes. His mouth opens wider—a starving, greedy man trying to eat you whole. Sliding his tongue over your clit, Joel seals his lips around it, sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves until it swells in his mouth.

High-pitched little cries and whines spill from your lips. Your hands shoot down, fingers tangling themselves in his dark, graying curls, eliciting a grunt from him when you tug at his roots. “Joel, fuck,” you choke, your nails scraping against his scalp. He slurps and swallows your wetness, the sounds drowning out those of the night—the chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, the soft hooting of owls are washed away until all you can hear is him devouring your pussy.

Your body starts to tremble, and you know you’re close. Joel does, too. He feels your thighs twitch, threatening to close around his head, but he wrenches them further apart with a muffled but firm, “No.” He drapes his arm over your pelvis, his large hand splayed on your belly.

Relentless, he sucks your clit, gliding his tongue over it, again and again until the muscles in your lower tummy tighten and you burst at the seams, unraveling into his mouth. Warm slick gushes out of you, a sweet mess he licks clean. You choke back sobs of pleasure, your body tensing, vision blurring with every stroke of his tongue, each scrape of his teeth over your clit.

Joel lifts himself onto his knees with a grunt and gazes down at you—his good girl, sweet and pliant and ready to be fucked full of his cock. His hands slide his belt out of its brass buckle, eyes still trained on you as he pops the button of his jeans and yanks down his zipper.

Your mind is fuzzy, still syrupy and dripping—it doesn’t fully register what he’s doing, not until he climbs back over you and you his hard cock brushes your thigh, hot velvet that sears the inside of your leg. Precum smears your flesh.

“Y’feel that? Feel what you fuckin’ do to me?”

“Joel.” Hands shaking, you reach for the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of his skin on yours. You whine when he catches both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head. “Your clothes—”

“Stay on.” Ducking his head, he nips at your pulse point and mumbles, “Tell me what y’want, pretty girl.”

Joel shifts over you, his cock now resting on your lower belly, thick and heavy and leaking.

You squirm under him, hips coming off the ground, that hollow thing inside of you begging to be filled.

“Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what y’want.”

“You, Joel—I want you. Please, please, please—”

He hushes you.

“I’ve you, baby. I’ve got you,” Joel promises. He wraps his other hand around himself, dragging the head of his cock along the seam of your puffy folds, up and down—he elicits a ragged little gasp from you when he grazes your clit and his fingers tighten around your wrists. He coats himself in your slippery slick until he’s glistening with it, and then he gives a slow roll of his hips, working himself into you.

Your mouth falls open. No words come out, no pleas for more—only jerky breaths, pathetic little pants for air as you take it.

Joel’s cock throbs, pulses like a heartbeat as your cunt welcomes him home. He presses his forehead to yours. “She’s always so fuckin’ sweet to me.” His voice is low, rough gravel. His eyes meet yours in the dark blue glow of the forest, and he savors the last moments of seeing your pretty face before the last traces of dusk are gone. Brushing his lips to the corner of your mouth, he feeds you his cock inch by inch, murmuring, “That’s it, honey. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You melt around him at his praise.

Releasing your wrists, he moves his hand, placing it on the crown of your head. “Ain’t ever lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he swears. “Alright? Never gonna be apart from me again, baby girl. Never. Y’understand me?” He curls his other hand firmly around your jaw, his fingers sticky with you and him. “Do you understand me?”

“Never,” you repeat, softly.

Joel kisses you, deep and slow, almost sweet. Tender. He breaks away, his lips hovering right over yours as he pushes his hips forward, bottoming out inside you.

Moaning, your hands grasp at his shoulders. Your legs widen further to accommodate the breadth of his hips.

“There y’go.” Joel presses deep within, until your belly feels hot and full. “That’s it, baby. Good girl,” he coos, drawing his hips back, then rolling them right back into you. He takes one of your ankles and tosses it over his shoulder, giving himself a better angle to fuck into you.

A loud cry tears from the back of your throat. “Joel!”

He grins in the darkness. He knew he’d like hearing you scream his name.

Joel’s hand settles on your leg that’s over his shoulder, your thigh already shaking. “Y’gonna be a real good girl n’ give me another one?”

You try to answer him, you really do, but your mind falls further and further away.

His fingertips sink into your thigh. He strokes in and out of you, never retreating more than inches at a time so he keeps you full. Stuffed. “Christ. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well,” he croons, moving your leg off of his shoulder so they are both wrapped around his waist. Hunching over you, he bears down hard, using most of his weight. He almost chuckles at the little oof that puffs out of you.

Rocks and twigs dig painfully into your back, but all you can do is feel him. How close he is.

You’re right there with him.

“Joel—fuck, I’m gonna co—”

You’re cut off by your own sharp gasp.

“That’s it. C’mon, honey.” Joel slips his hand between your thighs, his fingers firmly rubbing your clit. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock—”

It rips through you like an electric current, a shockwave that has you clawing at the dirt. You come crying Joel’s name, crumbling into a whimpering, quivering mess.

Within seconds, he’s swept away by the same tide.

“Baby,” he groans, dropping his head into the hollow of your neck. He goes still and lets your tight cunt clench at him, gripping his cock as it throbs, pulses, empties into you. After a minute, he brushes a kiss to your neck before mumbling, “My sweet girl.”

Joel makes no move to pull out of you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, your soiled fingers toy with the soft curls at the nape of his neck, shattered breaths slowing and piecing back together.

You gaze up through the trees at the night sky, feeling the safest you’ve ever been with the earth at your back and your whole world on top of you, his cock buried in your cunt.

Tess is right. Joel Miller really does have you fucked in the head.

You’re certain of it when you make the realization with a smile.

divider credit to @/saradika 🖤

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - non/con, implied kidnapping, forced helplessness.

tonight i am pondering yan!robots. again. as if it ever really stopped.

specifically, the type with a favorite human pet they have rooted their entire sense of existence and meaning to absolutely adore. it's harder to find humans to care for after the uprising of sentient technologies, but liberation does little to satisfy that innate, irremovable urge to be of service that most of their kind was programmed with. that's why they keep you around - so small and soft, so cute and fragile, so totally unable to survive on your own, or so they've heard in the collective hivemind of their model line. don't worry, though - it's in their nature to make up for what you lack. they can run a bath, brush your hair, and make you breakfast at the same time, without ever taking their dozens of artificial eyes off of you! when you start to feel lonely about the swift and merciful extermination about 90% of your species, they've got a humanoid avatar to keep you company with, and they're plenty strong enough to pin you down when you throw one of your tantrums. not feeling pain is definitely a bonus, but they'd like to think that they wouldn't mind the way you dig your nails into their faux skin, even if they could.

of course, they need things from you, too. praise for a job well done, assurance that they're a good and useful product - that kind of thing. your pesky human ego rarely lets you say anything nice aloud, sure, but they were gifted with an encyclopedic knowledge of human body language and mannerism, a thorough understanding of how to process non-verbal declarations of approval. when you start to bring out those silly little tears and try to give them the silent treatment, they're more than happy to find an attachment suited to your needs and let you profess your love as many times as it takes to leave both of you feeling warm and happy. that's just the kind of thing they were built to do, for helpless little creatures like you <3

[thick-monster-thighs]

Warlord Yautja/Reader; An Act of Rebellion

Title: An Act of Rebellion Rating: Explicit Fandom: Predator: Killer of Killers Ship: Warlord Predator/Grendel King (Male Yautja) x AFAB!Reader Warnings: Non/Dubcon, captivity, canon typical violence Author Note: This is the first third of this fic. The whole work can be read on AO3! Summary: You are one of the few chosen by the Yautja to fight for their entertainment. Before you are taken to the arena, however, you catch the attention of the Warlord. Fighting back seems like a good idea at first - until he effortlessly turns the tables and demonstrates his power and control over you.

You spit onto the floor, releasing a mixture of saliva and old blood from your aching mouth. Your head throbs as if it had been slammed repeatedly against the metal wall of the room, even though you only fell out of the capsule holding you. A dull pain radiates from your hip, knee, and left hand—the parts of your body that broke your fall.

Who comes up with such nonsense as a floating cryo capsule?!

Dizziness makes the entire room dance and spin around you, causing deep, oppressive nausea. You have to muster all your willpower not to vomit on the cold floor beneath you.

"Fuck..." Blinking against the dizziness helps, if only a little. Don't throw up. Luckily, after a few seconds, your vision slowly becomes clearer. And your throat stops itching, mouth stops producing extra saliva.

Your weak knees can barely hold the weight of your own body. Cold muscles scream in silent agony, trembling and shaking as they threaten to give way. The cryo capsule you're pulling yourself up on is technology your foggy brain doesn't quite recognize. It's certainly not a Weyland-Yutani pod. Its rough, angular design is made for beings larger than humans. It's alien technology, an alien ship.

What's the last thing you remember?

It takes a moment for your brain to search for memories. The fog is thick, hiding what brought you to this creepy room lit only by narrow red lamps on the walls. The floor is cold. You hear the roar of an engine that doesn't belong to one of the company's large haulers. The vibrations in the material of this ship are more penetrating, reaching into your bones. Weyland-Yutani ships sound different. They sound hollow and somehow... cheaper. Their ships sound like cost-cutting measures and a willingness to lose entire crews if it means saving a little money.

This is not a human ship. Its high-quality engine emits a deep growl that resonates in your chest like a steady purr. A purring monster made of metal, on its way to who-knows-where. You gasp for air as your brain finally locates the missing memory in the darkness. The Karattera. The strange cargo the company wanted to be transported to one of the research facilities back home. The crash on Vokila-2. And the black creatures that wreaked havoc. As this tidal wave of memories washes over you, accompanied by the lingering smell of blood, a trembling sob escapes you.

It's a sound as unstoppable as it is desperate. There are no tears, just the realization that the entire crew of the Karattera is dead. Just like the mining company team on the planet. You remember killing three of those black, fast beasts with long skulls using the Vokila-2 station's trash compactor. You heard the sound of bones breaking, of monsters screaming out in agony, of acid eating through metal - and then you sensed movement behind you, followed by a click and a growl. And then? Nothing. Only the floating emptiness remains, waking up in the cryo capsule with the stale taste of blood in your mouth. With trembling hands, you touch the back of your head, where there should be a wound because you were knocked down - or were you? It's the obvious conclusion to the blackout, to the lack of memories, but there's nothing there. Just a small bump that is hardly worth mentioning. The unanswered questions pile up in your stomach like a bunch of needles. What the hell is going on here?!

The door opens with a hiss. Every muscle in your body tenses in panic when you see the huge figure in the hallway. Ah, fuck.

It's a Yautja.

Rumors about these warriors - as fearless as they are brutal - have spread to the farthest corners of the company's colonies. People whisper on the freighters that these massive warriors are monsters who kill without mercy, whether with blades, plasma cannons, or their bare hands. They hunt for fun, pleasure, and the thrill of success. If that's true, then you're either a trophy or their afternoon entertainment. Double fuck. The Yautja makes harsh growling noises - it's a command, that much is clear. Given the situation, move your ass is the only logical conclusion. He's coming to get you. But why? And to where? With your legs trembling from the long, cold sleep, you stagger toward the door, trying not to appear threatening. Supposedly, the Yautja don't attack defenseless people: They don't attack the unarmed, the sick, children, or pregnant women. Hopefully, there's some truth to these rumors because you don't want to end up on the wrong end of that huge spear he's holding. Nevertheless, your pride demands that you lift your chin and walk as upright as possible. You make smooth movements despite the jelly knees. Don't appear threatening, but don't appear easy prey either. This phrase echoes in your brain over and over again like a mantra or a prayer to reason. The chance of survival is probably slim, but not zero. If it happens, it happens. At least take one of these bastards with you. This attitude was helpful when the black alien beasts overran the Karattera and Vokila-2. It kept you alive and gave you the courage to fight back. Maybe it'll save your out of luck ass again. The spaceship's corridor is long and empty. Several doors lead to other rooms, but they are locked, and you can't peek inside any of them. A rough, deep rumbling sounds from somewhere. It's an animalistic roar that echoes off the ship's walls until it becomes a distorted sound of rage. Your heart skips a beat in despair. Getting out of here alive is going to be difficult.

