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letsgobarbs · 2 days ago

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Was biting my nails through the first half, and then I was so worried about them both and then I felt too many emotions and then the oven mitts made me fucking giggle that’s so funny. UGH I am feeling all the feels and she doesn’t remember her name???? THE TRAWMAAAAA

Part 3- Your People

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: After the civilized world you once knew came to an end-- the men that survived... well they just take, take, take. Growing tired of having things taken from you-- you have a hankerin' to take somethin' for yourself... and make him perfect.

w/c~ 8k

content warnings: Reader (no descriptions besides having hair that can be pulled) is in a weird mindset; hears voices, talks to herself. non-con/dub-con (if you're looking for enthusiastic consent, ya wont find it here) smut, cock-warming, unprotected P in V, creampies, oral (m&f receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, pussy and peen pronouns, alcohol consumption (altered mental state). Joel wears a shock collar and other various horrible things that would keep him in check-- and he doesn't fucking like it.

Reader warning- While it looks real pretty, this is a Dead Dove, Do Not Eat. If ya do and then come complaining to me that you ate a dead dove-- I'm gonna fight you. I warned you. I'm coming from a place of love and respect for my readers who have ever gone through anything traumatic and maybe don't want to relive that, it's in here. I try and do it tastefully and respectfully in the best way, i'll mark it with a lil divider where you can skip the part I'm worried about. it's smut but it's sad. There is your warning. I love you.

You gotta sleep, kid. You need it.

Mister-J looks so warm and comfortable… go on and crawl in beside him.

He does look so comfortable and inviting, especially from your spot just out of his reach if you were to fall asleep. His chest rises and falls slowly as he breathes in his sleep. It’s memorizing, and almost hypnotic enough to make you forget all of your fears— forget all of the things that made laying next to him with his arms around you physically excruciating.

S’okay, Baby. You’ll get there, it’ll get easier ‘n he won’t seem so big ‘n scary anymore.

There is a reason he seems big and scary, kid. Your gut is telling you not to trust him, so don’t.

Oh, stop it. If he wanted to kill her, he would have— he would have done it by now. He’s big ‘n strong— he could, and he hasn’t.

That sweet, soft voice does have a good point…

Doesn’t mean he isn’t waiting for a better opportunity.

The dark, serious voice has a point too…

This always happens, the voices say things that conflict one another, but they both have a point. They both make sense but never about the same thing. And they argue. And they’re loud. It’s only when you need them, that you really, really want them to say something that they are quiet.

The little flashlight that had been attached to the backpack Mister-man—

Joel… he has a name. He’s a real person, kid.

You flick the flashlight off quickly so it’s dark again.

Mister-mans, Mister-J… Joel… it don’t matter none, Sugar. He’s yours, and you can call him whatever you want.

You flick the light back on so you can watch him sleep. It’s incredible how calm he is, and how he fell asleep as soon as you laid down next to him after saying he couldn’t sleep.

Sometimes that happens to you though, sometimes you need to touch yourself, and make yourself squirm and moan and come, and then sleep finds you. Sometimes the whiskey puts you to sleep before you even have the desire to do that to yourself.

Whatever Mister-J did with his tongue was so much better than your fingers, wasn’t it?

It most definitely was. It was probably the most incredible feeling you’ve ever experienced. Not that you hadn’t ever experienced it before, but this time…it was soft, gentle— and you wanted it more than anything. That made it feel even fucking better, how badly you wanted to sit down on Mister-mans face and grind down onto his mouth.

He was making out with your cunt. Deep, long, tongue swirling kisses. He would open and close his mouth, and suck. He would lick and lap at all spots you didn’t even know could make you feel good.

When you would take his cock deep in your throat and gag on it, he would moan- loudly-and the vibrations from that were like earthquakes, they touched parts inside of you that were left unexplored by anyone before Mister.

He was perfect.

The idea of laying your head down on his big, muscular bicep was nice until you were actually doing it, and then everything about it felt foreign. It was like sleeping too close to the fire, surrounded by too many blankets.

You had gotten so used to sleeping alone, that the feeling of someone next to you didn’t feel right anymore. It made you sad and you’re not entirely sure why.

So that’s why you’re here on the floor and not snuggled up against Mister-man. It’s like the universe played some cruel joke on you- and you got your favorite food but when you bite into it, it’s rancid.

But your fingers twitch toward him anyway—like roots in dirt searching for water. His arm is right there. His breath is slow and steady.

Go on. He’s warm as fresh bread.

You shift an inch closer.

Dangerous as a snake in the grass.

But his skin smells like leather and sweat and you want to taste him again. Want to run your tongue from the tip of his cock, to the spot just in front of his ear that makes him sigh when you kiss him there.

Crawling—quiet like scared prey— you move until your face hovers over his chest. His shirt rides up just enough to show a scar on his perfectly doughy stomach. And another on his rib cage. It looks newer, still old enough to be a scar, but pink instead of white.

You wonder if it aches when he breathes. If that’s the reason his voice sounds like gravel sometimes.

He’ll crush you.

He’ll hold you.

It sounds like a song the way the sweet voice says it.

You touch the scar with your pinky finger, feather-light—and he doesn’t stir. But then he sighs—a rumble deeper than thunder—and your guts twist.

You scramble back, heart slamming against the back of your throat.

The sweet voice clucks at you.

You’re spooking yourself.

You’re alive because you spook.

The flashlight rolls under your knee when you shift—plastic clattering loud enough to wake dead things—and Mister’s brow tightens. For one gut-drop second, his eyes flicker open, staring up at you, before he grunts and turns onto his side, back to you now.

He’s mad again? How, and why? What did you do wrong? You had done everything right.

You keep poking that bear and you’re going to get mauled, kid.

He ain’t mad…look’it his hands, Sugar.

They’re not balled up into fists, they’re relaxed. His whole body is. Everything about him seems so at peace.

Your stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. It’s been a while since you’ve eaten— and then you only had half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and some whiskey.

Joel’s boot shifts with a dry scrape of leather—and your lungs forget how air works. But he just mumbles something that sounds like “goddamn horse” with his face smushed against the pillow.

Mister-J talks in his sleep? He’s precious.

He is. It’s hard to contain the feeling in your chest when he sighs loudly, rolling onto his stomach, curling his arms under the pillow.

Instead of trying to face your fears of crawling into bed with him and falling asleep next to someone else, you crawl on your hands and knees back to the chair across the room. The whiskey bottle is still tucked between the cushion where you left it.

Even with almost half of a bottle of whiskey in you, your eyes won’t close. You only know what time it is because the soft whir of the solar powered generator kicks on, and the singular lamp in the corner flicks to life. It’s dark outside now.

The electric hum from the bulb makes your skin crawl, and your head buzz.

Part of you feels bad for keeping Mister down here like this. He doesn’t even know what time it is, he’ll probably wake up soon, getting ready to start the day. You wonder if he misses the sun, if he ever walked barefoot in the grass and if he misses that feeling too.

When you weren’t allowed outside, you missed the sun. You missed the grass between your toes. You missed being able to jump into the river and swim around with your brother whenever you wanted. There were a lot of things you missed when you weren’t allowed to go outside.

Unscrewing the whiskey cap, you take a swig and relish in the way it burns. It drowns out the voices, but it doesn’t dull the ache between your legs— the memory of his mouth makes you shift in the soft recliner.

In the soft, pale light spilling into the room from behind the aged, yellow lampshade, you can see Mister-J… and how excited he is. He’s on his back, shirt riding up over his stomach again, the bulge in his sweatpants clear as day now.

There is a new voice you’ve never heard before, and it’s not saying anything— only screaming. Loud, and high pitched. It’s excruciating. It’s the only thing you hear now, not even the sound of your own voice telling you what to do, or what to think or say.

When you stand, the whiskey sloshes between your temples. It makes you sway and almost lose your balance, but you press your hand to a support beam that juts out of the floor and into the ceiling.

Heavy, clumsy, limping feet and a swollen ankle carry you to Mister-J.

His cock is hard and heavy in your hand and he tastes just like he did last night. He stirs under your touch—a low groan vibrating through clenched teeth—and your pussy tightens around nothing. Mister arches his hips up against your slow moving fist, trying to fuck your hand momentarily before stilling and settling back down into the mattress. His eyes are still shut tight beneath furrowed eyebrows.

It’s pathetically cute how bad he wants this. How badly he needs it.

The screaming inside your head morphs into static.

Your fingers rub slow circles over damp fabric between your legs while your rib cage starts to feel like a hive of wasps. Everything inside of you is buzzing as you lean over and swirl your tongue around the ridge of his cock.

