#spring awakening fic

[sparrowsfallingfromthesky]

I feel weird about posting pictures from a regional theatre production for multiple reasons but I just need you to understand that this is what has ruined my life.

thank fucking god I found a split second shot of this moment in their promo video because I cannot stop fucking thinking about it

[namethestars]

New fic!

Summary: Melchior and Wendla, through the years, from newborn to fourteen.

A series of short vignettes, jumping through their lives two years at a time and focused on their friendship (+relationship), set in the same modern AU 'verse as "mama who bore me (made me so bad)".

[kevinday-apologist]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63212728

Posting this then turning my phone off and going to bed please enjoy 🫶 or don’t idc

[weirdloverwilde]

if you're someone who followed me because of my fanfiction (which is no one), be pleased by the fact i still have 13 wips despite not having actively written fanfic in 3+ years

[mirror-blue-shite]

where the sins lie (a Spring Awakening fix-it fic)

Out Now: Chapter One - All Silent (T, 4k, 1/3)

Tags: Eventual Melchior Gabor/Moritz Stiefel, Previous Wendla Bergmann/Melchior Gabor, The Masked Man, Major Character Undeath, Loosely Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice

Warnings: Blood and Gore, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Ideation, Self Harm, References to Underage Sex

A mysterious, masked man offers Melchior the chance to save Moritz and Wendla from an eternity in the Underworld. The price? His life for theirs. With just three hours to journey into the afterlife and find his friends, will he be able to save them and redeem himself? Or will he be left to forever wander the fields of Asphodel, a living creature in the world of the dead?

“Who... or what are you?” The Masked Man simply rolled his eyes. “This is the third time you’ve asked me that, you know?” He paused, considering. “Here’s what I will tell you: I deal in second chances. Which is why I’m here tonight. I’m offering you a chance to right your wrongs.” “Earlier, you said something about a price,” began Melchior, ever incredulous. “Any compensation I could offer you would be underwhelming, to say the least.” “If you intend to repay me through physical assets or wealth, you’ll find yourself out of luck.” The Masked Man looked disgusted at the thought. “The only thing that can be traded for your friends' lives,” he exhaled, resignation in his sigh, “is another life.” “Everything you are; everything you once were… That is the only thing I can take from you. It is well within your means, Melchior Gabor."

[AO3 LINK]

Part I: All Silent

Upon a fresh grave knelt a boy. Not a man, but a boy. Though, for many years past, he had thought himself to be all grown up and to know all the world’s secrets. But not anymore. He knew nothing, understood nothing, and only now could he see that. There was blood on his hands, all because of the things he had claimed to know, and the things he never realised he did not. He was a murderer. And now, he was left with nothing. 

A blue wind haunted the stiff cemetery air. It rustled the leaves of surrounding trees, stooping to run melancholy ribbons through the cracks of older headstones. Rivers of breeze rippled endless through the black night. 

The boy let the wind guide his cold hand towards the stone’s engravings. Numb, he ran his fingers across the grooves, as if the letters might shift like sand beneath them. But they stayed the same.

Here Rests in God

Wendla Bergmann

Died of Anaemia

May 5, 1876 - January 27, 1892

Blessed are the pure in heart.

Her soul was with God now, if he even existed. How could he, in a world so cruel? The boy had loved her, and yet he’d sent her to her death.

Pure in heart, he thought, almost smiling. That was Wendla Bergmann. In his infinite selfishness, he’d robbed her of her innocence, and the world of her goodness. 

Sure, the pleasure they’d shared had been wanted by both; better yet, it was heaven. But he’d understood the risks far better than she had. It was his duty to protect her, in that hayloft where they’d both been so vulnerable, and he’d failed completely. He’d left her with child; worse, he’d left her as an unmarried girl with child. He’d prayed they could be reunited, prayed they could raise their child far from the shame and taboo of the world they’d been born into. But that was nothing more than a futile daydream. Anaemia may have delivered the final blow, but deep down, the boy knew that he had killed Wendla Bergmann. 

A sharp gust of wind nudged the boy forward. Obligingly, he bent his back and lowered his head. A whole-body shudder carried through him; primal, involuntary sobs emerged from deep within. He rested his head against the cold, hard stone, his body tender with uncontrollable shivers. He tried to imagine that it was Wendla he was touching, but that was impossible. Nothing could emulate her ever-glowing warmth, or her vivacious curiosity. And it was his fault he couldn’ttouch her. All that remained of Wendla was a headstone, and all he knew was ruin. 

Wendla was not the only innocent he’d helped to destroy. Only a few metres away lay the headstone of one Moritz Stiefel, the boy’s best friend. Or, more accurately, Moritz had been his best friend. In the wake of his academic failures, left with no escape from this judgemental world, he had taken his own life. The boy knew he couldn’t hold himself fully responsible for this death, but Moritz hadn’t anyone to turn to. If he’d have just been there when his mother had received Moritz’s letter, or even been in the woods where Moritz had died... 

But he’d been too busy in that hayloft destroying Wendla’s future to notice that his friend was about to destroy himself. Typical.

All the boy did was destroy. He coveted innocence, like that of Wendla or Moritz. He’d set them alight with forbidden knowledge, just to watch them burn. He’d ruined everything; forfeited his place at school, disappointed his parents, lost his beloved friends. 

The only thing left for him to destroy was himself. 

Absently, his hand fiddled in his trouser pocket. Eventually, it collided with something sleek and icy cold. A straight razor. 

A weapon was a weapon. It wouldn’t matter what he used, providing that it was quick and effective. The boy pulled the razor from his pocket, his shakiness melting away into angered resolve. His eyes darkened something hellish as he freed the whetted blade from its wood handle.

“Moritz, you had the right idea. They'll scatter a little earth, and thank their God…” His voice broke and shuddered against its own will, like waves breaking over a storm-swept sea. His vision swam as he stood from the grave, his head feeling as if it was stuffed with cotton. For a second, he almost fell over, but he about managed to keep his balance. He was beyond exhausted. He hadn’t eaten or slept since he’d fled the reformatory. 

He raised the blade towards his neck with a steady hand, though his eyes, screwed tightly shut, betrayed a hint of fear. It singed his tender skin, drawing droplets of warm blood from the nick. 