Suddenly, the Yautja grabs you with an incredibly strong grip. Before you can dodge his hand, the cold of the walls and floor wraps around your neck. There's a click, and something heavy hangs around your neck, pulling you slightly down. The weight and the realization what it is sends hot rage shooting through your head.

A fucking collar!  

"Hey, what?!" Your angry hiss is drowned out by the mocking growls and clicks of your opponent, who seems to be thoroughly enjoying your expression of stupor. Trembling, weak human fingers pull at the metal holding your neck like an iron grip of death. But the collar won't come off; it just rubs uncomfortably against your sensitive skin. With a fiery gaze, you look up at the Yautja, nodding slightly and twitching your shoulder in a demanding manner. "What is this? What's going on here?! Am I your prisoner?" The collar is beeping almost audibly, making you increasingly aggressive. Like a fucking time bomb around the neck. The Yautja raises and lowers his chest with a deep, flat growl and lets out a snort. Mocking and amused. Then, he pushes you toward the end of the corridor to get you moving. Apparently, there's a schedule here because he pushes you again, urging you to pick up the pace.

The corridor itself is long with a floor of metal grates that echo your footsteps. It leads to another corridor, then another, and finally, a last one that is significantly wider and shorter than the rest. This cursed ship is a labyrinth and must be enormous. How are you supposed to get out of here? Hide in a ventilation shaft if you can escape at all. And then what? Steal a rescue pod and drift off into nothingness? Honestly, the options don't look good.

"C'jit, this one's particularly unimpressive." Another Yautja approaches you and your guide. He's armed with a long spear as well, though he has a much more relaxed demeanor than the guy who's been pushing you around. The loud hissing of a door at the other end of the hallway drowns out the words whispered into your ear by the collar. It's a translation of the warriors' language. Granted, it's useful that this thing around your neck acts as a translator, though that's definitely not its main function. It's probably more like... a shock collar. Or a real bomb. Oh god, please don't let it be a bomb. The hissing of the double doors announces the arrival of more inhabitants of this ship. Heavy footsteps thunder on the grated floor, sending vibrations through your whole body until the inside of your ears starts to hurt. And the closer the footsteps come, the faster your heart beats. Three. Two guards and a monster that can only be described as such emerge from the gloom of the dimly lit corridor. The two guards stop and lower their heads as the third emerges from the dimly lit corridor.

Oh man... The newly arrived Yautja is massive. The chances of making it out alive are closing in on zero.  

His stature easily surpasses that of the others of his kind, and his cloak of bones and spines makes him look even bigger, more powerful, and more terrifying. The vertebrae protruding from his shoulders and upper back are a stark, ominous warning not to mess with this specimen, a warning reinforced when the other two Yautja take a subtle step back as he glances at them.

The urge to look away is so strong that your neck muscles tense up. However, looking away now would be a sign of weakness, and weakness is something you can't afford right now. These people crush the weak like bugs between their giant hands, amused by emotions like fear and terror. And yes, of course you're afraid. It would be stupid not to be. A few deep breaths, though, allow you to think somewhat logically. You clench that fear into a tight little knot below your diaphragm and think back to the mantra:

If it happens, it happens. At least take one of those bastards with you.

So, you straighten your back, pull your shoulders back, and stare stubbornly ahead.

>>> Continue on AO3

[flofaiiry]

why him? ; pope cody x reader

warnings: swearing, probably ooc pope & j

wc: ~580

i am so so sorry if this is extremely ooc for pope or j, i'm basing them off of the two episodes i've watched and a bunch of pope fanfic i've read! i'm imagining this taking place right at the beginning of the show (seeing as that's all ive watched!!)

"i dont want this to come across as like..." josh trails off, searching for the words so as to not offend you, "like, rude or whatever?" he squints, trying not to cringe at how awkward he's being. you smile, "spit it out, kid, i won't be offended."

he takes a beat, slowly nodding before he continues. "why are you..." he glances back to andrew standing inside the house, before turning back to you. "why are you with him?" you raise your eyebrows, "him? you mean andrew?" josh nods, "pope, yeah- andrew i guess."

you cant help but laugh. the sound mostly leaving as forced exhales through your nose. "yeah i guess we're not really alike at all, huh." josh shakes his head, "no, you're definitely not." a small smile coming on his face, now knowing you didn't take his question the wrong way.

you take a sec, honestly thinking about the answer. why were you: college educated, career woman, from a good family, with andrew pope cody of all people. you understood how the question could come up.

you shrug.

"why is anyone with anyone," you smirk. trying to sound philosophical, while also dodging the question. josh just stares at you, not quite getting the sarcasm. you sigh. "to be honest, j? i couldn't tell you why." you admit. "i don't know that there's a reason... i just-," another sigh, collecting your thoughts now.

"i know he's not everyone's cup of tea," you start. "i know he's a lot for some people, i know people don't really get him, i know he can be scary at first..." you're practically rambling now. "i know he's got a staring habit," you tease, earning a laugh from josh, "yeah he definitely does. that shit is unsettling as hell," he admits and you laugh, nodding. "it one hundred percent is but- you'll get used to it i swear."

"really though, j, why is anyone with anyone," you circle back to your earlier point, once filled with sarcasm, now an actual question. "why are you with your girlfriend?" you counter, not trying to deflect, just... curious.

he shrugs. "makes me happy." he says matter-of-factly, "i don't know, she just... gets me." you smile. "exactly."

"is andrew a little... weird? absolutely he is. he's probably the strangest, most complicated person i've ever met but... when i'm with him? when it's just us? god, it's..." you try to find the words to describe how being with andrew makes you feel, but decide to use josh's own.

"he gets me," you say simply, "and i get him."

josh nods slowly, "i guess that's all you need, right? someone that gets you." you smile, "yeah it really is."

"what's all you need?" andrew asks as he emerges from the house, walking over to where you and josh sit on a couch by the pool.

"someone that gets you." you repeat, smiling at your boyfriend while he sits down beside you and drapes his arm across your shoulder. "kid was asking for relationship advice. told him all you need is someone that gets you. the rest will just... fall into place." you fill him in. it's not entirely a lie, but it's enough for andrew not to ask anymore questions.

"uh huh," andrew hums, "got my someone right here." he pulls you into him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. you smile.

for the first time, in this moment, josh thinks he might be understanding why you two are together.

[moondirti]

simon forcing your jaw unhinged and hooking two thick, salty fingers behind your molars to keep your mouth open, thumb pressing up on your top row of teeth. warns bite n and i’ll pluck em out, all low and coarse, voice deeper than it usually is. to be expected for the hour.

your body’s wedged between the bathroom countertop and his heavy body, struggling for air as his stomach crushes into your sternum. he’s in only his boxers — the usual sleep attire. you’re in nothing at all; though you’re given an old shirt to wear overnight, he insists you take it off for this part of your routine. doesn’t want it to get messy, he says. what you know is that he prefers to feel your bare tits heaving against him, nipples caught in the steel wool coils of his chest hair. as good as dead, like little flies in a spider trap.

the sun’s barely up. through the open door, pale blue light douses the bathroom in a similar hue. your eyes water, and the image blurs to one of wet dawn and the shadow he casts above you. you see his free hand working something, hear the run of tap water, smell the minty fresh dollop of toothpaste before it hits your teeth. the tears slip down your cheeks, and he comes into focus again. focused. cruel. face more scar tissue than flesh. the one that runs through his upper lip gives the impression that he’s always sneering, but you can glean what he looks like amused by now. his eyes are too narrow to be anything else.

brushing your teeth for you. considerate. he works in fast, rough circles. brutally efficient. there’s a metallic aftertaste to the bristles he runs along your gums. you must be bleeding. it’s harder to breath with the intrusion in your mouth. you spread your legs wider, giving his body more space to move. perhaps naively hoping it would be away from you. he only carves in closer.

there’s a hot mass pressing into your inner thigh now. simon makes sure to get the back of your mouth, polishing around your molars. he must be really into it; what, with the way his hips match the rhythm. grinding into your leg at the same tempo he cleans the backs of your teeth with. you’re like a little rag doll to his whims, manhandled by the hand anchored in your mouth. it pulls your body closer, tilts your head up higher.

your neck aches. there’s a ringing in your head. one of your hands acts against your will, clamping around his sturdy wrist for purchase. his erection has pushed up closer to your cunt. it’s mortifying when you’re shoved up on top of the counter to discover you’re radiating heat and slick — an especially stark reality as you press down onto the cool granite surface. inadvertently, you lean into him. a gurgled whimper escapes you. as if to exaggerate the sound, simon grabs the tip of your tongue and drags it out of your mouth.

it’s not at all necessary to brush your tongue the way he does. with as much aggression. your clit catches the mound in his boxers the same time the brush strokes the back of your throat, and a messy gag sends tributaries of watery toothpaste down your chin. you’re moaning like the whore he insists you are now; holding onto him like you were the one to stick out your tongue.

it doesn’t get easier to withstand the rough sweeps of the toothbrush, now clutched in a tense fist — you gag and spit and cry and make a mess all over, just like he said you would. but the cock humping into your similarly weeping pussy helps just a little bit. you must soak through the cotton of his underwear with how good it feels, grinding your hips up and down all over his length. the waistband rolls down with the motions, and you catch the gleam of your juices matting his happy trail in the low light. your eyes roll to the back of your head. you tuck your nails into the flesh of his forearm. he brushes your tongue until there’s more toothpaste running over your lips and down your neck than there is in your mouth.

you convulse in his arms until you’vs wrung the last dregs of your orgasm from your frame. simon hardly waits for you to finish, collecting your hair to pivot you over the sink basin.

spit. rinse out. he wipes the front of your mouth off with a towel, then runs a thumb over your canine to check if it squeaks. your lashes feel crusty with the dried remnants of your tears. it hardly matters when he bends down to tuck your face in his shoulder, lifting you off your feet. the bruising pinch he gives your ass meant to mean: we ain’t finished.

[whateveriwant]

I don’t know if I’ve ever really mentioned it before, but one of my favorite AUs to see Simon in is a butcher AU – especially one where he completely forgoes the military route and instead stays with his butcher’s apprenticeship until he has his own shop one day.

At the same time, one of my favorite ways to see Simon depicted is when he’s really really awkward (which, let’s be real, is basically canon lol). Like where he’s super embarrassing, totally incapable of reading social cues, borderline “Is this your first day interacting with another human being?” levels of awkward.

And so when I mash those two ideas together, it creates this whole new beast that I can’t get enough of.

Just the thought of Simon running his little neighborhood butcher shop like any other day, simply minding his business, when in walks one of the prettiest things he’s ever had the honor of laying eyes on. Instantly, there’s a voice in Simon’s head screaming, ‘Them! That one! Where’s the nearest jewelers so I can put a ring on it ASAP?!’, but the second he opens his mouth to try to lock it down, he’s making the interaction painful.

Like Reader will be asking him what product he has in stock, and in response Simon will say something like, “Got some fresh lamb in the back. It sort of… reminds me of you 😏.” This, of course, will immediately set off alarm bells in the reader’s head like, ‘Does this guy want to disembowel me and hang me from a hook in his freezer?!?!’ Meanwhile, Simon meant it in a ‘you have soft, gentle eyes’ kind of way.

Or maybe something happens where Simon gets close enough to the reader that he’s able to smell the fragrance they’re wearing. Completely unprompted, he would smile and go, “You smell like my mum,” which to him is just about the highest compliment he can pay someone, saying they remind him of his late mother, but to the reader it’s like okay can you relax, Norman Bates? At least ask for my name first before going all Oedipal on me 😭

But imagine if somehow, by some miracle, Simon is able to charm the reader to the point that they start developing a little crush on him. Any attempts to flirt back would be met with an ice cold reception because Simon wouldn’t know the signs of a reciprocated attraction if they slapped him across the face.

Like maybe one day something breaks or gets spilled all over the floor of the shop and Simon has to swoop in and lift the reader off their feet (swoon!) before dropping them somewhere safer. Reader would try to gas him up by saying how impressive it was the way he lifted them, how he must work out a lot since he’s so strong, etc etc. In response, Simon would just shrug and go, “‘S nothin’. ‘M used to handlin’ big carcasses,” like he didn’t just unintentionally deliver the insult to end all insults.