Wrong.

That dark voice sounds like it’s coming through the static like old radio stations.

You pull your hand away from Mister-J's cock and cover your face with it, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill. This is all wrong, all of it.

S’right. It’s all right.

The static transmutes into tornado sirens.

Your hand finds his cock again and it throbs in your grasp. There is no hesitation when you take him into your mouth with a gentleness you didn’t know you possessed when you’re this intoxicated. Delicate movements and laps of your tongue along his shaft make him moan softly, still slumbering.

Salt and musk take over your senses as he pulses against your tongue—wanting even in his unconsciousness. Your throat spasms around him as you gag, tears hot on your lashes. One hand brushes against his thigh as you move to steady yourself on the mattress while the other slips into your own waistband. Two fingers slide into you with no resistance. You’re so wet that you almost feel embarrassed.

Inside.

The sweet voice sings to you over the cacophony going on inside your head.

Mister’s hips jerk again, involuntary, desperate. A string of saliva connects your lip to his cock when you pull back to breathe. The room tilts—whiskey and shame on your tongue—but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when his thighs were trembling just a moment ago.

After kicking your shorts off, you climb on top. Mister feels so hot pressed up against your cunt. Yours and his breath catch in your throats when you sink down into his lap. Your eyes close to hide from the stretch that burns in a slippery, and shameful way.

The wasps behind your ribs sharpen their stingers as you slowly start to rock your hips against his. Mister’s eyelids flutter but he doesn’t wake-up, not fully. He just hovers in that feverish space between dreaming and drowning. A place you’re familiar with.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

Good. Good. Good.

You want to carve yourself into his bones before the tornado sirens rip your skull apart.

The oven mitts make useless fists at his sides as he arches beneath you, tendons in his neck pulled wire-tight. His hips stutter upward instinctively, chasing more friction, seeking the deepest, warmest parts of you.

His eyes snap open, “The fuck are you—” Mister-man’s voice is rough like sandpaper but you don’t let him finish before you slap your hand over his mouth.

“Shhhh, makin’ you feel good,” you moan quietly, your hips never faltering. His cock slides across a spot inside of you that whites the edges of your vision.

He mumbles something, his teeth scraping along your palm as he does so. It vaguely sounds like, ‘Get off’a me’ or ‘get off on me,’.

“M’tryin’,” you groan, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. Your cheeks are wet, but from tears or sweat, you don’t know.

How can everything make sense up here on top of Mister-J, and still feel so incredibly… wrong?

The oven mitts start to drum against your thighs as he squirms underneath you.

It…hurts? Mister is hitting you?

Hurting you.

You like it.

“Knock it off!” You press harder against this mouth with your hand, your fingers digging into his cheeks. It’s impossible to stop riding him, to stop yourself from needing this brutal closeness with Mister.

You’re being bad.

You like it.

His muffled growls vibrate against your palm—angry or pleading or both—but your cunt clenches harder around him anyway. Release is so close, you can feel yourself teeter on the precipice, but you can’t seem to push yourself over.

“Please, please, p-please— jus’ wanna, I just wanna— please, please, Mister-J,” you whine, face wet with perspiration and tears now, they’re flowing freely from your eyes. “I want it, need it—”

“Stop, goddammit—” he shouts at you from behind your fingers.

It makes you flinch but you don’t stop, and your pussy pulses around him. Your hand presses harder, fingernails leaving moon crescents in his flesh mingled with his stubble.

You just want to feel good, to be able to fall asleep once this is all over.

Oven mitts thump and scrabble at your hip, and that only makes your thighs clamp tighter around his waist. You want to swallow every twitch of his cock, everything he can give you– you want it.

He bucks his hips up into you and touches a place inside you that leaves you gasping for air. “Yes, yes, yes—” you groan breathlessly, leaning forward to lay your body on top of his, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

Mister bucks his hips up into yours again— once, twice, three times and suddenly you’re being shoved off of him, pushed to the side like you’re weightless.

Before you can really even know what hit you, Mister-man has his entire body weight pinning you down underneath him. He has his forearm forced against your neck.

Your thumb instinctively presses against down, searching for the shock collar button but you just end up pressing against your own palm.

The static, and the sirens and the screaming— the voices. It all goes completely silent and the only thing you can hear is the blood roaring in your ears.

Mistake?

Mistake.

“Got’chya,” He growls down at you, his eyes dark and blown wide.

“Get off me! Get off me! Get off of me!” You scream at him as loudly as you can, “Get off of me! Get off! Off, off, offoffoffoff! I’ll fucking kill you, you stupid fucking sonofabitch- get the fuck off me!”

“Awhh, lil crazy puppy don’t like it?” He murmurs, pressing his lips to your tear stained cheekbone.

Your legs begin to flail wildly in an attempt to dislodge him, push him, get him off. Your hands flying to his face, scratching and clawing at the soft skin, and his vulnerable, delicate eyes. You can’t find the words for how much you don’t like it, so you scream— it’s loud and rattles in the back of your throat as Mister-man clamps his hand over your mouth to silence you.

His breath is hot and ragged against your ear, the oven mitts clumsily grappling at your wrists as you thrash. "Stop—fuckin'—fightin’—," he grits out, but his voice cracks on the last word.

You taste copper—your teeth sink into his palm at some point, his blood smearing your chin. He pulls his hand back back to look at the broken skin, and you clench your eyes shut, flinching away from the incoming blows.

The room tilts and suddenly Joel’s weight isn’t just on your body; it’s inside your head, like pressure forcing memories that had buried deep to the surface like lava from a volcano.

Different hands holding you down. A different room. Different voices in your ear.

“Nononononono,” you whimper in a shriveled voice you don’t recognize.

“Hey!” Joel’s voice is sharp and grounding.

His arm lets up just enough for you to suck in a shattered breath. You’re both trembling now, your chests heaving against one anothers. His beard scratches your temple as he turns his face away from your clawing hands, but you don’t miss it—there is a flicker in his eyes when your choked sob hits the air between you.

Something wet smears your cheek. His blood? Your tears? It’s hard to tell.

“M’gonna make you feel real good, crazy girl.” His lips brush your earlobe as his hips grind down into yours, the length of him sliding between your folds, the tip notched at your entrance.

“Stop,” you whine, but the force has left your voice. Something about him breathing in your ear, something about the sound he makes as he shifts his hips and slips himself inside of you. The tears continue to fall, even as you gasp and clench around him.

“She’s suckin’ me right in baby,” Joel purrs in your ear while his hips start to move.

You can feel every fucking inch of him, every vein, and every single beat of his heart through the slick walls of your cunt. “Oh god,” you groan, your stiff, frightened hands curling in the hair on the back of his head, the other gripping one of his strong, strained biceps.

You're terrified, but Joel's words and touch are overwhelming you, making your body respond in ways you didn’t know could in a position like this.

He thrusts slowly at first as he sinks deeper inside you. But soon his pace quickens and the slapping, wet sounds coming from between your legs fill the small basement room. "Yeah just like that," Mister groans, his lips ghosting over your cheek. "Take it all, baby girl.”

Your walls clench around him, pulling him in as if eager for more. You feel delirious with fear and an unbidden arousal. Tears stream down your face, but soft moans spill from your lips.

Joel licks at your tears and leaves gentle kisses in their place, his beard scraping against your sensitive skin. "Shhhh, I got you," he murmurs between thrusts.

The room spins and blurs as the pleasure builds. Nothing exists and nothing is real anymore; Mister-man’s weight pinning you down, his cock splitting you open, the sour, sweaty, musky scent of him.

He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real and he’s good. He’s good, he’s good, he’s good. He’s not killing you, not hurting you.

So good. It’s so good.

You turn your head to capture his salty, tear stained lips with yours, opening your mouth to let him in. His lips press against yours desperately, tongue licking at your teeth as he slips inside.

Your body arches up to meet him, craving more of his touch even as fear still coils in your gut. It’s like you’re two separate people wrapped up into a whole. One part of you wants him with everything that you are, and the other is ready to hide, ready to slip into the cracks into the wall and never come out.

His oven mitts move to your waist and fumble with the threadbare shirt you have on, trying to push it up over the swell of your breasts.

“Fuck,” he grunts, nipping at your bottom lip as he pulls away from the kiss. He sits back on his knees, cock still throbbing inside of you while your walls flutter around him.