“Melchior Gabor.” A voice, from off. 

That was the boy’s name. He’d almost forgotten it, something so unimportant that it had been buried under everything else. He didn’t know this voice, but clearly it knew him. 

“You can hardly stand up, you’re so hungry. Do you think you’re fit to decide?” The voice was deep and calm, almost parental in tone.

Melchior startled at the sudden noise, turning towards it. He was almost certain he’d been alone. 

A man, imposingly tall, peered down at him curiously. There was little tension held in that long frame; his serene sense of ease was ill-fitting for the current situation. He wore an overcoat of midnight black, matched to an equally inky top hat; he practically melted into the pitch-dark night. The strangest thing about the man, however, was the domino mask he wore, somehow yet darker than the rest of his ensemble. His few patches of bare skin glared milky white beneath the sable. If it wasn’t for the moonlight silhouetting him, he might’ve just looked like a pale, floating mouth, accompanied by two hands. 

“How do you know my name?!” Melchior demanded, extending his razor out before him. “And what do you mean ‘decide’? Decide what?” He narrowed his eyes, regarding the man warily. 

“Decide to leave this Earth, of course,” the Masked Man remarked, as if it were just some commonplace choice, like what to have for tea. 

“And as for how I know your name…” He paused, considering, then answered: “In my line of work, it’s important to know a little about a lot of people. So that you can find them when they need you.”

Melchior disliked the man’s blasé attitude. He drew himself to full height, taking a tense few steps towards the man. His youth ensured that this came off as entirely unthreatening. 

“Who are you?”

The Masked Man didn’t flinch. He looked Melchior right in the eye, his gaze almost vacant. “You’ll see in time. But right now, you are suffering an attack of hopelessness, brought on by these… circumstances.” The man’s voice seemed to soften slightly, something akin to understanding. “With a warm dinner inside you, you’ll come to your senses.”

“You don’t know me.” Melchior’s voice grew increasingly strained as he spoke. Could this man know what he’d done? Surely not, he thought, yet something in the Masked Man’s voice seemed to indicate he did. “A warm dinner won’t help after what I’ve done…”

“Well, that depends on the cook…” The parental note in his voice returned. “I’ll make you a proposition, Melchior Gabor: Trust me, and I will help you out of this. Call it a second chance. Come with me and see all that the world has to offer.”

The man’s intentions were surely kind, but Melchior knew he wasn’t worth saving, not now.

“Even God, dead as he is, knows I don’t deserve a second chance,” countered Melchior, his voice raw as an open wound. 

He tightened his grip around the razor’s handle, glaring pointedly at the Masked Man. Blood from the nick on his neck pooled onto his collar, a scarlet red blot on the mottled white. “This world is better off without me. Give me one good reason to stay, or I will leave this cemetery now.”

The Masked Man’s eyes widened nearly imperceptibly. “I need you to trust me, Melchior–” 

“I don’t even know who you are!” Melchior cried, thrusting forward his razor. “How can I trust someone I don’t know?”

“I am not the focus of this discussion, Melchior Gabor. You must move forward from this.” There was a dark emphasis on ‘must’, a jagged stone in the otherwise clement sea of his tone. The Masked Man took a measured step towards Melchior. He reached out his arm, his paper-white palm open towards the sky. “Now, give me that razor.”

Melchior sneered. He flinched back, defiant, turning on his heels towards the graveyard’s wrought iron gate. However, he was stopped when a strong, slender hand grasped his shoulder. The touch was frigid, the grip painfully tight. 

“There is, I suppose,” the Masked Man began, close to concerned, “a different sort of second chance that I can offer you tonight…”

Forcefully, Melchior shrugged the hand off his shoulder. He turned towards the man, glaring at him incredulously. “What is it that you don’t understand? I don’t want a ‘second chance’!”

“It would not be for you, Melchior Gabor.” The Masked Man shifted his gaze, looking instead to the fresh headstone behind Melchior. He wore the grimace of a man who was knowingly doing something he shouldn’t. “It would be for them.”

“Excuse me?”

“What if I told you that I could help you return your friends to life, for a price?” 

There was no sign that the man was lying or making fun; his voice and expression remained flat as ever. Yet, what he was saying was absurd. Melchior knew that communing with the dead was impossible. No matter how much society took comfort in their constructs of life after death, that didn’t change the fact that such a thing did not exist. 

“Then I would tell you that you were a madman.” He gave the man a belligerent stare, hand tightening around his razor’s handle. 

Scowling, the Masked Man tilted his head as he took in Melchior’s comment. “Despite what you may believe, you do not know everything there is to know about this world.” 

“I know enough to understand that you must be lying,” Melchior jeered, a mirthless smile plastered on his face.

This disrespect was the man’s final straw. His eyes narrowed, peering daggers down at Melchior’s comparably smaller frame. Swift as lightning, his casual demeanour melted away into white-hot anger.

With sudden precision, he darted towards Melchior, contorting his spindly limbs so that he was level with the boy. A cold, pale hand clenched around Melchior’s collar, the sheer strength enough to lift him off the ground. That bony hand grazed his skin. It was cold to the touch, so much so that it hurt. They were face to face now, mere inches from each other. His irises, dark as his mask, sent waves of fear down into the pit of Melchior’s stomach.

“Do not mock me, boy,” the Masked Man began, his voice every bit as frigid as his touch, “I am trying to do you a favour. I could just as easily not have come here tonight.”

Melchior’s breath hitched, his eyes widening in terror. The wind hurried and howled. Its baying felled all other sounds of the cemetery to a reverent silence. It gathered into a screeching whirlwind about the pair, enacting as strong a hold on Melchior as the man’s unnatural grasp.

Melchior’s surroundings were rapidly distorting, bowing to the Masked Man’s will. What colour there was in the cemetery melted away into monochrome nothingness. An all-encompassing cloak of darkness flowed onto each headstone and tree, voiding its shade into either darkest black or stark-white. Inky leaves with pale veins flitted here and there, dragged about by the snarling wind. 

The monochrome shroud that covered the area seemed to diffuse outwards from the Masked Man. His dark cloak billowed against the now white sky, a tear in the fabric of the universe. The wind heeded his stern command; he had long since relinquished his grasp on Melchior, and yet the boy was still trapped right where he was.