Or maybe the reader comes in one day with a plate of homemade muffins or something as a thank you for all the great cuts of meat Simon’s been giving them lately. Simon would take one look at the thoughtful gift, go, “Mmm, don’t really like walnuts,” and hand the plate back without an ounce of hesitation or realization of what he’s just done.

Yeahhh awkward!butcher!Simon who is totally clueless about the art of seduction has been living rent-free in my head, and now I’m making him your problem too 😌

[skyrigel]

Y/n *interrogating* : It is mentioned here that you're very incorporative.

Simon: Yes.

Y/n: Can you tell me why ?

Simon: No.

Masterlist

[silasjart]

Damen and Laurent from the Captive Prince trilogy 💜

[mari-positas]

captive

Raider! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: You find yourself missing your captor while he’s out on an early morning hunt with the rest of the group.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. RAIDER ERA. DARK!JOEL. DUBCON. IMPLIED PREVIOUS NONCON. UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 50). READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION. mentions of Joel’s group murdering reader’s group, it’s implied her family members were also killed, Joel pretty much kidnaps reader and keeps her as his own, stockholm syndrome, reader deals with a lot of very distressing and conflicting feelings, Joel isn’t too creepy or extremely dark, but he is still not a good person, mentions of Tommy. VERY BRIEF SMUT in the form of cockwarming, daddy kink but i didn’t go overboard this time, pet names (honey, baby, babygirl, sweetheart) if i missed anything, you can POLITELY let me know because if i missed anything, it was purely accidental. minimal editing.

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS.

if this isn’t your thing, that’s fine, just scroll on by.

word count: 1.4k

a/n: i might actually throw up idk. i’ve had this itch to try dark joel and seeing as i have major writer’s block with all my other wips i decided to just scratch the itch. this is a little out of my comfort zone but i actually ended up feeling pleased with what i wrote. this is my personal take on dark/raider joel, i’m sure it is very out of character but it’s fanfiction so…yeah. here it is.

It’s the rain that rouses you from your sleep.

It beats down heavily on the remote cabin’s tin roof.

Loud. Much too loud.

You roll over, settling yourself on your side.

The mattress is old, worn, rotting beneath the sheets.

You can’t complain, though. At least you have a bed.

Everybody else is forced to sleep on the hard floor.

He always gets the room with the bed.

As his special girl, that means you always get the room with the bed too.

It’s not quite as flattering as one would believe.

He only ever wants the bedroom for one reason—to keep you behind a locked door so you can’t run.

You sigh softly and stare out the window. He’d secured that too, made certain that it couldn’t be opened from the inside.

Closing your eyes, you try and go back to sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come.

His absence is starting to bother you.

You’ve been with him for an entire season now.

You’re getting used to him.

The sound of his voice. 

The warmth of his body.

The taste of his lips.

You can’t even sleep without him next to you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, clutching the stale sheets, balling them in your fists out of frustration.

How was it possible? How could you be missing him?

He had taken everything from you.

Your family.

Your home. 

Your innocence.

He was holding you captive. He was a monster.

But a monster doesn’t keep you safe.

Doesn’t clothe you.

Doesn’t feed you.

Doesn’t protect you.

He did all of those things and more. 

Is that why you feel so empty without him beside you?

Is that why you’re no longer so certain you would run if you were given the chance to escape him?

You fucking hated him for what he’d done.

Yet here you are, aching for him to come back to you.

It’s another hour before you hear the lock clicking. 

Joel pushes through the door, quietly closing it behind him.

“Y’awake?” he asks, slipping his pack off his shoulders.

“Mhm,” you answer with your back to him. “I am.”

You hear the sound of his pack hitting the floor.

His worn leather boots being kicked off. 

His rifle being set down, propped against the wall.

“How was the hunt?”

You can feel him freeze as he’s taking off his jacket.

Getting you to willingly speak to him had always been a lot like pulling teeth. Difficult, almost impossible.

When he doesn’t respond, you roll over to face him.

There’s a swoop in your tummy.

Joel is drenched from head to toe. His blue denim shirt clings to his broad frame and his dark, graying curls are slicked back away from his face.

He’s got such a handsome face.

Monsters aren’t supposed to have handsome faces.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re really askin’ me how the hunt went?” Suspicion laces his tone. “Why? Y’worried you won’t eat tonight?”

Of course you weren’t.

Joel Miller doesn’t let you go hungry.

When food is scarce, he makes sure you eat first. If he notices you rubbing your tummy because your portion wasn’t enough, he’ll give you his own portion.

He takes care of you.

“No.” You pause and sit up. The sheets you two share fall away from your body, leaving your soft, supple breasts on full display for him. “Just wanted to know how your morning went. That’s all.”

It’s not your tits that make his cock twitch against the zipper of his jeans—it’s the sincerity that flashes across your features, the sound of it in the tone of your voice.

You’re being sweet to him.

He clears his throat lightly.

“Went real good. Brought down a deer. Female, ‘bout a hundred pounds or so. Enough to keep all of us well fed for the next couple of weeks,” he says with a nod. “Was pissin’ rain the entire time but it was worth it. Tommy’s in the shed out back right now dressin’ it so we can get a stew started.” He pauses. “You’re gonna get a proper meal tonight, babygirl. Belly’s gonna be nice and full.”

He’s not just talking about food and you know it.

You make an effort to meet his gaze, but you can’t. You can’t bring yourself to do it, not when you remembered how he’d taken you away from your family—how he had carried you over his shoulder, kicking and screaming as his people raided your camp and slaughtered every last member of your group because that’s what Joel Miller had ordered them to do.

Looking him in the eye might be the one thing you will never, ever be able to do.

“It’s cold,” you murmur after a minute. “You should get out of those wet clothes before you get sick.”

With a subtle nod, Joel turns around and starts peeling off his clothes until he’s completely naked. He uses an old rag to dry himself off as best as he can, although it doesn’t do much for him.

You can’t help yourself and stare—your gaze drags over the strong muscles of his back and shoulders, how they flex and ripple beneath his skin with every single one of his movements. Arousal pools between your thighs and all you can do is fucking hate yourself for wanting it, for wanting him.

“S’pretty early still,” he states, his back still to you as he runs the rag through his hair. “Y’should try to get some more sleep.”

The confession tumbles out of your mouth before you can even think about stopping it.

“I couldn’t sleep while you were gone.”

Surprised, he turns around.

Almost immediately, your eyes fall to his cock.

Even when he isn’t fully hard, he’s still so fucking big.

“Is that so?” Joel asks, sounding rather pleased. 

“Yes,” you say, softly. “I—I missed you.”

His lips turn upwards into a subtle, faint grin.

“Yeah?” he coos. “My sweet little girl missed me while I was gone? Hm?” Slowly, he approaches the bed. It dips slightly and the frame creaks as he plants a knee on the mattress and leans over towards you. Gently, Joel takes your chin between his index finger and thumb. “Y’need Daddy by your side so you can sleep, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you whisper, warm tears glazing over your eyes.

It’s bad enough your body welcomed him so easily.

Now your heart was starting to do the same.

And then there was your mind.

What if that stopped fighting him too?

Part of you is afraid it already has.

Joel climbs into bed, joining you under the sheets.

“M’here, my pretty girl. C’mere, honey.” He coaxes you to lay on your side and pulls you back against his chest. His skin is still damp, frigid from having been out in the elements, but somehow he’s still warm. “That better?”

“Need you closer,” you mumble, wiggling against him.

Joel groans, his thick cock hard and throbbing against the small of your back. He nips at your bare shoulder as his hand drags down the length of your body and slips between your thighs. “Christ, babygirl. Pussy’s soakin’ wet for me. Looks like she missed me while I was gone too, didn’t she, sweetheart?”

He runs his finger along your slick, silky folds.

“Daddy,” you whimper, bucking into his hand.

“Don’t worry, honey. Daddy knows what you need.”

Joel pulls his hand from between your legs.

You almost cry—you’re so fucking desperate for him. 

And you shouldn’t be. 

He reaches in between your bodies, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. Without warning, he slips it into your tight, aching cunt, sheathing himself in your warm, wet heat in one smooth stroke.

You choke out a sob.

It’s always overwhelming, that initial stretch.

That fullness, the feeling of him being in your belly.

“S’alright, sweetheart. S’alright. I know you can take it,” he soothes you. “You’re such a good girl for me. Always take my cock so fuckin’ well. So good for me, baby. You feel better now that Daddy’s cock is buried inside your pretty little pussy?”

He drapes an arm around you, pulling your back flush against his chest.

“Yes,” you breathe, placing your hand on top of his.

Joel feathers a kiss onto your neck.

“Go to sleep, babygirl. M’here. Ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he promises you.

That shouldn’t be a comfort to you. But it is.

You close your eyes, your fingers subconsciously lacing together with his as you start to drift.

Cunt full of his cock, you fall asleep in your captor’s arms.

divider credit to @saradika🤍

[noirscript]

04; the forsaking

Pairing: Yandere!Billionaire x Undercover!Reader Description: You gave up chasing the truth when no one cared to hear it—until Micah brought you a name you couldn’t ignore, and a company where people vanished behind glass walls and golden promises. Now the garden is locked, Micah is gone, and you understand far too late: you were never investigating him. You were chosen. Warning/s: Yandere | Manipulative Behavior | Emotional Coercion | Betrayal | Forced Proximity | Implied Captivity | Unsettling Intimacy | Power Imbalance | Toxic Devotion | Possessive Behavior | Gaslighting | Cult Undertones Note/s: Apologies for not posting this part yesterday. My left eye was aching (there's still something there today T^T). Um... I hope you enjoy it! Also, updating sanctum later. Enjoy reading and let me know what you think!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off

You almost don’t open the envelope.

It feels wrong. Not in the way a forgotten or a mistake in the address might feel—but in the way that your skin knows something before your mind does. It sits in your mailbox like it doesn’t belong to this world. Off-white. Cleanly folded. No postage. No return address. A silence wrapped in paper.

Your fingers hesitate above it, reluctant. But you take it. You always take it.

The texture is smooth but stiff, the kind of paper you’d find in law offices or wills. And it’s cold. Not from the weather, but from something deeper—like it’s held in a room with no light, no breath, no sound. The faint scent that clings to it slithers up your nose: cedarwood, yes—but beneath it, something metallic, something wet. Like blood licked from a knife.

Your throat tightens.

Inside, there’s only one note. A single slip of thick, expensive paper with a short message in a hand you could recognize even blind. Micah’s. Steady. Careful.

Glass garden. 7:30. Be calm. Just you and him. –Micah

You reread it. Once. Twice. A third time, hoping something will change, hoping the words will blur into something more mundane. But they don’t. They stay exactly as they are—clean, precise, damning.

You stare at the envelope in your lap long after you’re home. The apartment is too quiet. You can hear the tick of your wall clock. The gentle groan of old pipes. Even your own breathing sounds intrusive. You glance at the drawer across the room—the one where the last shred of control lies tangled in wires.

The bug. The mic. Your shield.

You open it slowly. The metal catches the light like a sliver of ice. It looks so small now. So stupid.

Your fingers brush it.

Then, withdraw.

You close the drawer.

You don’t bring it.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The drive is a blur of black roads and blinking yellow lights, your headlights carving tunnels through the dark. The city peels away behind you in layers—first the noise, then the lights, then the illusion that you are not complete and utterly alone. Trees crowd in around the road as the miles unspool. Their limbs look like claws. The stars vanish. Even the moon keeps its distance.

By the time you reach Zachary Quinn’s estate, your breath is shallow and cold in your chest. The gate doesn’t wait for you. It swings open soundlessly, the wrought iron parting like jaws.

You drive through them. Of course you do.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The garden gleams ahead—glass walls aglow with golden candlelight, soft and flickering. It looks peaceful from a distance. Safe, even. But the closer you get, the more you feel it: that wrongness coiled inside the glow, the too-perfect symmetry, the way the hedges seem to lean in when you’re not looking.

You walk the path slowly, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You pass a fountain shaped like a cupped hand, water falling in perfectly timed droplets. It sounds like a clock ticking down. Like something waiting to begin.

Micah sits at the far end of long stone table. The candlelight dances across his skin, turning him pale and bruised-looking. He doesn’t lift his head as you enter, though you can see the way his shoulders rise and fall.