“Don’t, oh god, no. Please don’t go-” you sob, hands and fingers clawing at his forearms, desperate for him to come back. “P-Please don’t leave me,” you whine sadly,

Mister says nothing as he places both mitt covered hands inside your shirt where it’s fastened with buttons. He pulls the two pieces of fabric apart like paper. The buttons fly in every direction, scattering across the floor and some landing in bed with you. Joel stares down at your naked body and you feel more exposed than you ever have in your entire life.

“Jesus christ,” he murmurs, eyes tracing every single one of your curves. His mittened hands cups the swell of your tits, thumb swiping over the stiff buds

It’s like you’ve been zapped by the shock collar. Your back arches into his hand, your eyes clamp shut.

“Nuh-uh, watch me,” he growls. He waits until your eyes are on him before he leans over and takes one of your nipples into his mouth. His tongue swirls and teeth graze and bite down.

“Oh my god,” you groan, your fingers gripping his hair tighter, your nails dragging red, almost bloody marks down his arm.

Mister releases your nipple with a wet pop, blowing cool air across it almost like he’s teasing you. Goosebumps erupt across your skin as he takes the other into his mouth, alternating between harsh sucking and tender kisses.

You mewl softly as he begins to thrust again, each movement slow and deliberate. He drives deep inside of you and hits that spot that blurs the edges of your vision again, and again, and again.

You stare up at him in awe- his beard is longer, thicker than it was when he first came here, his hair disheveled and damp with sweat hangs in his forehead. He leans back and pushes the loose strands away from his face with an oven mitt.

Handsome.

He is.

Strong.

Being so gentle.

With you, Sugar. So gentle—

With you.

"Please," you whimper, spine bowing as pleasure coils tight in your belly as his hips snap against yours loudly. “More. Need more…”

He grins down at you, eyes crinkled at the corners, “I’ll give ya’ more, sweetheart.” If you thought Mister was handsome before, when he smiles your heart swells. and the pressure and tightness inside of you feels like it’s about to burst.

He wraps one hand underneath your knee and brings it up, resting your ankle on his shoulder by his ear, repeating the process with the other leg. He grips your thighs, the scratchy fabric of the oven mitts drags across your skin. Joel never lets up, never slows down the brutal, bruising pace he sets.

A string of expletives and maybe his name more than once spill out of your mouth quickly, stumbling over the words as your body trembles underneath him.

All of the air is pushed out of you as he leans over, pushing your knees up to your chest and starts fucking into you with deep, long strokes. His pelvis grinds against your swollen clit with each powerful snap forward, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"I can feel her squeezin’ me," he rasps hotly in your ear, licking the shell before biting down on your earlobe. “Come on my cock, crazy girl.”

That does it. It’s more than enough to push you over the edge. “Oh—” Your head tips back with a silent scream as your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, making your entire body shudder and convulse beneath him. “Fuck… Joel!” Sparks burst behind your eyelids as pure rapture consumes you.

Mister sucks your earlobe as you come, his sweaty temple pressed against yours as the waves wash over you. He’s kissing and licking down to your neck, and bites down hard right over your pulse point, sucking hard enough to hurt. "That's it baby girl," he grunts against the spot he just bit.

It’s like your whole body is on fire, everything is too much, it’s all too good.

You feel a new pressure, a new sensation and it’s familiar, but foreign all at the same time. A new release, it’s different and it’s happening so fast.

“Stop! Oh my— Mist- Joel, p-please,” you plead for some sort of relief. “I’m gunna—”

Joel presses his lips to yours again, silencing you. You twist your head to the side, pulling away from his mouth as he kisses down your cheek to your jaw. “S’okay— let go...”

"I...I don't...can't..." You gasp out between ragged breaths. Hot, wet tears still leak from the corners of your eyes as the intense pleasure builds to an unbearable peak.

“Ya’ can,” he pants, resting his forehead on the side of your head. “Cryin’ only makes it feel better, baby girl.” He shifts his hips, angles them differently and fucks you harder- faster.

“P-Please,” you whimper, unsure if you’re begging him to stop, or to keep going. “S’too much!”

“Shut up,” he growls, nipping at your cheek gently, teeth scraping skin as he pistons into you relentlessly. “Let it happen, crazy girl.”

So you do- body obeying his command even as your mind reels with what’s about to happen. A second climax crashes over you, more intense than the first. It erupts from you in a wet splash against Mister’s lower stomach and pelvis, it drips down the curve of your ass and you feel it seeping into the mattress underneath you.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he praises breathlessly. “Such a good fuckin’ girl cummin’ on Mister’s cock again.”

You sob in pleasure and embarrassment simultaneously as he fucks you through it, his deep voice rasping in your ear.

“Crazy,” He murmurs. His thrusts grow clumsy, and he’s panting in your ear, kissing the side of your face. His tongue captures the tears on your cheeks again like they’re his favorite drink as your fingers dig into the soft flesh on his shoulder. “Makin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he snaps suddenly, pulling back and out of you completely.

You whimper at the loss but he presses your thighs together tightly with his hands and forearms, and slips his cock between them, the length siding through your wet folds.

Mister-J kisses your ankle, his teeth biting down on the skin as he groans loudly, warmth spreads and seeps between your thighs, and slick lower lips, the crease where your legs meet your pelvis.

You stare up at him, watching as his eyes close, his brow furrows, his hips jerking back and forth clumsily as he empties himself onto your lower half.

Your legs tremble as he slides his softening cock out from between your thighs.

That was the most incredible, and intense feeling you’ve ever experienced and you’re not sure if you should love him, or hate him for what he just did to you. The wet spot on the mattress is an embarrassing reminder of what happened seconds ago.

“S’good for ya’?” Mister asks, running one of his oven mitts over his forehead, wiping the sweat away. His eyes move from your face, down your still naked body, his cum smeared across your mound and lower stomach.

You pull your shirt closed around your bare torso, holding it closed with one hand. You use your good foot and the other hand to push yourself onto the cold concrete floor— skin scraping roughly as you shove yourself away from him.

His brows pinch together tightly, and he narrows his eyes on you. “Where’re ya’ goin’?” He sounds… concerned? Angry? Disappointed?

The words don’t find you, thoughts don’t come to you anymore as you hold the shirt over your chest and glare at him. All you can do is scream at him. It comes from somewhere deep and your lungs hurt, your throat feels like it could bleed from how raw it is after.

“Where’re ya’ goin’?”

He watches as tears continue to pour down your cheeks, your face twisting up tightly. You inhale deeply, and it looks like you’re trying to regain your composure.

Then you scream at him. It’s long and loud and hurts his ears, but he stares at you until you’re done. He continues to watch as you scurry away from him in a clumsy, stumbling crab-crawl until your back bumps into the leg of the table.

You flinch and stifle a sob, and finally take a deep, shaky breath. You use the table to push yourself to your feet, turning away from him finally. You shove the table in his direction, grabbing the shock collar remote before you turn, and limp into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you.

The dull roar of the infected grows louder from upstairs. They’re still there, and that means the two of you are stuck together for at least another day or two, maybe longer.

The door opens again, and a metal bucket comes hurdling out of the bathroom and through the air. It hits the wall, and drops to the floor noisily with chaotic, metal clangs until it comes to settle in the corner by the mattress.

The door slams shut again.

You’re broken, he can see it in your eyes almost all the time, but there was a moment when he was on top of you where he thought you might have completely checked out– gone somewhere else, somewhere he didn’t mean to take you.

Traumatized the poor puppy. Pro’lly in there cryin’.

He’s not worried that you’re crying. Nope. Not even a little.

Alright- that’s what you wanna keep tellin’ yourself, go right ahead.

He’s worried he just signed his death certificate.

Joel wasn’t trying to take anything from you— not like that. You were already on top of him, riding him, but you just looked like you needed some help, like you needed him to take control. Like you didn’t know what you were doing up there, rolling and swirling your hips in any direction. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t ever going to get you there- where you wanted to be so badly.

Joel took you there, made you fucking squirt all over him and he took some sense of pride in that.

Joel helps himself to jerky and bread, he drinks as much water as his body will comfortably allow. For the first time in weeks, he’s actually full. His stomach feels like it’s stretched like he might actually burst.

–-

At first Joel thought you just needed a couple minutes. Maybe you wanted to clean up in the privacy of the bathroom without his eyes on you. But hours go by and he hears nothing coming from the separate room. Nothing.

It’s silent. Completely. No shrieking or clicking of the infected from upstairs either.

It’s the lack of control that’s pissing him off more than he would care to admit. Being captive was of course at the top of his ‘things to be pissed off about’ list, but if he was going to be stuck here with you, he wishes he could at least have a say in what goes on.

Hasn’t seen the sun, hasn’t had a proper shower in god knows when, hasn’t had a real meal in just as long. If you would give him just a little more freedom, things wouldn’t be too fucking bad here.