Melchior had known there was something off about the man, but this? This was far beyond anything that he’d had thought possible. Instinctively, he screwed his eyes shut, only opening them when he felt the wind’s bitter grip loosen. Having howled itself hoarse, it choked back into a low whistle. Likewise, the dingy greens and mud browns of the cemetery faded back in. 

Across from him stood the Masked Man, checking the time on a pocket-watch. He looked wholly unburdened, even though just a few seconds ago, he’d been holding Melchior by the throat. The boy scrambled about, desperately trying to regain his bearings. The Masked Man had wiped the sneer right off his face, that was for certain.

“What on Earth was that?!” he shouted, his voice wavering with shock and fear. 

The Masked Man, for his part, looked like he’d been entirely unaffected by the whirlwind, particularly when placed next to the now dishevelled Melchior. He dusted imaginary dirt from his cloak, straightening out each of his shirt-cuffs. After about half a minute of nonchalant rejigging, he finally acknowledged Melchior. “I was employing tactics that I assumed would be… more persuasive.” 

He looked down at the boy, raising an eyebrow. “Do you believe me now?”

“Perhaps…” Melchior muttered, glancing sheepishly down at the ground. He hadn’t entertained the idea of the supernatural since he was young, and even then, it was mostly relegated to the Christian faith his family held. This was hard to swallow, to say the least. 

“Who... or what are you?” 

The Masked Man simply rolled his eyes. “This is the third time you’ve asked me that, you know?” He paused for a second, considering something. “Here’s what I will tell you: I deal in second chances. Which is why I’m here tonight. I’m offering you a chance to right your wrongs.”

“Earlier, you said something about a price,” began Melchior, ever incredulous. “Any compensation I could offer you would be underwhelming, to say the least.”

“If you intend to repay me through physical assets or wealth, you’ll find yourself out of luck.” The Masked Man looked disgusted at the thought. “The only thing that can be traded for lives,” he exhaled, resignation in his sigh, “is another life.”  

“Everything you are; everything you once were… That is the only thing I can take from you. It is well within your means, Melchior Gabor.”

“I don’t… This…?” Melchior muttered weakly, his mind racing. But he took a deep breath in and shook away any loose fears. To stay afloat, he had to be analytical about this.

“A few minutes ago, you were hellbent on wrenching this razor from my hands. Now, you're actively persuading me to destroy myself? What are your intentions?”

“If you truly plan to die tonight, then I can’t stop you. I cannot force your hand.” A pang of sadness pierced the man’s level tone. He bowed his head in what might even have been shame. If only for a second, he seemed very small and very fallible. “But perhaps it will have been worth it if you can save the lives of two innocent people.” 

Melchior stilled for a second, pondering the idea. He’d had every intention of never leaving this cemetery, that much was true. Without Moritz and Wendla, he was nothing. He had contributed to each of their deaths, and in turn, he’d been left behind with no one. The chance to amend his past errors, to save them; he would take it in a heartbeat. 

Still, Melchior was hesitant. He fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt, staring intently at the ground in thought. Somehow, raising people from the dead seemed unnatural. He didn’t want to enter into anything that could have unintended consequences. 

“If I did take you up on this offer, and that is an if,” Melchior began, “then how would I go about doing something like this?” 

The corners of the Masked Man’s mouth upturned, revealing a wry smile. Too wry, in fact; its knowing humour made even more unsettling by the coldness of his eyes. 

“So, you’re considering it, eh? That’s the spirit.” He reached out to clap Melchior on the back, but the boy squirmed away before he could. 

An awkward silence ensued, broken only by the Masked Man’s coughs as he resumed his unfeeling demeanour. “You needn’t worry about the journey; you’ll know when you’ve arrived. It’s reaching your friends that’ll be the hard part.”

Melchior gave the Masked Man a curious look. “What do you mean? Where are they?” 

With a careful hand, Melchior finally tucked his razor’s glinting blade into its handle. He still palmed it securely, though, just in case.

The man’s expression darkened into a frown that could almost be called concerned. Almost.

Already, Melchior could infer that something was amiss.

“I cannot tell you that your friends rest peacefully; that would be a lie.” The Masked Man gazed absently towards the treeline. “Their souls fester where the sins lie, in the fields of Asphodel. There, they turn and writhe in the dark, eternally reliving their final moments.” He refused to meet Melchior’s eye, instead tilting his head towards the heavens, like a haughty soothsayer delivering a prophecy. 

This fact twisted like a dull knife in Melchior’s stomach, churning his insides with white-hot pain. Panic enveloped him, his mind swimming with torturous possibilities. His breathing quickened, mouth hanging just slightly agape. That name, Asphodel… It rang a bell; it was part of the Grecian Underworld, if he remembered his Classics lessons correctly. But he could barely bring himself to recall, not with his thoughts racing like this. 

“God, why? They’ve done nothing wrong!” If anyone deserved to be punished, it was himself, Melchior was sure of that.

“You misunderstand me. The fields are not for those who have done wrong, but rather for those who have done nothing much at all.” The Masked Man shot a piercing glare towards Melchior. “Trust me, there are far worse tortures that can be employed against a spirit.”

Petrified, Melchior stood rooted to the spot. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. This man, whoever, whatever he was... It was inhuman, surely, to believe that reliving your death for all eternity was some sort of merciful alternative to… what, exactly? 

If Purgatory is so cruel, Melchior thought, I dread to think what would await me in Hell…

Quickly realizing that he was going to receive no discernible response, the Masked Man continued. “You must cut them free of their pain and guide them towards the light of day. It will all become clear once you reach the fields.” He peered down at Melchior; a weighty, expectant stare that made the boy feel as if he were being assessed.

“It seems you have nothing to lose. Would you rather die having tried to right your wrongs, or squander your only chance and die all the same?” A measured finality rang in his voice. This was the culmination of all his earlier convincing, cajoling, and consoling. It had all led up to this.

Melchior lifted his head from where it had been hanging. He spared a thoughtful glance to Wendla’s grave, and then turned to see Moritz’s in the distance. He couldn’t save them the first time around. Really, it had been his fault that they were gone at all. His life for theirs was more than a fair trade-off. They were so much better than him in every way, so kind and trusting where he had been cynical and self-assured. He owed this to them. If this was the only way to save them, so be it.