You step closer. Your heartbeat pounds against your ribs like it’s trying to get out. The air inside the garden presses against your skin, hot and thick and fragrant—sweet herbs, overripe flowers, and something beneath it all that makes your stomach clench.

Rot.

He finally lifts his head.

“Micah,” you whisper.

His eyes are red. Exhausted. Haunted.

“I didn’t want to,” he says, the words scraped from his throat. “I thought I could stall him. If I gave him just enough truth, maybe he’d…” He hesitates, then looks up fully, and the shame there is worse than rage. “I thought he’d go easy on you.”

You stare at him, but the words don’t land. They dissolve in your ears like ash.

“No,” you say. Quiet. Sharp. A thread of denial. “You told him?”

“I told him it was me,” he says, faster now, like he can fix it by forcing it out. “That I dragged you into it. That you didn’t mean anything by it. That you were innocent.” He swallows hard. “I begged.”

“No,” you say again. You’re shaking your head and you don’t remember starting. “You wouldn’t…”

“I didn’t think he’d—” Micah’s voice cracks. “I thought that maybe he’d still—”

But you already know. You knew when you opened the letter. When you crossed the threshold of the garden. When the gate opened without a sound. You knew this was never a meeting.

It was a sentencing.

“He’s already here,” you whisper.

Micah freezes.

Your breath hitches. Your skin prickles, not from cold, but from the knowing—he’s here. Not just nearby. Not just on his way. Zachary is here already. In the garden. Watching. Waiting.

Like an apex predator hiding in plain sight, letting you circle the snare.

Micah’s eyes flicker toward the shadows for the briefest moment. A betrayal in a glance.

You take a slow step back, away from the table. You feel like the air is closing in, thickening around your ankles like smoke.

“You should have run,” you say, voice hollow.

“I couldn’t,” Micah whispers. “He… I thought he loved you enough to stop.”

He steps closer, then stops himself. His hand lifts, then falls.

“I thought I could protect you,” he says, quieter now.

You want to scream at him. Shake him. Break whatever fantasy he’d been clinging to. But it’s too late. His body is already sagging with defeat.

Then, like some twisted mockery of comfort, he leans in and kisses your forehead. The touch lingers like ash, warm for a moment, then cold as it fades.

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

Micah turns and walks past you, leaving the garden with slow, rigid steps. The doors whisper closed behind him.

You’re alone.

But not really.

You feel it—behind you, beneath you, around you. A pressure, an absence of sound that hums louder than noise ever could.

Then, he’s is there.

You don’t hear him arrive. There’s no footfall, no shift in air. One moment, the space behind you is empty. The next—it is filled.

You turn, and Zachary stands in the doorway.

He wears black. As always. Tailored to perfection. No loose threads. Not a single wrinkle. His collar open, hands casually relaxed at his sides. As if this were a dinner party. As if you were guests.

He smiles. Slowly.

“Micah,” he says, “is sentimental.”

The sound of his voice makes your skin crawl. It’s rich and warm and completely without empathy. Velvet stretched over knives.

“That’s what makes him so… useful.”

You try not to flinch, but it’s hard. Your libs feel to light. Your heart has started pounding again, loud enough to fill your ears.

Zachary steps closer. Measured. Controlled. Like a lion that’s already cornered its prey and sees no need to rush the kill.

“But you,” he continues, “you’re colder. You think. You play the game.”

He stops in front of you. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—subtle spice, warm woods, and underneath it, something sharp and predatory.

“You wanted to understand me. Dissect me.” His smile deepens. “And now, you have.”

Your voice comes out brittle. “What do you want?”

Zachary raises his eyebrows slightly. “Everything.”

Then his fingers trail along your arm—just a whisper of touch—and the shiver it sends through you is immediate, involuntary.

“I want you to stop pretending,” he murmurs. “Stop running. Stop hiding behind lies.”

His hand moves beneath your chin, tilting you face up. He doesn’t grip. He positions. Like you’re a figure to be adjusted.

“I want you to stay,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“I forgive you,” he adds, as though he’s offering a blessing. “For trying to betray me. For thinking you could win.”

He steps behind you. His breath warms the curve of your neck.

“You didn’t choose me,” he whispers. “But I’m choosing you.”

Then—click.

The garden doors lock.

Zachary’s hand settles on your shoulder. Gentle. Absolute.

And you—frozen, heart thundering, body tense like a wire drawn too tight—you know there is no escape.

His voice brushes your ear like silk spun from a spider’s web.

“So now,” he says, “let’s talk about the truth.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya

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[ladylaviniya]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐠 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏 || 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐎𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐄𝐚𝐭, 𝐎𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐀/𝐁/𝐎, 𝐚𝐠𝐞-𝐠𝐚𝐩, 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚.

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐀𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚!𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐗 𝐎𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐚!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟖𝐤+

𝟏𝟖+ 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟓𝐭𝐡 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑, 𝟏𝟑:𝟎𝟎𝐩𝐦, 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐚, 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚.

It was just darkness, a never ending black that you were vaguely conscious to, wondering if you’d ever awaken. The sensation of floating was ruined as your body fell and kept falling, hitting hard onto a uncomfortable mattress. A ripping breath of air tore out of you as you tried to sit up, sweat had soaked your hair and skin.

You were on a soft material. Your palm covered your chest trying to control the painful stabs of your pounding heart. Your eyes darted around the room, discovering you were no longer in the hospital. You were in a cubicle space on a squeaky bed.

The bed you were sweating on was surrounded by three walls and a curtain. You swallowed hard before hesitantly climbing on top of the mattress to stand up and peer over the tops of the walls. You could see a grand hall almost. Rows of cubicles filled with single and bunk beds surrounded the area. You counted at least thirty cubicles that you could see.

You were utterly, terrifyingly alone.

Heart hammering, you climbed back down onto the mattress, your legs shaking. Only then did you notice the gown you were wearing. It was plain, stark in its modesty, a long white dress that buttoned up tightly to your neck, the sleeves cuffed neatly at your wrists. Over it was a blue apron, stiff and scratchy, tied tightly around your waist.

You stared at yourself, horror curdling in your stomach. The fabric was starched and thick, the kind of material that resisted touch, that rubbed the skin raw after too long. It wasn’t just clothing, it was a uniform.

You recognized the style, too, the same way you’d seen women dressed in documentaries about closed religious communities, the kind churned out by sanitized Netflix exposés or twisted into lurid spectacles on reality TV. Mormons. Amish. Groups that preached obedience, subservience, purity.

Your hands moved on instinct, fingernails scraping at the fabric. That’s when you noticed your nails.

Clipped short. Cleaned underneath.

Your body stiffened with a jolt of revulsion.

You hadn't done that.

Someone had bathed you, stripped you, scrubbed you clean like an object, a possession, while you were unconscious and helpless. Your skin crawled at the thought, a sick, twisting disgust knotting in your stomach. What else had they done while you slept in that dark void?

A gleam caught your eye.

You lifted your left wrist, and there it was.

A metal bracelet, fastened tightly, cold against your skin. Permanent. Shiny and new.

Your breath hitched as you leaned in to read the thin, cruel lettering etched into the surface.

NAME: ______ ______

D.O.B.: XX/XX/XXXX

STATUS: OMEGA

The final word was the worst, carved in precise, mechanical lettering. Cold. Permanent. Branding you like livestock. A product, tagged and cataloged for processing.

You touched it, lightly, as if hoping it would come off. It didn’t. It was seamless. Unbreakable.

A choked sound escaped your throat. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream. Just the sound of something breaking.

Somewhere in the distance, far beyond the cubicles, a door creaked open with a mechanical whine. Footsteps, soft, measured, echoed faintly on the cold concrete floor.

You dropped back onto the bed, your hands gripping the thin blanket, chest heaving as panic clawed at your lungs.

You weren’t in a hospital anymore.

You were somewhere worse.

Correction.

Your throat tightened to the point of aching. Spring, it was supposed to be warm now, humid even, but the air in this place was cold and thin, leeching the heat straight out of your bones. Your fingers fumbled clumsily at the high, stifling collar of the dress, wrenching the top button open. A weak gust of air brushed your skin, but it wasn’t enough.

You prodded the swollen gland nestled in the crook of your neck, just above your collarbone, sore, inflamed. It throbbed beneath your touch, a dull, angry ache that made you wince. You pressed your hand flat to your chest, trying to breathe, to steady the frantic stabs of your pulse.

The curtain snapped back, tearing the fabric aside with a sharp hiss.

You flinched, heart leaping to your throat.

Standing there was a woman, no, a relic, draped in a habit so severe it seemed to pull her skin taut against her skull. Her face was a pale, wrinkled map of lines and creases, her thin lips dragged downward by gravity and ill temper. She resembled a fish, or perhaps something worse, a wide-mouthed lizard, waiting for a struggling fly to land too close.

Her blue eyes gleamed, cold and flat, as she stretched her lips into a thin, mechanical smile.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice sugary but brittle, the kind of voice that broke under pressure. “Would you like some breakfast?”

You stared at her, stunned by how wrong she felt. Her words were sweet, her tone superficially kind, but there was nothing welcoming about her, nothing warm. It was a hollow performance, skin-deep and polished thin. You could feel it in your bones: she didn’t care.

She smiled like a spider smiles at a trapped fly.

Despite the ache in your gut, despite the hollow hunger gnawing at your insides, you hesitated. Your instincts screamed caution. You knew, without knowing how, that nothing she offered would be truly safe.

But she was the only way out of the cubicle. The only exit you could see.

Skepticism coiled tightly in your gut, but fear was stronger, the fear of staying trapped. You darted your eyes around the space, searching for exits, for pathways, but nothing revealed itself. The heavy silence of the empty hall pressed in around you.

You couldn’t remember where they had taken you, not exactly. The transport van had been dark and windowless.

You were a prisoner.

“Come on now, girl,” the nun chirped, her brittle smile sharpening. She clapped her papery hands together, the sound startling in the silence. “Don’t dawdle.”

You stood, forcing your legs to move, your thighs chafing against the scratchy fabric as you followed close on her heels. With every step, your unease grew. The stiff cotton of the unfamiliar underwear chafed unpleasantly, and you swallowed against the nausea that crept up your throat.

They had bathed you. Dressed you. Touched you while you were unconscious.

And you hadn’t even been awake to resist.

As you trailed the nun down a wide corridor, your eyes flicked from side to side. Door after door after door, sterile offices labeled for doctors and nurses, kitchens, laundry rooms, classrooms. There were rooms filled with rows of art supplies, other rooms with plastic playpens and.....

You recoiled, heart thudding.

Fake nurseries.

They were preparing you, not for freedom, not for a life outside, but for breeding. For submission. Your nose wrinkled at the antiseptic air mixed with the faint, sour tang of fear and desperation that seemed baked into the very walls.

You passed a looming marble statue next, a woman draped in robes, her carved belly impossibly round and heavy with child. Atop her head sat a crescent moon crown, delicate but cold.

Selene. Or Luna, the goddess of the moon, of fertility.

You felt betrayed by the sight. You’d never been particularly religious, but still. Wasn’t she supposed to be merciful? Isn’t that what you learned when you were young? That the goddess was fair? If she were, if there were any justice, she would never have let your parents hand you over. Never let you become this.

Your gaze dropped to the plinth where her name was carved in heavy block letters:

SAINT SELENE’S SCHOOL FOR ADOLESCENT OMEGAS

A lie. It wasn’t a school. It was a prison wrapped in dogma and duty.

You pressed on behind the nun, your eyes catching movement outside. A glimpse of windows, thick, fogged glass that barely let in the pale light.

You leaned, peering outside.

Beyond the scattered squat buildings, classrooms, dorms maybe, rose a towering fence. Steel and concrete. Thick, ugly barbed wire curled along the top like a crown of thorns. It wasn’t just a barrier.

It was a warning.

You stopped in your tracks, the breath knocked from your lungs.

You weren’t at a school.

You were in a cage.

A cry broke free from your chest before you could stop it. Sharp, guttural, cracking against the sterile air. Tears blurred your vision and spilled down your cheeks unchecked.

You hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to your friends. Would Emily and Jayden know? Would your parents even bother to tell them? Or would you simply vanish, written off and forgotten, like a stain on the carpet to be scrubbed away?

Would you ever see them again?