Now you’re gettin’ it.

You’re making Joel crazy, now he’s thinking about complying?

Y’been complyin’, Mister. Complied real damn good in that bed just then.

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit.

Has Joel been complying? What the fuck is going on? Why didn’t he kill you in bed? Why didn’t he strangle you, bite your jugular out of your throat. He could have, he felt your heartbeat on his tongue. He could have ended all of this right then.

But ya’ didn’t!

He sure fucking didn’t. He was so unworried about killing, that he made sure you came– twice – before he finished.

Looked so sweet comin’ on your cock, perfect tits bouncin’, fuckin’ pussy was immaculate.

Joel presses the oven mitts into the sockets of his eyes and groans loudly.

Joel’s eyes snap open at the rattling coming from inside the room. He shoots up, looking around with crusty eyes and blurry vision. He expects to see you but is met with the sight of that fucking opposum sitting on the table with a piece of Joel’s jerky in his clawed little fingers, munching happily on the dried meat.

“Git!” Joel shouts. The small animal doesn’t even flinch at Joel’s outburst, just continues to eat that precious protein. “Y’little fuckin’--” Joel grumbles, pushing himself to his feet. He stands in front of the table, looking down at it- the opposum- Puddin’.

He just stares right back up at Joel, chewing quickly and swallowing.

Kinda cute.

“S’fuckin’ gross,” Joel grumbles. He doesn’t really want to touch that thing, he doesn’t want to get whatever diseases that thing could be carrying.

He’s got a collar on.

Puddin’ does have a collar on. Joel imagines you taking your time picking it out for him, going through all the colors and designs. He can see you finding the teal and pink collar, holding it up against his fur and saying it’s perfect. That Puddin’ would be the most handsome opossum this mall has ever seen.

It makes him smile.

It feels like two fucking days--two goddamn days since Joel saw you walk into that bathroom and slam the door shut practically in his face.

You’re either dead in there or plotting the most painful ways to kill him. Both choices make Joel sick to his stomach.

–--

Joel watches you behind the metal grate that keeps the mattress store all locked up nice and tight. He’s on the wrong fucking side! He’s on the mall side and you’re tucked under the covers of your comfortable looking bed. Seven mattresses stacked on top of each other like you’re in some fucking story he’d read to Sarah when she was really little.

Joel almost wishes he could go back to the basement because this is more dehumanizing than being tied up by the elbows or roped up to a chair.

The metal chain around his neck is tight, and it digs into his skin. It’s thick, heavy and has prongs on it– like he’s a fucking dog. A violent dog that lunges, and bites and attacks.

You opened the door to the bathroom an hour ago with the choke chain in your hand, the shock collar remote taped to the other, and the most exhausted look Joel’s ever seen on anyone's face. Big dark circles under your eyes, disassociated stare like you weren’t even really looking at Joel when you spoke to him in almost indecipherable mumbling.

Joel fought you a little when you padlocked the choke chain to his neck, and added a smaller lock to the shock collar. But he stopped when you said you were gonna take his oven mitts off his hands.

Where are all the infected? It sounded like there had been a horde of them up here two days ago and now there is not a single sign that they had even been here.

When Joel had questioned you about what he would do if more infected came, you very confidently said that no one could get in or out that easily anymore; that you had made this place nice and safe for your ‘mister-man’.

Ain’t ever had no one like that before, have ya’?

No.

That had always been Joel’s job; to keep everyone else safe.

Who made sure that he was safe?

There had always been give and take with everyone else, even Tommy and Tess. There was love there, sure– but never just someone absolutely and completely tearing themselves open to make sure that Joel was taken care of.

The only thing you wanted in return was his company.

Might’a never touched ya’ if you hadn’t asked for it.

He wonders what your name is. How old you are, where you came from. How long have you been out here…

Joel grabs the metal cord wrapped in some sort of plastic or vinyl material that goes all the way up to the ceiling and gives it a shake as he looks up. You’ve attached it to some other sort of rope or cable that’s been tied from one end of the mall to the other.

The other end is connected to Joel’s choke chain.

As soon as your eyes closed he attempted to unclip himself from it but it wouldn’t budge. He tried everything but it was like you welded the clasp closed.

Joel wanders. That’s all he can do. He’s got more than enough slack to go into whatever store he wants and walk around, inspect.

As he does this his mind doesn’t stop thinking about you. Why didn’t you sleep with him? What did you do while he slept on the bed? Did you sleep? Have you eaten? What the fuck did you do in the bathroom for two whole days?

Joel finds a place where the sun is shining through a hole in the ceiling and faces it with his eyes closed. He could fucking cry. He didn’t realize how much he missed this, how important it was for a person to come in contact with the sunlight. He chokes down the lump in his throat and stands there, following the sun as it moves in the sky, the light coming in at shifting angles and directions. He follows it, stays in the warmth- basking in it for as long as possible until dusk settles and the sky slowly starts to turn pink.

Joel has his backpack with him. You packed him some food and water, his flashlight. A clean long sleeve shirt in case it got cold. You even threw in some whiskey for him, which he was enjoying sip by sip.

He pulls his flashlight out and uses it when he goes into an old bookstore. Some shelves are empty; nature guides, atlases, hunting and fishing- basically the entire outdoors section is gone.

The romance novels are almost bare.

Who needs those when lil puppy’s got you, right?

There are still self-help books on the shelves, almost untouched and whatever is left looks like it would fall apart in his hands if he tried to touch it.

Why’s you even in this section?

Joel wanders to the comics and takes a look at whatever is left. Some are in alright condition, wrapped in plastic away from the elements. Some do disintegrate before he can even get them out of their place on the shelf.

He grabs a Batman comic still in a vinyl sleeve and tosses it in his pack for later. There are tons more strewn all across the floor, some he remembers reading with Tommy as kids. He picks through them, looking for any worth saving and finds two more still in decent condition.

There are several department and clothing stores that look bare from the outside, but he wanders into one anyway just to see what might have been missed.

There’s an exit to the outside that's been all boarded up, with what looks like every empty clothing rack pushed in front of it. He thinks about moving all those things, breaking through the boards… but where the fuck would he go? Ten feet outside of the mall where the infected were apparently moving through?

No.

He’ll stay inside.

He paruses the homegoods section all the way in the back of the second floor and finds a wall of empty shelves except for one.

It’s filled with books- he reads through the titles: The Beginners Guide to Foraging, An Introduction to Wildlife Rehabilitation, LIVING WITH WILDLIFE- How to Enjoy, Cope with, and Protect North America’s Wild Creatures Around Your Home and Theirs, The Big Book of Skill Makers, The Complete Beginners Guide to Greenhouse Gardening- A Month by Month Planting Book to Grow 365 Days a Year, You Will Find Your People- How To Make Meaningful Friendships as an Adult. There are several Batman comics featuring Harley Quinn and The Joker.

They all look like they’ve been read thoroughly and many times.

On the same shelf there is a pink balloon animal made of glass, it has fresh flowers in it, with clean water. It takes him several seconds to realize that it’s supposed to be a bong. For smoking weed. And you’re using it as a vase.

Joel chuckles to himself and continues to look at the shelf of your important belongings. A couple rocks of different colors, an old makeup compact that has a broken mirror in it. And a small glass picture frame of a family– a mother and a father, a little girl, and a young man but his face has been scratched out beyond recognition.

On the wall behind the shelf Joel notices lines carved into the wall.

| | | | | | | | | | |

Twelve. Is that how old you were when this all happened? Is that the number of men you did this to before Joel came along? Are you going to add him to this fucking list?

Is that how many months you've been out here?

All of this suddenly feels like someone he can’t see punched Joel directly in the stomach.

Sad.

Joel makes his way to a different part of the mall, checking every entrance that he finds along the way and they’re all boarded up better than they were when he used to walk around here before you captured him. He does appreciate the effort you went through to make sure nothing could get in if you weren’t going to give him a weapon, and he couldn’t escape.

There is an old music and entertainment store where you must get your princess movies and cartoons to watch. He picks through a couple, finding a couple classics that he watched before the outbreak Office Space, Dirty Harry, The Thing, Top Gun.

He grabs a couple more that he watched as a kid with his dad and grandpa; The Magnificent 7, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. He grabs the three original Star Wars movies as well– the best ones, the only ones worth watching. The ones that started to come out right before the outbreak– Joel can’t even talk about it.

He’s done his exploring and now he sits outside of the mattress store waiting for you to wake up and let him back in. As soon as Joel unwraps the sandwich and jerky you made him, that stupid fucking oppossum comes scampering along like this is it’s dinner too.