“I’ll do it,” Melchior replied, conviction seeping into his voice. “My life, in return for those of Moritz Stiefel and Wendla Bergmann. It’s a deal.” 

Melchior outstretched a hand towards the Masked Man, but he simply tutted in response. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. This is no little Faustian bargain… My pacts are bound by something more powerful than handshakes and contracts.”

Melchior wanted to interject that this was exactly a Faustian bargain, but it didn’t seem like the appropriate time. Or perhaps it wasn’t a Faustian bargain. He was venturing to the Greek afterlife, after all, no Christianity involved. Though, at this stage, it didn’t matter a whit to him if he was making a deal with Mephistopheles, anyway.

The Masked Man rubbed his hands together, a smile once again ghosting his mouth. “Well, I won’t wish you luck. Tyche’s a wilful one, and she does no favours to those who meddle with fate.” As he closed his sentence, fog began to creep through the wrought iron fenceposts of the cemetery, so thick it obscured all that stood behind it.

“If you succeed, I will meet you here, at the site of Wendla Bergmann’s grave. It is then that I shall take payment.”

“And if I don’t succeed?” Melchior winced.

“Well, you didn’t seem to want your life before.” The Masked Man gave Melchior a lackadaisical shrug. “I assume you’ll be more than happy to spend eternity wandering the fields…” 

Melchior pondered this in tense silence. He’d been so happy to die before; he would still die for Moritz and Wendla. And yet, the hope of having them back by his side, if even for a little bit, made the macabre thought much less appealing. 

The Masked Man turned in what was presumably the direction of the cemetery gates, though the fog was now so thick that Melchior couldn’t tell. 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. You have three hours from the moment you reach the Fields.” With this, he wandered into the fog. His extensive, spindly strides ensured that it wasn’t long until he was almost completely enveloped. 

Then, a deep call rang out from within the dank mist. “Oh! And keep the razor! You might find you’ll need it.”

The Masked Man, now but a pinprick in the distant mist, lifted his pale hand and snapped his fingers. Immediately, the dark and heavy fog seemed to flood Melchior’s mind, piercing the veil between mental and physical. 

Melchior’s surroundings melted away, and he was fast delivered into the arms of sleep. 

[ladyvitality]

i got "you're not THAT old, BUT--"

"--you've definitely experienced some shit. good on you for making it this far, this fandom is scary as hell at times and some of the content would make most people run for the hills. you might have made some art or some tumblr posts, or written some fanfic that got some traction, or just happened to fall in at the right time, but thank you for being here and contributing nonetheless!"

they will never understand what the fandom was in 2021... jatt doyle, pls come back <3

howdy hello hey!

https://uquiz.com/rDhMIe

i made a uquiz to see how much of the spring awakening fanon lore people here on tumblr know! take it if you’d like, and reblog with your results!

[cycat-carisi]

Spent

Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!reader

Summary: IDK...shameless smut? Basically, reader wakes up from doing the do and she's ready to pounce on Steve again.

Tags/warnings: Smut! 18+ ONLY. NO MINORS. Established relationship, p in v, slight breeding kink if you squint I guess.

Words: 1127

A/N: *runs and hides*

Fic below the cut or on AO3

Consciousness pushes through heavy sleep as you slowly rouse awake.

"Have a good nap, baby?" a voice jokes softly. "You conked out for a few minutes there." Propped on an elbow at your side, Steve peers down lovingly at you through disheveled chestnut locks.

The room is dark, save for the moonlight streaming through the window of your shared home. You stir again. There is a stickiness between your legs that brings you back to reality, reminding you of what took place not even a half hour before. As your thighs part, you feel more seep out from your core, sending an immediate rush of heat scorching through your veins.

Steve loves when he wears you out. He loves to watch your lashes flutter shut, unable to stay awake after a passionate round of lovemaking. He adores how peaceful you appear when you curl into his side, feeling safe and loved enough to fall asleep in his arms.

But Steve also loves nights like this where you awaken even hungrier for him than before.

Whether it is the memory of him pinning you to the sheets or the fact that the evidence of your lovemaking still fills you, that brings upon your reinvigorated passion, Steve has no idea. But one thing he is certain of is that your desire reignites his within, too.

Eyes darkening with a smile playing upon your lips, you waste no time shaking off the jittery feeling that comes from short naps and quickly capture Steve’s lips with your own. The kiss is hot and needy, all tongues and teeth. You push Steve's shoulders into the mattress and straddle his hips.

The sensation of him springing to life between your thighs makes you moan, and the mixture of his previous release and your rejuvenated arousal makes him slick against your folds.

Except, you aren't done with his mouth just yet. Your lips burn hot against his while your fingers tangle in his already messy tresses. The sensation pulls a low moan from his throat while his hands sear heat against your waist. Steve then glides them higher to cover your breasts, squeezing and kneading, thumbs circling your nipples. The sensation tingles, sending goosebumps scattering over your naked body, heat pooling low in your belly.

You exhale deeply as he continues his ministrations, your combined breaths morphing into pants. Fueled by lust, you begin grinding your hips down against Steve, earning you yet another needy moan.

It's all too much.

Hastily, you reach between you, lifting your hips just enough to take a firm grip on him. His own hips jerk in response, and he kisses you that much deeper.

"Need you, baby," he gasps against your lips.

"Then, I'm yours," you grin, aligning him with your entrance.

You steady yourself with a hand on his pecs as you slowly sink down. You bite your lip at the stretch, eyes screwing shut. A warm hand sweeps to caress your back, a small gesture of comfort amidst the fervent passion of the moment.

Greedily, you take every inch, fully seating yourself against his pelvic bone. You watch as Steve glances down to where you're connected and groans loudly. "You take me so– " but you cut him off by clenching your walls around him.

His darkened eyes fly to yours, amazed by your boldness. "I know," you mouth cheekily. But this time it's Steve's turn to interrupt. His wide palms grip the flesh of your bum, and he lifts your hips. You sense the exquisite slide of his length within your heat, and your eyes widen, fearful that he's going to pull you all the way off him.

However, Steve is just as much a tease. With hazel eyes locked onto yours, his grip on you tightens, halting his movements once he barely remains inside you. His legs then shift, and you release a desperate gasp, completely aware of what's coming.