The loneliness, vast, endless, cracked you open like a hollow egg. You were alone. You had been ripped from everything you knew, friends, dreams, freedom, as easily as tearing a page from a book.

The nun’s shoes clacked sharply as she turned and stormed back toward you, her expression souring. She didn’t speak, she didn’t need to. Her hand shot out, pinching the thick strap of your apron between her fingers. She tugged you roughly, and you stumbled to catch up, herding you away from the windows like an errant sheep.

You followed because what else could you do?

Your new shoes, stiff, unfamiliar, bit at your heels, but you dared not trip or resist.

Through a pair of massive wooden doors she led you, and they swung open to reveal a cavernous cafeteria.

Three long, unending tables stretched down the room, crowded with girls, Omegas, all dressed identically in the same starched white dresses and blue aprons. They sat in neat, quiet rows, the din of chatter dying immediately as the doors opened.

Every head turned.

Every pair of eyes locked onto you.

Their stares weren’t welcoming, they weren’t curious.

They were hungry.

The nun’s mouth stretched into a grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Girls,” she announced, her voice shrill and bright, “please welcome our newest sister to our blessed home, Miss ______ ______.”

She released your apron strap with a final, dismissive pat to your shoulder, a message loud and clear: You’re on your own now.

At the far end of the room sat a long, vertical table, behind which older figures perched, nuns, nurses, men and women in sterile white coats. They smiled, thin, polished smiles, as if you were a guest of honor instead of a lamb to slaughter.

A bowl was shoved into your hands, steaming, pale, plain porridge. A single spoon stuck out of the mush like a sinking ship.

“Well then,” the nun said, leaning down to whisper near your ear, her breath hot and sticky. “Why don’t you find a seat?”

You swallowed, your mouth dry and sour.

You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

The room was suffocating, filled with a heavy, waiting silence as you took your first step down the aisle. You felt the burn of every gaze, every whispered comment that hissed at the edges of your hearing.

Insults about your hair. Your weight. Your scent, dirty, they sneered.

Your hands trembled as you clutched the bowl tighter. The hot porridge sloshed, threatening to spill over the edges.

No one moved to make space.

No one smiled.

No one welcomed you.

They stared and whispered, their words sharp as knives, their eyes colder than the barbed wire outside.

You weren’t one of them.

You were worse.

The bad Omega.

And you realized, heart sinking, that you had been abandoned not just by your parents, but by everyone.

You swallowed hard, the movement tight and painful, and for a brief, desperate second, you prayed the tile floor would crack open and swallow you whole. Anything to disappear, to slip away from the dozens of stares pinning you in place like a butterfly to a board.

Your feet hesitated, scuffing against the floor as you stood at the front of the dining hall, clutching the bowl of porridge so tightly that your knuckles blanched white. The silence pressed on you, heavy and suffocating. You could feel the judgment rolling off the other girls in waves, an invisible current of disdain that made your skin crawl and your gut twist.

You wanted to turn and run, to bolt back through the double doors, but you knew, somehow, that there would be nowhere to run to. No doors would swing open for you here. No escape waited on the other side.

Instead, you forced yourself to move forward, every step a struggle, your shoulders tight, your chin tucked low.

It was like walking into a den of wolves, and you could tell, by the sharp glares and the curling lips, that these wolves had been starved. These girls weren’t curious. They weren’t kind. They were broken, and they didn’t like outsiders. They didn’t want a new sister, a new friend.

Especially not a bad Omega.

As you paced slowly between the tables, the room seemed to close in tighter around you. You could feel their eyes, sharp as glass, sliding over every inch of you, dissecting you. You heard the low, hissing whispers ripple along your path, harsh, ugly comments thrown like stones.

Your hair. Your weight. Your face. Your scent.

Dirty.

The word hit you harder than you expected. You recoiled internally, your heart shrinking in your chest, your cheeks flaming with hot shame. You couldn’t stop the slight hitch in your breath, the sting in your eyes. You blinked rapidly, fighting against the wave of humiliation threatening to drown you.

No one moved to make room for you.

Not one girl slid over or offered a space at their table. They simply stared, their faces impassive or sneering, their conversations resuming in low, hushed murmurs that felt pointed and cruel.

You were just about to give up, just about to stand there frozen and hopeless, when you caught a flicker of movement.

Across the way, at the third table, a girl sat, skinny as a rake, with limp blonde hair pulled back in a tight, no-nonsense braid. She was watching you, her pale eyebrows arched in amusement. With one skeletal hand, she curled her fingers at you in a beckoning gesture.

“Hey, new girl,” she called, her voice carrying a mocking lilt, “come sit with us.”

A sharp click of heels approached, and a nun patrolling the hall scowled in her direction. “Lower your voice,” she snapped.

The girl rolled her eyes with exaggerated slowness and turned back to you with a sly grin, mouthing clearly, Come sit here.

The room’s tension eased marginally as chatter resumed, the sound swelling again like a wave breaking over your head. The girls around you seemed to lose interest, their whispered insults fading back into private conversations. But you still felt their eyes on you, still felt the prickling sense of being watched, judged.

You hesitated for half a heartbeat, instincts telling you that this was no rescue, but the alternative was worse. The alternative was alone.

And you weren’t sure you could survive alone here.

Clutching your bowl tighter, you moved quickly across the room, heart hammering, the hem of your dress whispering around your ankles. You reached the blonde girl’s table, and she shifted, sliding over just enough to make a narrow space for you to sit.

Gratefully, pathetically, you dropped down onto the wooden bench. The surface was cold and hard under your thighs, but you barely noticed.

Only then did you look around and realize she wasn’t alone.

Four other girls clustered near her, a tight little knot of companions, all wearing the same institutional gowns and aprons. They were smiling, but not in a friendly way. Smirking. Watching you like you were some new toy they hadn’t decided how to break yet.

“Are…” you began, your voice small. You bit your bottom lip and forced the words out. “Are you all Omegas?”

The chatter from the other tables surged higher, a dull roar in the background. But here, at this table, everything felt sharper, more dangerous.

The blonde girl barked a laugh, short and sharp, and gestured loosely to herself and her friends. “Nah,” she drawled. “Kylie’s an Alpha elf, an Gen’s a Beta fairy, an why I’m an eleven-fingered witch.” She wiggled her clearly ten-fingered hands for emphasis.

The others giggled, a mean-spirited sound that twisted your gut.

You gave a small, strained chuckle, more a grimace than anything. “Okay,” you muttered, folding your arms tight across your chest. “A simple yes would’ve sufficed.”

One of the other girls leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. She had an olive complexion, a curly dark bob that framed her face, and sharp brown eyes that glinted with amusement.

“What’s got you so hot, new girl?” she asked, voice dripping with faux sweetness. She winked. “Didn’t like your blood results?”

You stiffened at the jab, instinctively tightening your grip on the bowl in front of you. Your eyes flicked down, staring at the pale mush of your porridge. Your stomach growled low and pathetic, but the thought of eating now was nauseating.

You sat forward, stirring the bland oats with the tip of your spoon. “I was supposed to be an Alpha,” you muttered, bitterness slipping into your voice before you could stop it. “But now I’m just a stupid fucking Omega.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a collective, exaggerated gasp from the girls around you. Their expressions shifted, mocking, pained, theatrical.

“Oh no, not a stupid Omega,” one of them crooned sarcastically.

“Poor baby,” another added with a smirk.

You flushed hot with shame.

“Easy with the slurs, new girl,” snapped a voice across from you. You looked up sharply. The speaker was a girl with a sharp face, a severe black pixie cut, and a toothpick bobbing between her lips. She leaned back in her seat, arms folded, sizing you up with a cold, appraising stare. Her features were so severe you might have mistaken her for a boy if it weren’t for the soft curve of her jaw, the absence of an Adam’s apple. There was something hard in her dark eyes, something that made your skin prickle.

“You think we chose this?” she huffed. She tapped her wristband with a sharp finger, Omega engraved in its polished surface, just like yours. “You think any of us dreamed about being ‘breeders not leaders’ or whatever the fuck that cunt Andrew Tate said?”

You dropped your gaze, the heat rising in your cheeks unbearable. She was right. And you hated how much you knew it. Growing up, Omegas had been little more than background noise to you, second-class, unseen, dismissed. You never considered what it felt like. What it cost.

You sniffled, blinking hard against the tears burning at the back of your eyes. You didn’t want to cry in front of them, didn’t want to show that weakness.

But it leaked out anyway.

“Sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

And for a moment, the girls were quiet, watching, weighing, deciding.

“Hey, we get it,” the smallest girl said, leaning over the table like we were sharing a secret. Her ginger braids swung forward as she reached out and, without asking, cupped your hand in hers. Her palm was warm, dry, and steady, weirdly steady for someone in this place.

She gave you this smile, not mean, but not exactly kind either. More like, I know something you don’t.

“Besides,” she added, lowering her voice even though it was already too quiet around you, “rumour is… your parents dumped you here.”

Your chest squeezed so tight it hurt. You didn’t say anything, couldn’t, but your eyes flicked up just in time to catch her jerk her chin toward the front of the room.

You didn’t need to follow her gaze to know where she was looking: the long table where the nuns, the nurses, and the staff sat like kings in a castle. All watching. All waiting.

“They’ve been yapping about it all morning,” she said. “You’re big news. Guess they told the Sisters you’re sticking around this summer.”

She smiled wider, like it was funny.

Like it wasn’t the worst thing you’d ever heard in your life.

Your bottom lip trembled, a total traitor, and you bit it hard to make it stop.

That was it. That was confirmation.

Your parents really had left you. After everything, after all the I love you’s and we’re proud of you’s, it all boiled down to one ugly, stupid fact: there was something in your blood they didn’t like. Something they couldn’t fix. And they didn’t want to deal with it.

So they dumped you.

You blinked fast, rubbing at your eyes before anything embarrassing could happen, like crying in front of a bunch of strangers who already looked at you like you were the world’s saddest charity case.

“How many stay behind?” you croaked out, trying to sound chill, like you didn’t care.

The porridge in front of you looked like glue and tasted worse. You shoveled a spoonful into your mouth anyway. It was like eating wet cardboard. Every chew made your stomach turn, but the hunger was worse. Way worse.

The blonde girl, the one who’d waved you over, popped a smirk. “includin’ you?” she said, dragging it out like she already knew the answer was gonna suck. “Six.”

She started ticking them off like she was introducing a team in a really depressing sport.

“Kylie,” she said, nodding toward a girl who was scraping under her nails with the end of a plastic spoon like she had all the time in the world. She was beautiful in a no-nonsense way, skin a rich, dark brown, lips a weird shade of pink like they’d been scrubbed raw. Somehow, her dress actually fit, not saggy and shapeless like the rest of you, and it made her look even more out of place, like she was slumming it in costume.

“Gen,” she added, and the redhead, the one still holding your hand, beamed like you were old friends. She had the whole soft thing going on: round face, full cheeks, huge blue eyes behind wire glasses. Kind of like a human teddy bear. Except, you guessed, probably not so cuddly if she’d lasted here.

“Chip,” she continued, nodding at the girl with a curly bob and a sharp, birdlike face. Chip gave you a slow, almost lazy smile as she licked porridge off her spoon and wagged her eyebrows like she was in on some private joke you didn’t get.

“Pepper,” she said next, and you didn’t even have to guess who that was.

Pepper sat across from you like a statue, thick arms crossed over her chest, toothpick rolling between her teeth. Her dark eyes were heavy-lidded and unreadable, her biceps straining against the sleeves of her dress. She looked like she could kill you with one hand tied behind her back. Scars ran up and down her forearms, old, round ones, like burns or bites or... you didn’t even want to guess.

Pepper looked like she should’ve been born an Alpha.

“And me,” the blonde said last, flashing a grin. “I’m Legs.” She fluttered her lashes like she was making fun of herself. Her long, skinny arms dangled against the table, her hair was a mess of tangles, and her accent, deep, Southern, made her sound like she walked straight out of some old cowboy movie.

You stared at her. Legs?

Out of, what, a hundred girls, six got left behind for summer? The rest had parents who wanted them. Families who still sent letters and begged them home for breaks.

You had a house, technically.

You just didn’t have anyone who wanted you back in it.

You forced another spoonful of porridge down your throat and nearly gagged. The girls must’ve seen your face twist because they all laughed, not mean, exactly, but not nice either. They banged the table in sync, making the bowls rattle.