“Get the hell outta here,” Joel grumbles, waving his hand in its direction, trying to scare it off– but it persists.

Inching closer and closer until Joel could kick it if he wanted to.

Kinda cute in the little collar.

Joel tosses a piece of his sandwich a good distance away and Puddin’ chases after it while Joel digs into his own portion.

Hours and hours go by, you sleep for so fucking long. He reads all of the comic books that he grabbed and even goes back to the bookstore to look for more. He finds nothing else that interests him so he goes to your bookshelf in the department store and grabs a couple from there to look at.

He’s flipping through the skill maker book when you finally wake up and open the grate.

Joel scrambles to his feet, watching as you rub your eyes with your one free hand, the other still has the remote tapped to your palm.

The two of you stare at each other for several silent moments before you notice the book in his hand.

“Just put it back where ya’ found it when you’re done with it, ‘kay?” Your voice is deep and filled with sleep.

Joel nods his head, and puts the book in his backpack. “Yeah, sure– hey where did all the infected go?” He questions as you toss your own pack over your shoulder and head in the direction of the food court.

“Cleared ‘em out the other day.”

“How the hell did you do that? When? After we–”

“Yup.” You cut him off with a sharp, short response. “Wasn’t that many. Kinda easy when you get high ground on ‘em.”

Joel eyes dart up to the rafters and wonders how good you are with a bow and arrow. He knows Ellie is a great shot, loves her bow and arrow. “And you moved ‘em all out on your own?”

“Yup.”

“How did you even get out of the bathroom?” Joel’s been wondering that this whole time.

You walked into the bathroom, slammed the door and the next time he saw you was coming down the stairs to the basement.

He wonders if you’re even real.

Ohh our lil puppy is real alright.

If you knew that Mister-J was going to ask all of these questions you might not have ever taken the duct tape off.

Where did the infected go? What if more get in? How did you get out of the bathroom? Where are you going now? When will you be back? Are you okay? Are you mad? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you answering me?

He’s so nosy! Asking more questions than any of the other guys combined.

Why does he even care?

Shhhhh, this is what makin’ friends is, Sweetheart.

“Used the vents to get out of the bathroom,” you sigh, not stopping or slowing down but Joel keeps up anyway, his arm brushing yours as he walks alongside you.

“What about the infected– you know the spores–”

“I burn ‘em outside at night when it’s real dark–” you explain to him quickly. “I ain’t stupid. I know ‘bout the spores. I know how the fungus works. I paid attention,” you huff softly as you reach the ladder that takes you up into the rafters and eventually out onto the roof.

Mister is too big, and probably too clumsy to follow you up here.

“M’just goin’ to get some more food… I’ll be right back– couple of minutes, okay?”

Mister looks relieved when you say this, his face relaxes and he sighs softly. “Okay, just be careful.”

— -- --- ---

“Is that my shirt?” He asks about the green and red flannel you have on when you come out of the women’s restroom in the food court. Your hair is clean, your body feels refreshed after taking a shower.

Mister looks good too with his hair slicked back, and his beard trimmed neatly.

You nod, not taking your eyes off of him. It’s almost impossible when he looks like a brand new man- handsome. He looks like he’s lost weight since he’s been here with you.

You’ll fix that. He needs to eat more than you, and he wants meat so… you’ll go get it for him. Real meat this time, even if it makes you sad how you have to get it.

“Yeah, I took it ‘cause it smelled like you.” You admit with no shame. That’s exactly why you took it. So you could sleep with it so he could warm up to his new house, with his new friend.

Mister-J chuckles, and shakes his head at you with a smirk plastered across his face. “Someone told me I stink once,” he says through his laughter.

This makes you smile because he’s happy. He looks happy, like he doesn’t mind talking to you, he’s not saying mean things. He’s sharing.

Told ya’ he’d get comfortable. Just had to be patient. We figured it all out eventually.

“You do stink sometimes, but you smell real, so I don’t mind.” You share with him as you lead him back to the mattress store. He carried the TV up earlier and said he found a couple movies he wanted to watch. They don’t really look like movies you want to watch, but you’ll give them a shot.

Anything for Mister-Joel, perfect, sweet man.

It doesn’t make this easier. Mister wants to sleep in the bed next to you, said he wanted to warm you up, but now you’re next to him again and it feels like you could burst into flames and tears all at the same time.

“What’s your name?” He whispers into your ear, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding onto you tightly from behind.

“Why?” The sirens go off inside your head. No one’s asked you that in so long, it makes your stomach flip and you feel like you could be sick.

“Told’ya mine,” He murmurs into your hair.

Joel.

When you go to answer, the words don’t come because the memories are gone. You can see your mom and dad talking to you inside your head but their voices are on mute. The name never leaves their mouth. “I don’t remember…”

OFC thank you @pedrospookie for making this cutie banner and letting me scream at about all of this!!

I need to give an extra special shout-out to the couple of other people I screamed at about this. @almostempty @gothcsz( your music recs inspired me) and thanks to @probablyreadinsmut and my unnamed friend who helped me with the TW of the chapter.

I was especially nervous to post this because I didn't want to ruin anyone's day or send anyone into their own spiral. I hope you all are OK!

thank you to everyone who has been reading!! I've never gotten such incredible feedback on a fic before and you are all so nice and make writing this story that much more fun. I LOVE YOU

TAG LIST: @pedrospookie @gothcsz @joelmillerisapunk @sp00kymulderr @paleidiot @goodvampykitten @rosebuds-and-moonlight @diabaroxa @zhazy-blog2 @almostempty @xdaddysprincessxx @tobethlehem @lilac-boo @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @rav3n-pascal22 @baronessvonglitter @joelmillerisapunk @syd-djarin @probablyreadinsmut @itwasntimethatdidit40 @letsgobarbs @lovehappyloki @joelalorian @pedrostories @evolnoomym @valkyreally @youdontknowe @corazondebeskar-reads @pastelpinkflowerlife @tobethlehem

please don't hate me if I forgot you, I have a hamster brain, ok?

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letsgobarbs · 3 days ago

Text

Crying Cryptids & Canoodling Cupids

Pairing: Javi Gutiérrez x Plus Size F!Reader

Prompt: Javi G + “What cryptid are you trying to be, Mothman’s cousin?”

Summary: Javi is having a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day. Scratch that. He was having a terrible week, a horrible month, a no-good year, and just, a general, very bad time. He was convinced this movie was going to end his filmmaking career. Nobody will ever want to see any of his work again. It was shit. And there was nothing he could do about it. And he might have just made the sweetest woman cry— someone he is so sure is his soulmate.

Warnings: Fatphobia, no smut for you nasties… okay maybe just a little hint because I couldn't resist, just a mention of it though.

A/N: This is for the PPCUVDAY event organised by @peepawispunk Is it Valentine’s Day? No. Is it even February yet? No. But I spun the wheel and got a prompt and a fic manifested. So we all get this— as a little treat. It is a classic Soulmate AU, where the first words your soulmate will say to you appear tattooed on your body.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Javi had always been quick to temper. He had just learned to never express it, because that was an invitation for being hit— or worse with Lucas. But now he wanted to throw a veritable tantrum— fuck the consequences.

The headset around his neck was strangling him, the usual soft feel and comforting weight of it was replaced by a crawling sensation that made him want to jump out of his skin. He wanted to tear the script resting on his thigh into tiny, minuscule, little pieces and shower it into the air— the corner of the paper was scratching at the exposed skin of his knee, yet another irritant that was making his leg restlessly jump. He needed to jump off a cliff and into a cool body of water. Step away, reset.

Too bad none of them would be getting that. This was supposed to be a movie. He was supposed to be a director. But all this was shaping up to be was a circus and he wasn’t even the ringmaster, he was a sad little monkey walking on stilts and jumping through hoops. Even worse, he was letting all the other sad little monkeys who had faith in him down.

It was his first time trying to make a horror movie— an intense, realistic, gritty psychological horror that offered a poignant insight into both the good and the evil in the nature of mankind. The script had been good. Lucien and Dieter were giving some of the most honest and amazing performances of their careers setting them both up for the greatest comeback after their stint in rehab. The crew was good, he had worked with these people before.