"Yes," you beg through unsteady breaths, gaze still focused on his.

And that's when Steve's hips surge upwards. The move knocks the breath from your lungs. He enjoys the way your eyes flutter shut in complete bliss.

"Yes! Right there!" you cry out again and again as Steve sets a steady pace, rutting up into you. Each time he hits the one spot that makes you see stars.

The white mess from earlier stains his length as he fucks it back inside you, and you swear the sight of it causes Steve to shove his hips just that much deeper when they slam back up into yours.

"I'm so close," you whine into Steve's ear, that familiar coil winding tighter in your belly.

"Me too, baby," he reciprocates, "just hang on a little longer for me."

For him, you would do anything. Desperately you cling to the edge as he continues to make love to you. Your lips find the underside of Steve’s jaw, mouthing desperate kisses along his freckle-dusted neck, trying to edge him towards a shared release. The move causes his chest to heave beneath you as his hips pick up their pace. Now every movement sends him knocking against your spongy spot at a punishing rate.

Suddenly the coil snaps. You cry out his name, slipping over the edge as you spasm around him.

Steve’s response is immediate, driving his hips impossibly deeper inside you. Your body keeps him locked in place as he spills into your heat for the second time this evening. Swiftly, he wraps his arms around you, pulling your body flush against his as subtle involuntary kicks of his hips allow him to ride out the remainder of his high.

Finally, Steve stills. His hands smooth down your back, and he places soft kisses into your neck. His heart pounds against your chest, uniting the two of you in yet another intimate way. Steve strokes your damp hair behind your ear as you push yourself up on shaky arms. A dopey, blissful smile meets your gaze as you peer down at him. You duck back down to press your lips tenderly to his, soft, contended sighs filling the space between you. “Love you, babe,” you whisper against his lips.

“Love you, too,” Steve murmurs in return, voice laden with fatigue.

You smirk, raising yourself up on outstretched arms once again. “Oh no, did I tire you out this time?”

Through heavy eyelids, Steve can’t help but grin at your quip. “I guess we’re even, sweetheart,” he chuckles warmly before rolling the two of you on your side and tucking himself into your loving arms.

Quietly, you run your fingers through his dark hair, and it’s not long before Steve’s breathing evens out. Completely spent, he drifts off to sleep while you place delicate kisses against his forehead.

Fin.

Feedback is loved ♥

[anyamaris]

Title: Call Me Monster

Pairing: Monster!Jungkook x Medical Examiner Assistant!F!reader

Summary: A secret experiment hidden within a morgue is uncovered by someone who should never have stumbled upon it. What she awakens will change her life forever.

Word Count: 3569

Trope: Supernatural AU/Smut-Horror

Rating-M for Mature. Very mature.

Warnings: Graphic language, graphic violence (not towards reader), blood, gore, body mutilation, body horror, death/murder, choking(nonsexual), Jungkook is not a corpse at any point (not explained in the fic but he's never been dead), Jungkook has stitches and sutures, unprotected sex, MALE POV, minors DNI 18+ PLEASE BEWARE ALL THESE WARNINGS. It is labeled HORROR.

A/N: This is for @lapydiaries annual spring event by @sanjoongie Sad Boys Club! I really enjoyed doing this male POV and my song for this is Monster by Exo. I was inspired by the lyrics. Thank you to @pars-ley for reading and encouraging me through this whole process as well as the fucking gorgeous banner!

@sanjoongie I hope I did you justice, my muse. As always, @cafekitsune for the dividers! I hope everyone enjoys and once more...read the warnings please.

His very first thought is a gentle caress that gives voice to his meaningless existence.

What ... .is…that…?

The obsidian sea that he’s suspended in is suddenly filled with an intoxicating fragrance that rouses something within him.

Within…me…?

Who...what…am I?

Answers elude him, his mind sluggish as he tries to comprehend the new senses that seem to be awakening within him.

The delightful aroma is suddenly ripped from him as a pungent sting assaults him.

No, no!

Come back!

His mind fights against the disruption before he’s sent back into the perpetual black void.

Hurts.

Hurts!

Searing pain rends his cold flesh as his mind explodes into fragments, agonizingly endless and he longs to be returned to his painless oblivion.

Despite his wordless protests, the torment persists time and again to pluck him from the blissful refuge of his painless vacuum.

Sensation arouses him once more, yet this time a tender caress soothes along the former afflictions mixed with that tantalizing scent. 

This gentle warmth and rich fragrance contrasts the agonized suffering that it has him struggling to…

To what?

More…

Don’t stop…

Must…

Before he can fathom what it is he wants, the sensation is taken from him.

NO!

NO!

Stay-

Sparks ignite within his lethargic brain and travels the expanse of his large body as he grapples against the return to the hellish purgatory of nothingness.

Ages pass as he reaches out with his mind, searching, searching for that divine touch.

Just…

Again…

Please…

His thoughts are disjointed as he pushes…stretching…yearning.

Tingles sizzle through his limbs as he forces his awareness outwards, a dull ache lingering in the wake of the burn.  

Something catches his attention, a muffled reverberation as another sense awakens.

A grating thrum assaults his sanity before a soft, lilting series of notes lulls his anguish.

Much as the soothing caress dispelled the agonizing pain, this melodic tone has him straining towards it.

Before long, he can distinguish them from one another as sounds begin to make sense in his mind.

“Doctor, I-”

“-worry about that, just-”

“-say so, sir-”

“-alright, then you can-”

The sensation of movement jolts his body before the voices are cut off from him again.

No, no, no-!

Deep within a cold metal drawer, his body twitches then goes still once more.

Ages pass as he floats in the limbo between consciousness, motion and metallic clamoring yanking him from his mindless suspension.

Pain.

Agony.

That horrible grating tone.

Then the sporadic lull of that hypnotically mesmerizing voice…

Never enough.

He longs for the gentle touch that can alleviate his painful wounds, that intoxicating aroma to awaken these unknown desires, yet they never come.