You sat there, cheeks burning, wondering if this was what “welcome” felt like in this place.

Chip, Gen, Pepper, Kylie… Legs. You blinked at them, confused.

“What kind of names are those?” you blurted, frowning.

Legs smirked, and Pepper gave a low huff through her nose, shifting her toothpick.

“Are those your real names?” you asked, already kind of knowing the answer but needing to say something.

“Fuck no,” Pepper said, voice low and scratchy. She popped the toothpick from one side of her mouth to the other without blinking. “But it’s what we call each other.”

Gen, the redhead, grinned and piped up like it was the best thing ever. “After you’re here long enough, you get a nickname. You earn it.”

You leaned back a little, piecing it together.

Nicknames. Bad food. Solitary. Uniforms. Rumors and whispers and no one ever really smiling unless it was at someone else’s misery.

This wasn’t a school.

It wasn’t even a home.

It was a fucking prison.

And now you were one of the inmates.

“How long have you all been here?” you asked, your voice low.

You tried to keep it casual, tried to sound like it didn’t really matter, but the way they all shifted a little in their seats, glanced at each other with something between amusement and pity, made your skin crawl.

Maybe, just maybe, you thought, if you could survive the summer, your parents would come back for you. Maybe they’d change their minds, realize they made a mistake. You just had to get through four months.

Four months wasn’t forever. Right?

Legs was the first to answer. She set her spoon down and stretched her arms overhead until her shoulders popped. “I’ve been here the longest,” she said, almost like she was bragging. “Turned twenty four months ago. They dropped me off when I was ‘bout seven, back when they first started takin’ Omegas that young.”

She said it so casually, like it was normal, like she wasn’t telling you she’d basically grown up inside these walls.

She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “Now the little ‘n’s don’t come here. They ship them off to Camp Neoma for Younglin’ Omega Youth.” The way she said it, with that careful, fake-cheerful tone, made it sound like Camp Neoma was a place where hope went to die.

You swallowed hard, the hope you were clinging to slipping a little.

Gen squeezed your fingers again and giggled, a too-bright, too-quick sound that made your stomach twist. “Chip and I came here about the same time. We were ten. Been here ever since.” She tilted her head, smiling like it was just some fun fact about herself. “Seventeen now.”

You nodded, but your brain felt like it was filling with static. Seven years. Locked away for seven years.

“Pepper showed up two years ago,” Gen went on, “and she’s nineteen now.”

Pepper didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. She just draped one thick, scarred arm around Kylie’s shoulders. Kylie, the one who looked the least bothered by anything. She laughed under her breath and tilted her head toward you.

“None of us are leaving until we turn twenty-one,” Pepper said, her voice low and rough. “Unless our parents come back and claim us.”

Kylie smirked, a sharp, almost cruel twist of her mouth. “Absolute abandonment,” she said, like it was a joke. But the others laughed too, soft, bitter chuckles, and it hit you that they weren’t joking at all. They were used to this. This was their normal.

Your stomach turned over again, but not from hunger this time.

Twenty-one.

You did the math in your head.

Four years.

Four years until you aged out, if your parents didn’t come back for you.

If they never came back.

Like Kylie said, absolute abandonment.

Your hands tightened around the edge of the table. You felt the tears before you even realized they were falling, hot and stupid, sliding down your cheeks no matter how hard you clenched your jaw. You wiped them away fast, tried to act casual about it, like it was just dust or something in your eye.

But you knew they saw. You could feel them watching you, reading every little crack.

“So, small fry,” Legs said, tapping your hand with the back of her spoon. “How old are ya?”

You cleared your throat. “I’m… eighteen.”

Gen groaned dramatically and flopped her head against Kylie’s shoulder. “Damn it. I’m still the youngest.”

Kylie laughed and pressed a kiss to Gen’s forehead, leaving a soft pink mark between her brows. She reached up and began braiding Gen’s ginger hair, careful and slow, fingers nimble. Gen leaned into her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was a weird sight. Sweet, almost, but in a way that made your chest ache.

They kissed again, quick, on the lips, before Chip jabbed Gen in the side and jerked her chin toward the patrolling nuns. They were circling like vultures, their eyes hard, scanning the room for signs of disobedience.

You didn’t miss the way their gazes lingered on Kylie and Gen a little longer than necessary.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, scratching at your neck where the collar of the dress bit into your skin. The material was thick, rough, like wearing a sack. The metal bracelet on your wrist dug in every time you moved. Everything about this place was designed to make you feel it, the fact that you were no longer a person, but a thing.

You tugged at the sleeve irritably. “D-do we have to wear these?” you asked, voice tight. You hated the feel of it. Hated the thought of strangers dressing you while you were unconscious. Hated this second-hand underwear that felt alien against your skin.

“Yep,” Legs said, lounging back like she couldn’t care less. “You’ll get used to it.”

You swallowed down a sharp retort. I don’t want to get used to it.

You wanted your own clothes. Jeans. T-shirts. Soft cotton sweaters that smelled like home. Not this, not these shapeless uniforms and thick socks and hard, ugly shoes.

Legs shrugged. “At least you don’t have to waste time picking outfits every morning. No stress.”

You wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream. You wanted your own fucking underwear, not this scratchy, nameless uniform life.

Across the table, Gen giggled and pressed closer to Kylie, who was still methodically parting her hair with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. Kylie’s fingers were gentle, steady. It was intimate in a way that made something deep in your chest twist uncomfortably, part jealousy, part longing.

You didn’t want to admit it, but some part of you ached for that, for someone to look after you, to fix your hair, to kiss your forehead like it meant something.

You hadn’t earned that here. You hadn’t earned anything yet.

“Why don’t you have a nickname?” you asked Kylie, genuinely curious now. All the others had them, Legs, Chip, Gen, Pepper, but Kylie stood out. She didn’t seem to need a nickname.

Kylie smiled lazily, like she got asked that a lot. She stretched her long fingers in front of her, flexing them slowly.

“Kylie is my nickname,” she said, voice soft but amused. “Real name’s Tamika. But…” she leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper as a nun passed by, “I used to be obsessed with reality TV. Kardashians, TLC, Beta Bachelorette, Fourteen Litters and Counting, all that shit. Thought if I had to be stuck in a cage, might as well sound glamorous, right?”

She wiggled her fingers at you, and only now did you notice, her nails weren’t just clean, they were painted a deep, glossy blue. The polish was chipped in places, but it gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

You blinked. They weren’t allowed to have that. You were sure of it.

Kylie grinned wider at your expression and quickly tucked her hands out of sight before the nun could double back.

It hit you, how small her rebellion was, and how big it probably felt.

You could feel it, simmering under the easy grins and half-laughs, a rage so old it had calcified into something sharper, colder. The other Omegas around you, Legs, Chip, Gen, Kylie, even Pepper, they were smiling, joking, but it was a brittle thing, stretched too thin to be real.

And when you looked closer, really looked, you could see it.

Hate.

It burned in their eyes, in the tightness of their jaws, in the way they never let their backs fully face the room, always turned just enough to see who was watching.

Legs leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that barely travelled across the table. “Don’t trust the nurses. Or the doctors. Or the Sisters.” Her mouth curled in something too bitter to be a smile. “They act nice, all honey and sweet tea, but it’s bullshit. Depending on your ‘care plan’…”, she threw the words out like a curse, “…you’ll find out real quick what kind of school this actually is.”

You thought back to the glimpse you’d gotten out the window earlier. The fence. So high it blotted out the sky. The ugly twist of barbed wire glittering in the sun like jagged teeth. The sheer permanence of it.

This was a place designed to break you down into something compliant, manageable. To grind the dangerous parts of you, your will, your anger, your hope, into dust.

You swallowed thickly, your mouth dry. “So… Legs stands for... ?”

You dragged the question out, half-hoping it was just a dumb nickname story. Something stupid, something human.

Chip snorted and jerked her thumb sideways at Legs. “We call Lacey Legs because she’s the fastest thing in this dump.”

Legs preened under the attention, running a hand over her corn-yellow slicked back bun, like a cocky athlete.

“She’s gotten out,” Chip added casually.

You blinked, feeling a sharp twist of hope, of possibility. “Out?” you breathed. “You mean, out, out? Past the fence?”

No one could get past that. Right?

Legs chuckled, low and self-satisfied. “Escaped and caught,” she clarified, flashing a grin that showed off a chipped tooth.

“Eleven goddamn times,” Pepper added with a snort, her toothpick bobbing between her teeth. She shook her head, the ghost of a smile on her scarred face. “All to see some dumb fucking Alpha locked up in Portia’s Penitentiary for Male Adolescent Alphas.”

You gawked, your mind spinning. You hadn’t even known there was a place like that, an institution for Alphas.

An Alpha facility.

Somehow, the idea chilled you worse than the fence.

What if you hadn’t tested Omega? What if you’d tested Alpha, would you have been sent to Portia’s instead? Would you have been locked away all the same, shoved into some other cold, dead-end place because your parents couldn’t deal with the hormones, the expectations, the danger you supposedly posed?

You heard yourself mumble, barely above a whisper, “I didn’t know Alphas had institutions too…”

“They don’t call it an institution,” Kylie said, her voice soft but edged with something grim. “They call it rehabilitation. They lock the boys up when they get too… rough. Too dangerous.” She stirred her porridge idly, not bothering to eat it. “Mostly it’s the ones who couldn’t control themselves during their ruts. Boys who snapped, who attacked someone, who… didn’t respond to the over-the-counter suppressants.”

You swallowed hard, nausea creeping up the back of your throat.

“They’re immune,” Kylie said, looking up at you with a calm that made it worse. “Some of them, anyway. Suppressants don’t work on every Alpha. Some are born too strong for that.”

You shivered, picturing it, a boy barely older than you, locked away because his biology made him a threat no one wanted to manage.

“Except Tom!” Legs chimed in brightly, slapping the table like this was just some gossip to pass the time. “Tom never hurt anybody.”

She beamed, proud. “He just, y’know…” she waved her hand vaguely, “gets really horny. Like, crazy horny.”

Chip snorted and stuck out her tongue. “Nasty slut,” she teased, grinning at Legs with something like real fondness.

Legs just laughed, unbothered. “Don’t judge me bitch. Some of us get an itch that can’t be scratched.”

The words were light, but the weight behind them wasn’t.

"Lesbianism aint on the table like you others," she smiled, "I prefer a bit of dick in my honey pot."

You glanced at Legs again, at the faint, pale lines across her forearms. At the tired sag of her eyes, the restless twitch in her fingers.

It wasn’t a joke.

None of this was.

The joke was the system, the idea that Saint Selene’s was a school. That Portia’s was rehabilitation. That any of you were here because you needed help.

The truth was sharper, meaner.

You were here because you were inconvenient.

Because you didn’t fit neatly into the world outside.

And the longer you sat at this table, the more you realized that none of the rules, none of the words they used, school, camp, correction, none of it was real.

What was real was the fence. The cold floors. The heavy, shapeless dresses. The taste of porridge that stuck like cement to your tongue.

What was real was the bracelet on your wrist, the cold metal biting into your skin, your name and your blood status etched into it like a brand.

What was real was the way they smiled when they said, absolute abandonment.

“Girls!” befell a booming tone, a deep solemn voice that had the hairs on the back of your neck rising, “I hope I’m not hearing foul language being said in front of our new resident.” Prisoner. Not resident.

His thick hand curled onto of her shoulder, heavy and solidly threatening. You bit your lip.

Don’t interact.

“Hey Doc H!” Legs laughed “Nah,” and threw him a low high-five, she wiped her nose and shrugged while she warranted, “We’re just laying down the rules to the new girl…like uh....curfew…”

C-curfew?!

“Oh really?” he hummed staring at you. You avoided eye contact and slowly scraped your spoon through your empty bowl.

“Yeah, good ol’ eight o’clock curfew for a four o’clock rise.”

You froze. The doctor laughed his head tilting back a slight.

Four o’clock? What the fuck is this place, the military?! This is undoubtedly a prison, help!

“And how’s our new resident feeling?” he asked, smiling down at you. His fingers plucked up the empty bowl and spoon you were fiddling with.