But then the producers started cutting costs and the real horror show had begun. They had terrorised the crew— changed the lighting, equipment, locations, costumes until it looked more like Cliff Beasts 7: Fellowship of the Furious– Journey to a Stranger Tide or something. They had even shooed in a heroine who wasn’t even in the script, naturally, the script had to be rewritten. He just wished she could act…

He had wrapped up filming yesterday after more than twenty takes on one of her simple scenes, making do with the shot of her actually remembering her lines even though they were delivered like she was acting on a Disney sitcom. Javi wished he could wrap up today as well, they were all exhausted from several demanding scenes and it wasn’t shaping up to be any better for her but they were running so behind schedule. Moreover, the costume and make-up department had worked so hard to put her in the monster get-up, they owed it to the crew to at least try. The original script didn’t even have a monster.

She did look monstrous but for all the wrong reasons. She looked huge, hulking at a little over seven feet, covered in bronze armour— why did they have to add big boobs to the metal? There were two giant wings behind her, confusingly made of feathers instead of metal like the rest of her costume. They had given her two fuzzy antennas that reminded him of oversized spruce twigs or moths. The armour was far too big for her he thought with a wince; sure the monster was supposed to represent corporate greed but making it fat was just wrong.

The most placid, emotionless garbled noises rang out of the giant tin can; Javi tried to unclench his jaw, hiding his expression behind a tight fist. His chest racked with effort to draw in a large breath. That’s it, he’s done.

“CUT!!” He roared. The script fell off his lap as he stood from his chair. Javi could feel the anger flooding over the dam he had built; he could feel it prickle in his throat like dry smoke, taste its bitterness on his tongue.

“WHAT CRYPTID ARE YOU TRYING TO BE, MOTHMAN’S COUSIN? Because woooow, that was really fucking pathetic.” He seethed as he maintained eye contact with the two large red bulbs for eyes on her helmet.

Javi whirled around to face the freelancer from the costume department before the actress could fight him, “And WHY IS SHE SO FUCKING BIG?”

There was a collective, shocked gasp on set as everyone stared at him in abject horror. Javi was panting now, still overwhelmed with rage while Dieter scowled at him a dark, menacing look on his face.

“Dude—” But Dieter was interrupted by a dog. A squeaking, whimpering dog. Oh my god, there was a chihuahua in the tin can. For a horribly brief moment, he wondered if he would find multiple dogs stacked together under that armour, it would certainly explain the bad acting. Everyone quietly stood around as the crying continued in quiet keens and puppyish whines.

“Hey, don’t cry—” Dieter cooed at her. Since when was he so nice to her?

His giant cryptid lifted the visor of her helmet, red bulb eyes, moth antenna and all. Javi peered up into the sweetest face that certainly did not belong to the lead of his movie. Fuck. Her face was covered in a glistening sheen of sweat and tears; she looked down at him with glassy eyes and brows furrowed with hurt. She made a strange eep sound as she tried to hold back more of her sobs— it drew his attention to the most kissably pouty lips. They wobbled from the emotional strain. Javi felt like a despicable cur.

“You’re the worst.” She whispered. Her voice choked with tears. And he felt his heart break. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, he didn’t even know who she was.

The pretty cryptid clunked out of there, her feathery wing slapping him across the face— as he deserved. Javi felt the embarrassment curl in his stomach for her, poor girl deserved a more graceful exit but instead, the costume sounded like pots and pans clanging around in the utensil cabinet while she fruitlessly tried to manoeuvre around the set pieces; the noise grated on his ears and made his teeth itch. The shrill, brassy clashing sound of metals abruptly turned into a loud thunk and a crash as she fell just a few steps away from the exit. A mean, taunting little giggle rang from some corner breaking everyone out of their reverie.

Lucien reaches her first, gently helping her to sit while the assistant he had just screamed at tried to remove the stilts from under her feet. Javi moves to rush forward, she must have hurt herself in the fall.

But Dieter held him back, “Give it a moment, you’ll only upset her more.”

She did seem pretty upset, her face had darkened but her eyes were impassive she barely responded to Lucien as he soothingly comforted her. The sight of her blank look was tugging at his heart, he just wanted to cradle her face in his hands, wipe her tears and smooth away the hurt. He settled for doing the next best thing and gave a terse command to finish up for the day.

Javi noticed her painful grimace as Lucien helped her to stand, making a mental note to make sure she saw a doctor; he would pay any of the medical bills. For now, he helplessly watched, a strange caustic feeling blistering under his skin— it wasn’t anger, not quite. But he disliked the way his arm wrapped around her waist, or how her arm was seeking support on his shoulder as she stumbled farther away from him. Javi thought De Leon was being a bit pretentious.

Oh fuck, you’re the worst.

You loved cryptids. Halloween was your favourite time of the year; every year since you were fourteen you had dressed up as various cryptids. Your interest had spiralled from just Halloween costumes to owning a shelf full of books about cryptids, a wall covered in newspaper clippings of cryptid sightings and stories; your family and friends would gift you cryptid clothing and accessories on Christmas— your favourite being the bright blue Nessie ladle in your kitchen drawer and a Kraken tentacle ring which was always wrapped around your finger. You even owned several monster sex toys; you had your favourites there too— a silicone tentacles dildo with amazing bumps and suction cups along its length, and a neon green and purple vibrating monster cock with the most delicious ridges.

It had all started with a small birthmark just to the side of your calf muscles, which spread across your skin as you grew up forming the first sentence your soulmate would say to you. What cryptid are you trying to be, Mothman’s cousin?

You had imagined so many ways your soulmate would say that to you; maybe it would be a pretty girl striking up a conversation at the local cosplay event, or perhaps a cute guy flirting at a Halloween party, or someone sweet and sly who would playfully tease you about your outfit of choice.

Most people do not end up finding their soulmates, but you were so convinced you would find yours one day. Because your line was so detailed, while others had a variation of hi, hello, hey, good morning— something so mundane their soulmate could be anybody. There were even shows that helped people with commonplace soulmate tattoos find their life partner— the current contestant on The Bachelor’s Soulmate was a pilot whose tattoo read, “Hey, what can I get started for you today?”

People with tattoos of greetings could never be sure they ended up with their true soulmate you’d watched a TLC show about them. And now, more than ever, you wished you had one of those boring soulmate tattoos. Never in your life had you imagined the words from your tattoo would be shouted at you, followed by being called pathetic and then he’d called you fat— fucking huge. You burst into more tears at the thought, muffling your sobs against your fingers.

Lucien wiped your tears again, gently dabbing a tissue to your cheeks. You wished he wouldn’t hover, you just wanted to be left alone. You know he is trying to be kind— mostly out of guilt your mind whispered to you. Which wasn’t true… even if it was, it didn’t matter. He hadn’t always been kind, you had worked with him when he was still struggling with his drinking issue. He was mean and had almost cost you your job once. He was nicer now that he was sober, or at least more aware of the people around him. You were happy for him.

“You know he didn’t mean it that way…” He murmured.

It didn’t matter whether he meant it or not. You had decided you didn’t want him. Someone not being with their soulmates was unheard of, because why would anybody reject a person that was made, curated, for you by the universe. But the truth was Javi Gutiérrez did not want you— not really. He thought you were fat and pathetic.

Your heart still clenched every time you thought about his words. And even if he was mysteriously accepting about him being your soulmate, and instantly fell in love with you because you were perfect for him or he loved your super cool personality, you would always know, in the back of your mind, that he hadn’t wanted you. In the quietest, most intimate moments with him, a mean little voice would be the loudest and it would always remind you that you were just thrust upon him by the universe. But had the choice been his, it wouldn’t be you.

This was Hollywood, most of the time it didn’t matter how nice and sweet you were, men would always go for the prettiest, sexiest woman— then too nobody over a size 6 and very rarely somebody who was a size 8 but only if they liked curves. You had met Javi’s ex-girlfriend Gabriela who works for a different production company, she was not only tall and gorgeous but also very very sweet and sassy. She was perfect.

You were just some low-level production assistant, running errands, printing scripts, fetching coffees and meals, cleaning up the set and trailers, chauffeuring actors to and from the set. Often it was the assistant directors or the other team leaders passing forward instructions. Even when Javi had introduced himself to the crew, you had made yourself scarce because the sight of him had made you so flustered and tongue-tied— you just hadn’t wanted to make a fool of yourself.

He was far too beautiful— all sun-kissed skin and soft curls. Every time you delivered something to him, you would quickly scurry away before he even had the chance to thank you because of how nervous he made you. You didn’t think you would last if he looked at you with those puppy eyes and spoke to you with that accented voice. He was endlessly kind and polite with everyone on set. You would be an idiot to not want him.

So maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t your soulmate at all. That would make the most sense. You tried to think of the first thing you had ever said to him, your mind sadly pulling a blank. Perhaps, his soulmate tattoo read something you had never said. And there was someone else out there for you who was waiting to ask you what type of cryptid you were trying to be. Your heart lurched at the thought of him not being yours— the idea that he could be was so irresistible that it physically hurt to believe otherwise.