Words begin to permeate his mind as the stinging prick of something sharp repeatedly stabs into him, then a drawn out tugging sensation precedes yet another…

“-the last of my creation.  Perhaps I shall fail once again, but I have an inkling that this time around, something is much different in you.  ‘Jungkook’, this part still has its toe tag, how amusing!  Ah and here I’ve been calling you ‘Monster’. Would you prefer a real name, hmm?”

A deep chuckle echoes within his mind as that grating sound irritates his ears, each word cutting through his haze as the steady piercing pricks and tugs continue.

A distant chiming sounds and the unpleasant laughter coming from this being halts abruptly, and he mutters curses under his breath.

“Patience, my friend, and I’ll have you stitched up and whole in no time.”

Want…

Need…

Soft shuffling fades as silence returns as each new wound slowly numbs and he begins to fade back into-

That familiar fragrance wraps around his senses as his entire body thrums with excitement.

Here…

Please-

“Doctor?” 

The sweet aria of that one simple word washes over him and he strains to beckon it closer.

Soft steps approach as he strains to reach out to it, vibrations beginning within various parts of him.

“What in the world-?” 

His mind reels as suddenly he’s given the gift of that sublime caress.

A soft flutter sounds before the voice is purifying him once again.

“Jungkook? Why are you still here, you should have been-”

The melodic voice is cut off by a low keening noise, the harsh din of objects falling seeming to startle the poor creature.  

“Oh my god, are you-?”

The keening sound grows until he realizes it’s coming from within himself.

Please-

Don’t-go-

Unlike before, the presence doesn’t retreat; this gentle lingering touch presses firmly into his neck before the glorious sensation is stroking over various parts of him.

Yes-

More-

“You’re breathing, oh my god, how is this even possible-?”

MORE-

Awareness snaps into place as the once atrophied muscles within him stir, his eyelids peeling back slowly to reveal the source of all of his longing.

He takes in a hitching breath, then another as everything coalesces into one focal point.

The soothing caress, the sublime melody, the intoxicating scent.

This creature…

You…

“What are you doing here?” 

The booming disruption once more wars with that beautiful voice, stirring up a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions he’s trying to comprehend.

“Doctor! This man, he’s not dead, he’s-”

“Move aside-”

The comforting touch is replaced by agonizing prodding, and he longs to rail against the interruption of his blissful moment.  

“Doctor, sir, he-”

“He is of no concern to you. Get out before I-” 

“You’re right, Doctor, I’ll go let someone know-”

The meaty hands halt their pawing, and the man on the table's large dark eyes flick over to the being they extend from.  

“Wait.”

The tone from that one word sends a primal sense of alarm through him as the doctor’s hands withdraw and bunch into fists.

“Doctor, we don’t know how long he’s been like this, he needs to be-”

“You really shouldn’t have come here today.” 

Each movement sends a dull ache into his muscles and nerve endings as he attempts to turn his head, a harsh rattling leaving his throat as he watches the doctor approaching you.

Unsuspecting.

Innocent.

His mind rages against his uncooperative limbs, not knowing why he needs to move, only that he MUST.

In slow motion, he can only struggle against himself as your eyes lock onto the approaching form, widening in fear as those horrific hands clamp around your fragile neck.

No!

Don’t-touch-!

Your once harmonious voice is cut off by a strangled cry, then your face is contorting in agony as the doctor forces you from the door into the wall.

The sight of your suffering finally tips him over the edge and his ungainly body begins to obey.

Your distressed gaze flicks over at the sight of him rising from the table as you claw at the murderous hands attempting to snuff the life from you.

“What-?”

The sheet covering him slips off as he finally gets to his feet, awkwardly lurching towards you as he reaches out to grab the offensive being touching you.

A low wheezing leaves his throat as he forces sound out, trying to enunciate his thoughts.

“No-”

The doctor’s eyes bulge as he looks up at the towering creature approaching him, his hands loosening on your neck as his monster reaches out for him.

“Stop! I’m your creator, you don’t-!”

Those are his last words as he grips the doctor’s lower jaw and yanks, tearing it from his face in a sickening wet snap.  

You drop to the floor as the doctor’s hands slacken, your poor rasping attempts at breath making Jungkook’s rage flare up as he takes in the red marks on your throat.

Pain flashes in his jaw as it tightens, every slumbering muscle fiber in his body tensing as he turns his wrath on his so-called “creator”.

Jets of hot crimson paint the sterile room as he digs his fingers into the soft pliable flesh, rending and tearing at the vile man until he’s unrecognizable.

The soft sound of your gasping finally cuts through his murderous fog, and he feels his fury recede as he turns his large dark eyes upon you.

“Please…don’t hurt me…” You whisper.

The sight of you cowering on the floor only causes his once atrophied heart to ache, and he falls to his knees before you.  

“Hurt…?” He forces out, his stiff vocal chords raspy and harsh to his ears.

You tremble before him, but he shakes his head as he holds his bloodied hands out to you, palms up in supplication.

“No…won’t…hurt…you…” He finally manages.

Of course he won’t hurt you.

He would never.

Could never.

The coppery air is thick and pungent, a fine mist of scarlet settling upon your delicate skin.

The fear in your wide eyes as you study him has him longing to comfort you, but his mind is overwhelmed with too many senses.

He winces as the tang of iron assaults his senses, and he can barely smell the intoxicating fragrance he’s come to associate you with.

It’s there, but it’s as if it’s buried beneath far too many layers of rotten refuge.

He lets out a soft whine as he looks down at his hands, tacky from the drying crimson as he flexes his fingers.

“You…you really don’t want to hurt me?” 

Your voice has him snapping his attention back on you, and he crawls forward so that his face is mere inches from yours.

His big dark eyes study you, and he inhales deeply, finding your scent and a calm washes over his face as his lashes flutter shut.

There-

Yes-

You repeat your question, and he finally opens his eyes to gaze upon you, his head tilting back and forth as he finds himself longing to get even closer.

Yet your palms are pressing against his bare shoulders, your gaze drawn to the numerous sutures and stitches adorning his flesh.  

“No…won’t…hurt…” he finally manages to grind out, his voice trembling oddly from his withered vocal tract.

You release the pressure of your palms against him, the warmth of your skin like a balm to him as they hover over the various incisions.

He reaches out to touch the red marks on your throat from the hands that threatened to take you from him.

“He-hurt-” His voice grinds out, yet this time it’s not from disuse, but a burning rage still simmering inside of him that reignites.