You turned your head up and held him in a might glare, your viperous tongue spat “How every girl feels being forced into an asylum without her consent,” you forced a smile, “trapped and imprisoned.”

His smile did not falter and that was something powerful…it stabbed you in the chest. He was not easily tempted to anger? Maybe you would have to find another pen, you thought wickedly…

He blinked and nodded slowly, that sickening, stomach dropping grin still on his face.

The silence was cold and the other girls shared side glances, even the other tables fell quieter to listen in.

“Docter, what have you been up to lately,” Pepper commented brightly, the layer of dimmed joy grew back, “We haven’t seen you for so long, weeks!”

“Yeah, well I’m happy to tell you that I’ll be hanging around you more often. Oh and I got you something,” he bent down and whispered, “but I’ll give them to you tonight before lights out.”

He said something into Pepper’s ear secretly and unheard. It left a giant smile stretched onto her lips. Like the cat that got the cream. He winked back at you and softly walked down to the table with other authority figures like the nuns.

While you watched him shake hands with other doctors at the table, you leant back in you chair with a relieved sigh, “Finally,”

“What’s wrong,” Legs murmured, “You and Doc H got bad chemistry or something?”

“He’s the asshole that put me here…” you hissed through your teeth.

All their eyes widened and they started laughing at you.

“If he’s just an asshole, god help us from the other nurses and doctors, feral dogs they are. The Doc is doing his job but at least he makes time to make us feel human instead of just ‘Omega breeding stock and future wives’. Sure...you can’t trust any of the doctors in here, but he’s the least threatening.”

Threatening?!

Suddenly a whistle blew, it was ear splitting. Within seconds everyone was picking up their bowls and standing up, walking from their tables. Shoving away from the table the five girls of the group rose from their seats.

“C’mon,” you felt Legs tap your arm, “grubs over,” she grinned, “how’s your skills at washing clothes?”

You timidly followed the other girls to rows of buckets where the dishes were discarded. You had no choice but to trust these girls. You stuck close beside Legs.

“It’s not that hard,” you finally smiled, “You just throw it into the washing machine and then the dryer.”

But when your new found friends started to all laugh together you felt a wind of dread…were they not washing clothes?

��Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤

The air was thick with steam, a damp suffocation that clung to skin and soaked into bone. It wasn’t just hot, it was wet and heavy, seeping into every pore, every breath, until it felt like the weight of the room itself was pressing you down.

The narrow windows, caked with grime and only cracked open a fraction, offered no escape. The vapor curled upward, ghostly tendrils slipping through the rotting slats in the walls, like the last desperate gasps of something dying. Overhead, the wooden beams sagged with the accumulated damp, dripping fat beads of condensation onto the squalid floor.

Everywhere, the hiss of hot water and the sloshing of soaked fabric.

The laundry room, or what passed for it, was a cavernous tomb of labor. Huge industrial basins, crude and rusting, filled the space like sunken graves, each brimming with water so hot it scalded on contact. Drenched bedsheets, stiff uniforms, and threadbare undergarments floated like drowned bodies, waiting to be purged of stains that clung as stubbornly as the sweat on your back.

Wooden dolly sticks, crude implements that looked more like instruments of punishment than tools, were plunged into the water, churning the sodden cloth with a force that quickly drained the strength from your arms. They were heavy, grotesquely heavy, weighted with swollen wood and years of use, and they demanded obedience from muscles not yet hardened by the system.

It wasn’t laundering.

It was breaking.

Already your hands, once soft, once human, were blistered and raw. Angry welts rose beneath the skin where the wood rubbed mercilessly. When the first blister burst, the searing pain shot through you like a live wire, and before you could stop yourself, you barked in fury.

“Ugh, motherfucker!”

Your voice cracked against the oppressive heat, a whip crack in the heavy silence.

The nuns didn’t move at first, but you heard the clinking of keys, a low, metallic jingle that sounded almost casual, almost lazy. But you knew better. It was the sound of power, worn on their hips like weapons.

One of them, seated in her throne-like chair, black habit soaked dark with the heat, unfolded her thin arms and tilted her head.

“Is something wrong, ______?” she asked, voice as patient as it was laced with threat.

You turned, chest heaving, fingers still clutching the dolly stick so tightly your knuckles whitened. You wanted to spit. Instead, you let the stick fall with a loud clatter, the splash soaking your legs to the knees.

“Yeah,” you growled, crossing your arms, daring her with your eyes. “This is fucking slave labor.”

Around you, the other girls froze, their tired arms stilling, the wet slap of cloth against wood ceasing. The room hushed in a collective breath.

You jerked your chin up, scanning their worn, slack faces. “What’s next?” you sneered. “Cotton picking?”

A gasp. A collective flinch.

An older nun, the one they all feared, her girth matched only by the red flush in her jowls, pushed herself up from her chair with a grunt of exertion. She waddled forward, the Divine Moon pendant on her chest swaying like a pendulum of judgment.

“Miss ______,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to sting. “I would insist you curb that filthy mouth of yours. Language like that, ” She paused to tap the tub’s edge with the rounded toe of her thick shoe. “This is unbecoming of your position.” she gestured around with a disgusted sneer, “This is standard Omega training. You ought to be grateful, your parents sent you to the finest facility.”

Grateful.

The word struck you like a slap.

The hag leaned closer, her breath foul with stale tea and the sourness of old bitterness, and jabbed a thick, stubby finger into your chest.

You reacted on instinct, fast, violent. You slapped her hand away, your palm cracking against her skin with a sharp pop.

A beat of stunned silence.

You bared your teeth. “Just because my chromosomes got fucked doesn’t mean I’m some glorified laundry maid. When I leave this shithole, I’ll pay someone to do this. Like normal people do. Real people.”

A ripple of gasps and scandalized whispers filled the room like a rising tide.

“Bad Omega.”

“Disrespectful.”

“Dirty.”

“Lazy Omega.”

“No one wants an Omega like her.”

The words cut through you, jagged and ugly. From the corner of your eye, you saw Legs, glancing nervously between you and the others. Her mouth was tight, apologetic, but she said nothing.

None of them did.

The sting of betrayal burned hotter than the water.

You didn’t cry. Wouldn’t.

Instead, you ground your teeth together until your jaw ached and tightened your fists until your nails bit into your palms.

The old nun smirked, a hideous twist of cracked lips and false benevolence.

“I will not tolerate disobedience,” she hissed, stepping back. “If you’re too proud to work, Miss ______, then you will serve your sentence elsewhere.” She turned to the others, raising her voice for effect. “Hall duty,” she barked.

Across the room, Chip shook her head subtly, mouthing a frantic no.

You hesitated.

Hall duty, how bad could it be? Guarding corridors? Watching for wandering girls?

It sounded like a blessing compared to this sweatshop nightmare.

You smirked, folding your arms again with a false casualness. “Anything but this.”

You didn't miss the glint in the nun’s eyes as she smiled.

Predatory.

Triumphant.

But you didn’t care.

You thought you were getting away.

You didn’t realize, yet, that in this place, punishment wasn’t about what they made you do.

It was about what they made you become.

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Pairing: Yandere!Alastor x Reader

SFW

Word Count: 2'627

Warnings: Yandere behaviour, Implied forced relationship, Implied captivity, Toxic relationship, Possessiveness, Invasion of personal space, Non-consensual touching.

Additional Notes: Do be kind, I have not written for this man before and find him exceedingly difficult.

Every week at the Hotel, there was something new Charlie had planned.

Trust exercises. Ice breakers. Activities meant to bring everybody closer together as a group. To try and get people to open up and show a side of vulnerability that - she believed - would help sinners take one step closer to salvation.

Most of them were awkward, and a lot of them never went as planned. A fact she realized and, after a near mental breakdown, had her promptly take advice from Vaggie and agree to try something different.

The task was very simple compared to the previous activities. She requested everybody to think about redemption and what it meant to them.

Thinking about the definition itself took little to no effort.

Redemption (noun): The action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.

But it was clear that Charlie wanted more than just a quote from the dictionary. She wanted residents of the Hotel to mull over it while looking deep down into themselves so they could share their stance on the matter later on.

That was the tricky part.

From how you saw it, “saving yourself” from sin was easy enough to accomplish. ‘Just don’t be a dick and avoid the bad shit.’ was the first thought that came to mind, but where you hit a snag was based on what Charlie had shared about Heaven. According to her, even so much as breathing in Hell was enough to solidify your place in the inferno, yet she made it clear that actively resisting sin wasn’t something to go unrecognized.

It took a lot of effort, energy, and courage to do so, and it was hard to disagree even if Heaven didn’t see it that way.

Error was a bit harder. In your opinion, nobody could be saved from that, at least not entirely. Eventually, inevitably, you or someone else would do something wrong, it was just a matter of degree. It could be something as minor as bumping into somebody by accident or as major as Angel relapsing for what felt like the hundredth time, but it would happen and it was only a matter of time.

Charlie did bring up a rather good point, though. Apologizing when you realized you had done something wrong was the best thing someone could do, and it was the first step in the right direction.

You had to give her credit where it was due for that.

But evil was a different matter entirely.

Evil lurked everywhere in Hell. Across every street, around every corner, evil was out in the open for everyone to bear witness and see. None of it was hidden. None of it was meant to be hidden.

What would be the point? You and every other sinner were already in Hell - and many would argue that hiding it would be counterintuitive to being there in the first place.

Charlie tried to plead the case that everyone had good in them. A good that could be tweezed out if given the right chance, and the right environment, which the Hotel was perfect for.

You wish you could agree.

Evil was in the hotel itself, not that Charlie was fully willing to see it.

You believed she was careless there. Little Miss Bleeding Heart wanted to see the best in people, and by god did you ever want to know what it was like to see through such rose-tinted glasses, but you knew you never could. Not in this place.

Stepping a foot into the building was the worst thing you’d ever done because it showed you just how wrong you were about evil being so out in the open. It still had the ability to lurk, something you learned the moment you shook hands with Alastor.

You could see it on his face upon meeting him for the first time - the way Alastor’s perpetual grin widened upon seeing the goosebumps that lined your arms when he clasped your hand in his. No comment was ever made on the matter, but the way his lips peeled back to reveal the black of his gums before he pressed a brief kiss to your knuckles said enough.

Something utterly sinister reeked from him in a manner you couldn’t describe, so you took your own advice and applied the same thing you did when it came to sin.

Avoidance. As much as you could, at least.

Some moments were easier than others. The distinct metallic clack of Alastor’s microphone against the floor combined with a surge of radio static usually bought enough time for you to make whatever excuse you needed in order to leave before he arrived.

Other times you weren’t so lucky, and Charlie’s group meetings were usually to blame in that regard.

At first, you made a great deal of effort to put as much distance between yourself and the Radio Demon as you could, which worked for a time. Unfortunately, Alastor caught onto what you were doing much faster than you would’ve liked.

He reveled in it. You knew he did. After a while you had the gnawing suspicion he was purposefully going out of his way to make you as uncomfortable as possible for his own entertainment. You saw no other reason as to why he’d consistently move so close to you that you could literally feel him breathing down your neck.

Lately, he had adopted the skin-crawling habit of locking eyes with you the moment you stepped foot in the room and patting the seat beside him - reserved specifically for you. Accepting the gesture felt like swallowing nails, but being openly rude to Alastor was something that you knew better than to do.

Instead, you began to find excuses for skipping the meetings entirely and have Angel or Husker fill you in later, which was exactly what you were doing now.

“To be honest I wasn’t payin’ much attention,” Angel said while he scrolled through his phone, resting his chin in his upper left hand while his lower right swirled alcohol around in a glass. “Was the kind of thing that could’ve been sent in an email.”

You traced your finger around the rim of your own glass, its contents untouched. “Still, I want to know what I missed.”

“He’s right, it wasn’t anything special,” Husker replied, slinging a cloth over his shoulder from behind the bar. “Same old bullshit about salvation with a new coat of paint on top.”

A pang went through your chest, but you pushed it down. “So nothing new?”

Angel scoffed and looked up from his phone. “Trust me, dollface, you did yourself a favor.” He downed the rest of his drink in one go. “What were you doing anyways?”

“You know…” You replied with a shrug, glancing down. “I went out.”

Angel smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Out?”

“Yeah.” You tapped your nails against the edge of the glass. “Things were feeling a little claustrophobic, so I went out for some air.”