A cough disrupted the air, you looked up to see Javi standing by the entrance of the trailer giving you a shy, toothy smile. You instinctively smiled back at him, too distracted by how violently your heart was flutteringly— you felt queasy like you were hanging onto that single lock of hair curling over his forehead as it swung with the evening air. So, you didn’t notice the two men share a charged look and tense smile before Lucien softly patted your head and made his way out.

Javi had the warmest, twinkling brown eyes, sweet and innocent. You had dreamed about how that plush bottom lip would feel between yours, on your skin, on your pussy.

Stop it, you stupid slut.

He was probably here to scold you for being in front of the camera and taking the heroine’s place. But it was not your fault! She had begged you to do it, said it wasn’t that big of a deal since they didn’t need to see her face in the scene and they could voice over her lines post-production— it’s just monster noises and screeching anyway.

Initially, you hadn’t wanted to do it because you didn’t trust her intentions but she had it cleared with the producers as well. They said you would be just like a stand-in. Then you had seen the silly monster costume, it was so bad— but it had the Mothman eyes and antenna. And you couldn’t resist because of the soulmate tattoo. You had thought, what if this was how you found your soulmate?

“Hey, are you okay?” His teeth were so straight, smile so adorable— it made his eyes squint, one closing just slightly more than the other in a way that made your stomach contract. And that nose… the bold slope of it was downright salacious.

UGH, shut up, don’t be a whore. Have some self-respect. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want you. Fat and Pathetic. Fat and Pathetic.

“Yeah, I’m okay…” You furtively glanced around the trailer, hoping that not looking at him would make you feel less overwhelmed.

“That’s good, I think I’m your soulmate.” He stated in a calm voice followed by a warm, awkward chuckle. But his hands were trembling, and he rubbed them along his thighs.

“Um, no. You’re not.” You croaked, refusing to meet his eyes as you lied to him.

“No, let me show you.” He pulled off his shirt revealing broad, tanned shoulders. You wanted to lick the freckles that dusted over his skin there, kiss the ones that dotted his neck.

He lifted his hand straight up and showed you a string of letters that ran up his underarm. You couldn’t make sense of them at first, they looked like keyboard smash starting from his forearm; some of them were capitalised, some letters lowercase, a few of them had accents on them and some of them were even ligatures.

Then he started pronouncing them in a strange whimpering, squeaking voice. And you wanted to scream. Or laugh. Was he trying to imitate your crying? You knew you weren’t a pretty crier but he made you sound almost… endearing. Especially when he tentatively looked at you with those aggrieved eyes of a kicked puppy. He whispered the last of the words as the letters disappeared into his armpit— you’re the worst.

You tried not to visibly flinch. Were those really your first words to him? How horrible to carry those words on your body for your whole life. He looked so guilty and ashamed, lines formed between his brows and the creases in his forehead deepened in distress.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to say those awful words to you.” His gaze on you was steady and sincere, begging you to believe him.

You swallowed, feeling an anxious tightness in your chest. You surged through before you could change your mind.

“Sorry, but I don’t think you’re my soulmate.” You insisted, looking down at his knees, they were so close to yours. He was sitting in the seat facing you, and suddenly the trailer seemed much smaller. You could smell him— open oceans, sweet citrus, hints of something minty and herby lavender.

“Oh, what does your tattoo say? Can I see it?” The disappointment in his voice nestled just under your ribs, painfully digging into your heart.

“It says hello.” You lied.

“That’s great! I must’ve said hello to you.” He perked up at the possibility. Eyes radiant with joy again. He hadn’t said hello, but that wasn’t his fault. It was ironic but you had mastered the art of being invisible— despite your size.

“No, you didn’t… You said Hi.” At least, he would have if you hadn’t evaded him at all times, mooning over him from afar.

“Noooo… I must’ve said hello— I mean hi, hey, hello. So hard to remember, I said hello. I’m sure.” He argued. You tried not to cry.

You weren’t so insecure. Sure, being the weird chubby kid who liked cryptids wasn’t easy. But you had grown up— learned to love your body. Today just… wasn’t a good day. You felt raw, vulnerable and humiliated. You’d taken off the costume but couldn’t forget how unflattering it had made you feel, and that mean little giggle was still ringing in your ears. Your mind was also regurgitating his harsh words.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she insisted she wasn’t his soulmate.

Javi couldn’t take his eyes off her face. Well, he could, but then he would be looking at the way her t-shirt stretched over those lovely boobs, or the cinch of her waist before her form generously curved into the most delectable hips— he could almost picture the way his fingertips would disappear in her flesh if he gripped her. Shut up, this is so wildly inappropriate.

He balled his shirt on his lap to hide the hard-on he was sporting in his shorts, sitting in only his white, sleeveless undershirt. His heart was racing, and he could feel the heat climbing up the back of his neck. He had been so convinced she was his soulmate. He still felt like she was lying to him, but why? Did she not want him?

It would be understandable, not a lot of people wanted him. He was just a geeky film nerd who talked about movies until everyone around him was bored and exasperated. He wasn’t strong, or cool, or dashing. Sure, a lot of people flirted with him now but he wouldn’t delude himself into thinking they wanted anything more than his money. He was the kind of guy who took years to stand up to his cousin. At most, he was cute. But why would this goddess want him when she could have Lucien De Leon.

Not even Gabriela had wanted him and they had known each other since they were kids. They both had realised very quickly that while they cared for each other, their relationship had been based on loneliness and scarcity. He had liked her because she was the only one on the compound who had been genuinely nice to him— she was his only friend. And she had liked him because he was the only decent, non-violent man in the international criminal organisation.

They had long broken up when Gabriela had found her soulmate. He wished them all the happiness in the world, she deserved it. Because he would have never survived without her— not even in Hollywood. She had been the one dealing with the production companies for him. Fuck, and now he had to deal with one on his own.

Javi looked at the woman before him, she seemed so lovely and kind. He wanted her to be his soulmate. For years, he had been terrified his soulmate would be someone Lucas had kidnapped, hurt or harmed. He was always afraid he wouldn’t be able to save them— why else would someone call him the worst?

Well, it had finally happened, out of his own stupidity too. He hadn’t even known they were using one of the production assistants as a stand-in. The producers had conveniently left him out of the loop for a lot of things. Dieter had informed him how his lead actress was the daughter of the man who owned their production company; she’d joined the movie for a chance with Lucien. And had planned this whole fiasco as a horrible prank when she had lost his attention to this enticing woman in front of him. Javi briefly wondered if he should tell her that the lead actress was trying to bully her.

He watched her squirm in her seat, rearranging her legs so her knees pressed together and turned slightly away from his. He tried very hard not to think about the way her thighs flattened and spread on the seat under her, because then his mind would provide him with the lewd images of the same thighs framing his face, their weight on his shoulder, his teeth sinking into the soft inside— marking her, tasting her.

She folded her arms over her stomach, her hand comfortingly stroking her upper arm. Was she cold? Because Javi was feeling overheated. He subconsciously wiped his temple, finding a light coating of sweat there. He couldn’t see the soft swell of her belly anymore, which meant he really shouldn’t be thinking about pressing his fingers into her warm skin there and pinching, twisting the flesh to watch it mould around his unruly touch— her waist would roll and twist to escape him, she would probably softly gasp, her eyes wide and aggrieved.

She awkwardly cleared her throat, and it snapped his attention to her face. Her lips were pursed as she glanced around the trailer. He really hoped she hadn’t noticed him staring at her like a creep.

“That’s a nice T-shirt”—he looked down at her top, relieved that it was indeed a T-shirt—“Loveland Frogman? It’s almost Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?” There, he was just looking at her top and totally not having any inappropriate thoughts about her body. But he loved the way ‘Loveland’ stretched over those tits. Fuck.

The T-shirt fit snugly over her sweetly rounded shoulders. Javi felt his teeth itch with the desire to bite down on them. She watched him, confused and bewildered at the abrupt change in topic, before glancing down at her T-shirt as if she hadn’t realised what she was wearing.

“Oh, um, Loveland is a place. It’s in Ohio, Frogman is their local cryptid. But turned out it was just a giant three-foot-something iguana. I got the shirt when I watched a musical about it. There’s also a found footage horror movie about it with this absolutely bonkers ending— Sorry, I’m rambling— anyways, are you going to fire me?”

“What? No. No. Of course not.” She had the most charming twinkle in her eyes. He would set fire to the set before firing her.