 Jungkook’s eyes darken, his jaw clenching as his teeth flash, then he’s spinning around to focus on the source of your pain.

You can only watch as he sets upon the doctor’s corpse once more, his fury manifesting into beating the dead flesh into pulp. 

“Stop-” 

“Please…he’s gone-”

“Jungkook-”

The sound of his name washes over him like a lullaby and his aching fists drop to his sides, his head turning towards you.

His dark eyes melt from murderous agitation, widening as he looks at you with innocence and longing.

“Jungkook?” You say once more, and his heart stirs at the sound.

“Me…?” He asks, a tiny smile curling his lips as his face lights up at your voice.  

His entire world trembles as you return the smile, your face taking on a radiance that he can’t help but react to.

“Yes…you…you’re such a mess.  Can…can I clean you up?” You hold out your hand to beckon him over.

He immediately scrambles over to you, rising to his full height as he takes your offering.

“Oh…my goodness.” You whisper as your gaze rakes over his full form.

Jungkook can only beam at you as you study his naked form, though his senses still war with the foul stench of the vile human’s entrails.

His nose wrinkles at the odor and you seem to notice, pursing your lips as you take his hands and look at the mess he’s made.

“You did this for me?” You ask softly, your eyes locking onto his and he nods quickly before reaching out to try to touch your face.

Your skin looks so warm, calling to him to touch and caress every inch-

“Come with me.” You command and he is but a slave to your every desire.

You lead him into an adjoining room, and the overpowering scent of the mutilated viscera fades as he watches you turn on a faucet to let warm jets of water flow out.  

“I’m going to wash you, okay, Jungkook?” You tell him and his eyes follow your every move as you discard the now stained white medical coat and turn back to him.

“Yes.” He says, his voice slowly becoming less pained as he does his best to speak more.

It’s hard to formulate words and thoughts as his senses are assaulted with so much input, everything feels so familiar yet so brand new.

He wanders forward, blood caked hands seeking the cleansing flow of water, letting out a surprised gasp as he watches the red matter coalesce and rinse from his palms.

“Warm…” he hums, fascinated by the soothing sounds raining down upon him as he steps beneath the cascade of water.

“Does it feel nice?” 

His skin prickles as the soft tone, then your tender hands are skimming along his arm.

He shivers as he turns his face up into the water before turning to look upon you.

You are lathering up a sponge as your eyes rake over his full form, stepping closer to start washing the filth from his chest.

He freezes as he takes you in, now completely nude as you stand before him, the rush of the shower drenching every glorious inch of your bare skin.

His lips part as his body reacts in so many unfamiliar ways to your beauty, his eyes tracing every curve and dip of your supple flesh and his mouth waters as he begins to pick up even more of your intoxicating scent.

His breath hitches as his lower region aches and engorges, his hand automatically rushing to press against his stiffening erection.

“Oh..my...I guess you aren’t dead after all-” you quip, and his eyes flick to your face, then he follows your gaze to where his hand is palming at himself.

A low whine escapes his throat as he closes the small distance between you, his eyes consuming the sight of your sumptuous body as he backs you into the tiled walls. 

“Smells…good-” He whimpers, burying his face into your neck as he grabs your thighs and begins to rut against you.  

“Oh my god-um…wow…you really are a monster-” You gasp out as he groans into your neck sucking and licking along your throat.

“Jungkook.” He whimpers, pulling back to give you a wide eyed stare.

“Yes, yes, Jungkook, I didn’t mean-oh fuck right there-” 

His lips close around your nipple, his hand cupping the supple flesh, lifting it as the nub pebbles in his mouth and he explores the unique texture with his tongue.

Your voice is soft and lilting, your gasps and moans ringing through his mind like the most sacred hymn.

Though he doesn’t know what all these thoughts mean, he knows that he must have you.

He just doesn’t know what it is he is aching for, only that you possess the ability to give it to him.

He lets your nipple pop out of his mouth as his hips continue to move with a mind of their own, his cock swollen and throbbing for a release he doesn’t understand.

“Hurts-” He whimpers, looking up at you with those huge brown eyes, silently pleading for you to help him.

“Oh, baby…you’re not used to that, are you?” 

Your voice should be soothing, yet it only serves to make his already stiff member throb painfully.

He chokes out a strained grunt as your fingers encircle his engorged flesh, his hips pistoning into your tightening grip.

“Yes-! P-please-!” 

The sensation of his cock dragging against your palm as he pushes himself into your fist makes his head spin, needing to feel you ever closer to him, skin to skin-

His arms cage you against the tiled wall abruptly as he experiences the satisfying tug and drag of his dick as his thrusts become more desperate.

His breathing becomes erratic as you stare up at him, your lips parted as your sweet voice whispers encouragement and he begins to feel his balls tightening.

Furiously chasing some kind of relief, he lets out a pleading howl as he teeters right on the edge of-

He’s torn back from the brink when you quickly remove your hold on him, but before he can protest, you’re grabbing one of his hands and directing it between your legs.

He realizes that this is the source of his growing hunger; his fingers delve into the syrupy fount pooling at the apex of your thighs and he salivates as the potent aroma assaults him.

He inhales deeply as he’s overwhelmed with your scent, and he can almost taste-

Before he can finish the thought, he’s plunging his fingers through your silky folds to gather the viscous fluids along his digits, then quickly stuffing them into his mouth.

His other hand replaces the empty space, your wanton moans of pleasure encouraging him to continue his search as he slides his fingers along his tongue to taste you.

Your hand covers his larger one, guiding him to where you want him to touch.  

He learns quickly what you’re asking without a word spoken, his large doe eyes studying every minute tremble of your lips, every flutter of your lashes.

His thick thighs push against yours to open you up to him, sandwiching your supple body between his and the tiled wall as he grinds himself against you.

The pads of his drenched fingertips drag over a small swollen nub and the way you throw your head back as your eyes roll prompts him to repeat the motion once more, then again as he sucks your taste from his fingers.

“Oh my god…yes…right there…please-” You whimper and he recognizes his own need echoed in your cries.

“Right…there?” He manages as he roughly pinches and kneads the bud, shocked by the way your body jerks and writhes under his touch.  