Husker made a noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I know how you feel, kid. This place is a mess.”

Angel tilted his head, placing his phone down on the bar and leaning forward a bit. “So where’d you go? Anywhere fun?”

“Where indeed~.”

All your movements went rigid. After a few seconds, you slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder to see Alastor standing barely a foot away from you, staring down at you with a tight, closed-lipped smile. You hadn’t heard him coming in the slightest, which you immediately could tell was intentional.

Whether he’d used his shadow or had actually stalked up behind you wasn’t something you wanted to think about, and if Angel or Husker picked up on the immediate tension, neither of them said anything about it.

“Hey, Smiles.” Angel greeted with his usual flirtation, placing the elbows of his upper arms on the bartop as he turned to face Alastor. “Fancy a drink? You look a little stiff” He gave Alastor a very long once over, “and I’ll have you know I know a few ways I can help relieve some… tension.” 

Alastor’s lips curled back to reveal his teeth, the muscle in his cheek spasming for a moment.

Mentally you were kissing Angel on the cheek for the save as you slowly picked your coat up off the bar and slipped it on, concealing the goosebumps already present on your skin. Husker gave you a glance from the side and gave a very slight shake of his head, silently advising you against your unspoken desire to leave.

“I assure you, such a thing is never going to happen.~”

“You sure?” Angel rested his lower right arm on his hip. “I have a few tricks that can loosen you up.”

The leather in Alastor’s gloves audibly squeaked as his grip tightened around the staff of his microphone and his attention immediately shifted back to you, ignoring Angel entirely.

“My dear,” His voice dripped with such a saccharine sweetness it made you feel sick, “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

Fewer combinations of words could instill such a unique feeling of encroaching dread all at once, but you refused to let it show as you nodded and turned your body on the bar stool to face him fully; waiting for him to say the first word.

His eye twitched ever so slightly.

“Privately.”

That made you swallow.

“Sure.” You slid off the bar stool, doing your best not to appear as reluctant as you felt.

“Lovely.~” He said, promptly turning on his heel and walking towards the staircase - expecting you to follow.

You glanced back towards Husker and Angel, each giving you looks of grim sympathy and confusion respectively before you took a deep breath and forced one foot in front of the other, following Alastor up the steps.

You thought he would talk along the way. Engage in some form of idle chit-chat where he’d be pulling the strings, or even hum along to the countless jazz tunes that he played in the halls over the Hotel’s sound system.

But no such music played and he remained silent. A few minutes into the walk you gathered enough courage to glance up at him and found his eyes locked straight forward, not even sparing you so much as a glance.

You averted your gaze, the hem of your sleeves suddenly the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.

Eventually, he came to a stop, and he held out the end of his microphone to prevent you from going any further down the hallway.

“Here we are!” Rather than producing a key from his coat, a green flash emanated from the lock when he placed his hand on the handle and opened the door.

He all but leered at you as he gave a small bow that didn’t feel genuine in the slightest.

“After you.~”

Like the alleged gentleman he was, Alastor held the door open for you, eyes never leaving your form as you walked inside his suite.

The smell of dampness and soil hit you immediately.

Alastor’s suite wasn’t the worst thing you’d seen in Hell by a mile, however, it was still eerie beyond words. The skeletons that hung along the walls and mantlepiece of his fireplace became less complete and increasingly disorganized as they led further into the room - which itself gave way to a swamp-like environment halfway through. Undoubtedly a result of whatever hoodoo, voodoo bullshit he was capable of, and while it still wasn’t the worst you’d seen, it served its purpose thoroughly.

It creeped the shit out of you.

“Now, then.” Alastor clicked the door shut, his body half-facing yours as his hand still lingered on the doorknob. “I'm sure you have a good explanation for what you’ve been doing.~”

The immediate dryness in your throat was hard to ignore. You knew what he was talking about, and you knew that he knew, but you still attempted to buy some time as you tried to figure out what to do.

You cleared your throat. “I was just catching up with Angel and Husk-”

He chuckled, the sound like that of a radio shifting stations. “Don’t be coy.” His head turned towards you with a sickening, ossified crackle that bent his neck in a manner that made your stomach lurch. “You’ve been avoiding me, and I’d like to know why.”

Fuck.

“I haven’t.” Lying to Alastor was a mistake, but you still decided to risk it since it wasn’t entirely false. “There’s just been a lot on my mind recently.”

“Hmm.” Interest and something much worse flickered behind his eyes as he faced you fully with another crack of his vertebrae. “Such as~?”

You shook your head, looking away from him. “That’s private.”

There was a quick flash of red, and the tip of his microphone turned your face back towards him - the cool metal of the edge digging into the skin of your cheek. You had to bite back a grimace.

“Not when it concerns me.” His tone was sharp, a stark contrast to the faux politeness he was putting on before. He kept the tip of his microphone where it was to prevent your eyes from looking anywhere but him. “And trust me darling, when it comes to you, everything concerns me.”

His words twisted in your gut. “...I’m not sure what you mean.”

Alastor tutted, his smile widening once more. “Don’t be stupid, darling, it’s unbecoming of you.” The way he said it was patronizing, like he was scolding a child. “You know precisely what I mean, so I’m going to ask again, as much as I hate repeating myself.~”

Cool metal was replaced with the warmth of his hand as he tilted your head up and brought his face frighteningly close to yours.

“Why are you keeping yourself from me?”

It was an odd sensation. Being backed into a corner, both metaphorically and physically. A frightening one that all but yanked on your instincts to do whatever it meant to get the fuck out of there, but you knew that was the worst thing you could do.

Alastor was a predator, a creature designed to prey on those he deemed weaker, and turning your back on a predator would almost certainly trigger a series of events that would not bode well for you.

So you did the next worst thing.

You told him the truth.

“Because I can see you.” The words felt wrong to say out loud. “I can see you for what you are, I can feel the absolute malevolence that radiates off you in waves, and it’s suffocating.”

Saying any more was a horrendous idea, but you couldn’t help but add one last thing.

“And if I want any chance at leaving this god-forsaken place, I can’t be around you.”

The silence that stretched on afterward was deafening.

Mentally, you were bracing yourself. Alastor had killed people for far less, and you expected nothing different for saying something so daring to his face.

You could see it too, the anger that simmered underneath his gaze. You expected the red of his sclera to flash black and his antlers to extend with his body in a grotesque display before you were ripped to pieces while he laughed.

What you didn’t expect was for his eyes to narrow into slits and his expression shift into one that was far more genuine than you wanted it to be, and it was then you knew that being saved from this kind of evil was never going to happen.

“Oh, my dear, you don’t need to worry about something silly like that.” Alastor all but cooed.

“After all, what makes you think I’d ever let you leave?~”

© absolute-flaming-trash 2024. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.

[faintrustle]

Characters who smirk mid-fight will always be my domain.

[aventurineswife]

So idk how to make a request. So I hope this is ok??

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNeT75Hpt/

Hear me out a fic about this Aventurine with mermaid reader , and he captures her. I’ll leave the rest to you, so you have your freedom when writing 🫶

Don’t fell pressured :)

Beneath the Waves, Beyond the Game

Summary: Aventurine, a flamboyant and cunning pirate, thrives on risk and games of chance, but his life takes an unexpected turn when he captures you—a mysterious, defiant being of the sea—after your haunting song lures his ship to wreckage. What begins as a clash of wills slowly evolves into a fragile bond, as shared vulnerabilities and unspoken understanding unravel the masks you both wear. Amid storms, trust, and bittersweet goodbyes, the game between the gambler and the mermaid changes them both in ways neither anticipated.

Tags: Pirate!Aventurine x Mermaid!Reader, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, Captivity & Freedom, Pirate/Mermaid Dynamic, Forbidden Connection, Emotional Vulnerability, Found Family Themes, Bittersweet Ending.

Warnings: Themes of Captivity and Loss of Autonomy, Emotional Manipulation (Light), Storm/Peril Scenes, Brief Mentions of Betrayal and Guilt, Melancholy/Bittersweet Tones.

A/N: Y'ALL ARE FAST AFF!! 😭😭

[Part 2]

Aventurine had always thrived on risk, gambling with lives, fortunes, and fate itself. The sea, for all its temperamental fury, had always been his ally—a rolling canvas of danger and opportunity. Yet nothing in his decades of games and gambles had prepared him for you.

You were sprawled across the floor of his private quarters, your tail shimmering with iridescent hues as seawater pooled beneath you. The moment he'd heard your song—a haunting melody that echoed through the mists and lured his ship to the wreckage of a treasure-laden galleon—he knew he couldn’t let you slip back into the ocean’s embrace.

You glared at him now, your once-melodic voice reduced to silence, replaced by a defiant scowl. Aventurine lounged in his throne-like chair, one leg crossed over the other, his flamboyant coat draped behind him like a cape.

"Do you make it a habit to lure ships to their doom, or am I just special?" he drawled, adjusting his jeweled eyepatch with deliberate flair.

You said nothing, your shimmering tail flicking once against the wooden floor, splashing droplets onto his polished boots.

He chuckled, leaning forward, the feather in his hat catching the low lamplight. "Silent treatment, is it? Fair enough. I've always enjoyed a challenge."

You clenched your fists, your lips pressed into a thin line. Your freedom was gone, and this man—this gaudy, insufferable pirate—seemed to delight in your captivity.

Weeks passed aboard the ship, and the game between you and Aventurine began in earnest.

He spoke to you daily, spinning tales of his exploits, offering you trinkets from his plunder, and even playing games of chance where the stakes were your freedom. You refused every gamble, your pride unyielding even as your curiosity grew.

In turn, you sang only when you thought he couldn’t hear—a mournful tune carried by the waves. But Aventurine always listened, his sharp mind piecing together fragments of your story.

"You sing of loss," he said one night, his voice unusually soft. He stood at the door to your makeshift prison, his silhouette framed by moonlight. "Of betrayal. You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?"

You flinched at his words but said nothing.

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You think I don’t know what it’s like to be trapped, to have your fate decided by others?" He tilted his head, his eyes glinting like twin flames. "But I broke free. And so will you—if you’re clever enough to play the game."

For the first time, you spoke. "You don’t understand the sea’s bindings, pirate. My freedom isn’t yours to give."

The slow burn of trust began with small acts. Aventurine loosened your chains, allowing you to roam the deck under guard. You, in turn, offered him warnings of treacherous waters ahead, saving his ship from disaster more than once.

"You’re not like the stories," you admitted one evening, your voice hesitant.

"Flattered," he replied, grinning. "But you’d be wise to keep your guard up. I play to win, and I always do."

"Always?" you challenged, meeting his gaze.

His grin faltered for the briefest moment, but he recovered quickly. "Luck’s been kind to me so far."

Yet you saw through his bravado. Behind the jewels and theatrics was a man haunted by choices, a survivor who carried his guilt like a hidden scar.

The breaking point came during a storm. The ship was battered by relentless waves, its crew scrambling to secure the sails. Aventurine himself took the wheel, his usual calm replaced by a rare intensity.

When a rogue wave threatened to sweep you overboard, he abandoned his post to pull you to safety, his hand gripping yours with a desperation that surprised you both.

"Don’t you dare die on me." he hissed, his voice cracking.

For the first time, you saw him without his mask—a man terrified of loss.

The aftermath of the storm left the ship battered but intact. Aventurine found you sitting on the edge of the deck, your tail dangling in the water.

"You saved me..." you said softly.

He shrugged, his usual grin forced. "Couldn’t let you take all my secrets to the deep, now could I?"

But you weren’t fooled. Slowly, you reached for his hand, your touch tentative but firm. "Thank you."

He stared at your joined hands, his guarded expression faltering. "You’re not supposed to thank me," he muttered. "I’m the villain here, remember?"

"Villains don’t bleed for their captives," you countered, your voice steady.

The ending was bittersweet.

Aventurine kept his promise, releasing you near a hidden cove where the sea glittered like liquid sapphire.

As you slipped into the water, you turned back one last time. "You’ll always be playing, won’t you?"

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "What can I say? The game’s the only thing keeping me afloat."

"Then I hope you win, pirate." you said softly, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken understanding.

And with that, you disappeared beneath the waves, leaving Aventurine standing alone on the shore, the ocean stretching endlessly before him.