“Today was entirely my fault”—He felt shame coat his throat, and his next words came subdued and choked—“I’m a shit director—”

“No, you’re not. You are an amazing director. You have a very clear vision for the film, and you’re able to communicate and explain that vision. You won’t believe how many directors just can’t explain what they want. You give the actors enough creative license to explore their characters instead of demanding they do as you tell them to. You respect the crew and everyone’s time, so many directors just treat us like we’re servants to be taken for granted. You’re passionate about your work. You’re a film lover, and you enjoy watching other people’s work. I love that you are still exploring your own visual and story-telling style. I mean, it is easy to tell where you get your inspirations but you still make it so intrinsically yours—”

Her lips were sweet and warm. Javi hadn’t been able to hold himself back and swooped over to kiss her. She was tense for a moment before her lips softened and melted against his. He kissed her slowly at first, selfishly, it wasn’t because he wanted to put her at ease or make her comfortable. He was in disbelief that he was kissing her or that she was letting him in the first place.

She nibbled on his lower lip, and Javi felt himself whimper into her mouth. He cradled her face, pushing closer to her as he licked the corner seam where her lips connected. He was addicted to the divot of her cupid’s bow, the swoop of her lower lip, and the maddening way she was tracing the shape of his lips.

“You don’t want this.” She whispered against his lips. And Javi simply angled her face again before slotting his lips over hers once more. She moaned against him, and he heard a soft, answering groan rise from his chest as he kissed deeper into her, exploring the curve of her palate, the gummy lining of her mouth, and the fascinating way the top of her tongue was different in texture to the side of it. He couldn’t remember wanting anything more.

He was unwilling to part with her even with their mutual need for air, Javi continued kissing her, worshipping just her lips, showering them with tender pecks and kisses. He felt her warm breath fan across his cheek, and the wild beating of her pulse under his hand. He had never been one for overly sweet things, but he could taste something sugary on her— maybe she’d had some chocolate, or honey, or maybe a candy. Whatever it was, he couldn’t get enough of it, he was hankering for more.

His lips slipped from hers as they both panted for breath, pressing affectionate kisses to the side of her lips, her cheek, her jaw and another just under it. He noticed her take a deep shuddering breath, eyes still closed as he touched his forehead to hers, noses grazing each other. She smelled of soap, freshly laundered clothes, and something uniquely her.

Her eyes fluttered open, and he felt his breath hitch; they were a world unto themselves. He memorised the pattern of her irises, the variation in their colour; he admired the fuzzy line of her pupils, the curve of her eye line and the length of her lashes. She looked so adorably befuddled, her eyes wet and glazed over— he could almost see himself reflected in them. Javi caressed the apple of her cheek with his thumb.

“We should take you to the doctor’s…”

“Huh?” Javi chuckled at her confused state.

“For your leg, I noticed you hurt yourself when you fell.” He reminded her.

“Oh, no, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt that much, and I took a shower so I ran some warm water over it and it feels better already.” She was gripping onto the fabric of her skirt; she still looked a little uncertain, as if searching for something in his eyes. He gave a wide beam, but her smile was shy and tentative. Wait.

“You showered in Lucien’s trailer?” He didn’t mean for it to, but the question came out a bit accusing. It wasn’t his business where she showered. Except that he had just kissed her, and he wanted to do more. Did she want more as well?

“Well, yeah, he offered. And there isn’t a shower in the employee tent so I took him up on the offer. The armour made me so sweaty and sticky— wait… Why did you ask it like that?”

“No reason.” Except for the fact that she was exactly the type of pretty thing Lucien would like to sink his claws into— his other parts too for that matter. He felt an uncharacteristic sting spread through the walls of his heart like his own blood was astringent. He was jealous.

“Are you and him…”

“No, God, no. We’re not—”

“So, do you want to go on a date with me?”

She stared at him for several long moments, looking like a deer caught in headlights and her mouth agape. Silence stretched between them— an awkward, flustered kind. Her eyes quivered, as if she might cry. And Javi wanted to stuff the words back into his mouth. He was so stupid.

She had kissed him back, but otherwise, she had not touched him at all. He was the director of the movie, her boss. She probably felt like she had to accept his advances. He leaned as far away from her as possible, too disgusted with himself to notice the way her face fell in disappointment and tears brimmed her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, you don’t need to feel—”

“Why even kiss me if you’re not attracted to me? Was it some kind of a prank?” Her voice was pained, she sniffled. His heart broke at the way she was looking at him— like he had broken her heart.

“I am attracted to you… that’s why I’m asking you out.”

“I’m not your soulmate. You called me fat and pathetic!” She raised her voice in indignation.

“I did not!” Javi hotly defended himself. They were both riled up now. He would never.

“Yes, you did. You called me fucking huge.” Her words knocked the wind out of his sails. She scowled at him with angry, resentful eyes. He thought back to his outburst on set, grimacing as he recollected his words.

“I meant that you were almost eight feet tall. And the armour was purposely made too big and unflattering, it just wasn’t right for a monster that represents corporate greed.”

“Well, you still called me pathetic—”

“I thought you were the lead actress and those were some of the most lacklustre, pitiful monster noises in the history of cinema—”

“It wasn’t my fault they said they would voice over it and I should be quieter.”

They both took several large breaths before Javi slipped down his seat and knelt at her feet, gently prying her skirt from her fists and taking her hands in his.

“I’m sorry. I was an idiot.” He watched the tension fall from her shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze to her hands. She huffed a small, conceding little laugh.

“It’s okay.”

“Will you at least let me take a look at your leg?” He inquired.

Javi felt relieved to see a smile grace her features again, the light in her eyes made him feel warm. And he gingerly clasped her ankle in his hand as soon as she had nodded his permission.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He said as he pressed and massaged around her ankles first and then her feet, twisting it one way and then another— noticing the wince on her face even when she didn’t verbalise her pain. Finally, he moved up her leg, pressing to check for any tenderness or pain. He gently eased her socks down her calf to check for any swelling or bruises.

And right there, wrapping around her calf, was her soulmate tattoo. His fingers twitched over the words before he slowly traced them, gently twisting her leg to catch the words as they rolled around the back— not that he needed to see what they said.

What cryptid are you trying to be, Mothman’s cousin?

Javi gasped as the realisation settled in. He snapped his head up to look at her. And she nodded, confirming what he hadn’t dared ask. His vision was blurry with tears as joy and elation coursed through his body, he felt a laugh bubble up his chest. Excitement zinged across his nerves. His soulmate!

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” He demanded, no real rancour or admonishment in his voice as he pulled his soulmate into a crushing hug. He marvelled at the press of her body against his; his hands stroked along the contours of her body, pressing her closer to him. She was his soulmate.

“I thought you didn’t want me…” She mumbled so softly that he barely heard her.

Javi relinquished his hold on her to grasp her face again, cradling her jaw and wiping her stray tears, “I would always want you. I wanted you even when you were a giant cryptid in stupid bronze armour and feather wings.”

“No, you didn’t, silly…” She giggled as she teasingly rolled her eyes at him. Javi reverently traced the tattoo on her leg again.

“I’m sorry…” He mumbled, giving her a dimpled, mischievous smile before guiding the sole of her foot to press against the hardened cock he had been trying to hide, “I’ve been trying to cover this up as soon as I’d come in.”

She adoringly tucked a few of his curls behind his ears, her fingers brushing over his stubble. She pinched his chin in her palm, pulling his jaw so he looked up at her. Javi felt his heart race, heat pooling in his belly, and more blood rushed lower to his cock where the heel of her foot was dizzyingly stroking over it. She insistently pressed her toes to his balls. He gulped despite his dry mouth.

Her thumb caressed and wiped at his lower lip, testing the softness of it before she arched a brow in challenge. Her eyes twinkled with mischief and lust.

“Kiss me to make up for it?” Javi went enthusiastically into the arms of his lover. What followed the desperate kisses and the fervent touches was an intimate introduction of bodies and a reacquaintance of severed souls.

And if Lucien accidentally caught a glimpse of their sweet production assistant with her T-shirt stretching under her arms and bunched into her mouth to expose her swaying tits, a foot propped up on his vanity, head lolling back and watching her pretty pussy obediently take the director’s cock in the mirror then… no, he didn’t.

He knew better than to mess with the PAs on set if he wanted to enjoy the simple joys of life like a clean trailer, a hot coffee just the way he liked it and warm meals on time. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way.

#HAPPY FUCKING FEBRUARY #Y'ALL BETTER GET READY TO BE LURVED UP #IRL AND FICTIONALLY

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