“Fucking hell-” You gasp and he’s delighted when you grab his shoulders and wrap one of your legs around his hip.  

Instinctively, he pulls his fingers from his mouth to grab your other thigh to hoist you up off the floor.

The moment you wrap your legs around his waist, he pins you against the wall and thrusts his hips forward so the underside of his length slides along your core.

The sensation of your moisture coating him tips him into a mad frenzy as you push your hand between your bodies, guiding his next thrust into a tight, wet opening that seems to pull him deeper with each clench.

Guttural noises mix with frantic whimpers as he snaps his hips forward and up into you, and his eyes roll as your body encases him fully.

His body is driven solely by an innate primal compulsion as he drives his cock into you over and over; harder; faster-

He can barely comprehend the words spilling from your luscious lips, he knows only that the sound only urges him to chase this overwhelming need within him to bring you both to some sort of culmination of your joining.

The fragrance wafting over him from your arousal, the taste of you lingering on his tongue, the sweltering suction of your body devouring his aching cock finally overwhelms him completely as his balls constrict painfully.

“Oh god, oh fuck I’m gonna-I’m gonna come, baby boy-” 

A growl rips from his throat as your already clenching walls grip him like a vice; a hot rush of fluid floods his pistoning cock as your entire body tenses and quakes and you let out the most exquisite sound he’s ever heard.

As your nails rip through the skin of his back, raking over the taut stitches connecting his shoulders to his arms, he finally reaches the climax he’s been seeking as he surges forward one last time to bury himself deep within you.

His entire being shudders as his balls release their burden, erupting in a pulsing, torrential flood.

All the tension finally leaves his body as he pours himself into you, his gasping breaths and moans slowing as you ply his face with soft, tender kisses.

Soft breathy whispers tickle his cheeks, your gentle touches leaving him trembling and weak as his legs give out and he slowly sinks to his knees.

He whines as he holds you against him, unwilling to withdraw from you as he cradles your body in his lap.

The jets above continue to rain down upon your joined bodies as your melodic voice carries him into an almost dreamlike state.

“My monster…” your words rouse him and he pulls back to look at you.

Your lips beckon him and he presses his mouth to yours, a deep hum vibrating his throat in delight as he experiences your kiss.

“Monster…is bad…I’m -Jungkook…” he forces out, realizing that it’s becoming easier to vocalize his thoughts.

You cup his cheeks and he sighs softly at your tender touch, his long dark lashes fluttering in contentment.

“Jungkook…I happen to like monsters.” 

Your words resonate within him and he studies your face before coming to a decision.

His lips curl, elation flooding him as he gives you a radiant smile before he speaks his first full sentence.

“You…can call me monster.”

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Part 1: It's Not A Big Deal

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: Dean's in for a rude awakening when he finds out exactly what you did when you got stranded in another universe.

Tropes: Fluff, Frenemies (Dean and the Reader), Awkward Situation, Multiverse Problems.

Word Count: 3.1K (I promise I didn't mean for it to happen)

Warnings: I'm gonna label this 18+ just to be sure. There is some swearing (only a few times), Heated Kiss, Sexual Innuendo, References to Sex/Past Sex (it happens quite a bit). Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy (Everyone knows he’s a warning).

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: Okay I know that I should be working on my other fics, but I had this idea after reading an INCREDIBLE fic by @justagirlinafandomworld called "Stranded" for @jacklesversebingo and I couldn't help myself.

Sam squeals the car into the parking lot of the motel so loud that Dean and you can hear the high pitched scream of rubber on asphalt from your room on the second level.

"If he ruins those tires he's going to pay for them." Dean grumbles under his breath from where he sits at the small wooden table under the window, wiping down his gun with a clean rag. The sunlight that came streaming through dramatized the sharp angles of his jaw and the soft sleepy strands of his hair that still stuck up from when he woke up an hour ago.

"I don't know what his hurry is." You don’t look up from the worn paperback perched in your lap, gently turning the page. "If he's that eager to get back here to tell us something he should have just called."

“Maybe there was a sample sale on hair gel.” Dean laughs at his own joke and you can sense him look up from the gun to try and catch your eye, but you don't raise your gaze from the text.

“That’s pretty brave coming from someone who owns 90% of the products in that bathroom.”

“What? I do not-“

“Really? If I walk in there right now there won’t be seven different half-used deodorant sticks?”

“They’re different smells." Dean says defensively. "And shut up. I don’t comment on how many books you bring with you. Don’t know why you need to shove a million in your bag and then just buy one while you’re here.”

“Because I might not feel like reading the ones I bring. I might want to try something new. And this book,” You wave the book in your hand for emphasis. “Is very good and I don’t have it back at the bunker, and it was only two bucks!"

“But the others ones might be good too. You don’t know.” Dean sighs, looking at you like you're insane. "You just let them sit and rot in your suitcase."

Today was the last day that you would be staying in Louis, Illinois. The current case that the three of you had been working on together had been solved, which meant that the townsfolk were no longer dealing with a zombie outbreak and you were at peace to settle down on your pull out bed with a good book, taking a few moments for yourself.

You desperately needed at least five, but you also wished that you were already back in your room at the bunker.

The bed there didn't have as many springs that stuck into your back at odd angles and didn't squeak whenever you moved an inch. Your inability to find a comfortable position meant that the mattress squeaked all night long and Dean had thrown his pillow at you to make it stop. He hadn’t been pleased when you returned it back to him. Then again, you had hit him in the face with it as hard as you could when you did.

And like hell you were going to give Dean Winchester the satisfaction of sleeping in bed with him. You’d had to do that one time on a hunt where there were no extra rooms and Dean refused to let you sleep on the floor or in his car. He said that you might make it spontaneously combust.  So you'd shared the bed and learned that he was the biggest blanket hog you’d ever met, not to mention when you woke up he was spooning you and you couldn’t be certain, but you thought he had tried to cop a feel at least once.

If anything you’d maybe sleep in Sam’s bed, but the guy was so much bigger than you he took up most of the space, so you were stuck with the pull out couch.

You couldn't wait to be home. You liked going out on cases, but you liked that you had a home now, a space that was only yours, and someplace where you could shut yourself away from the world. And most importantly, away from Dean Winchester, who had been the bane of your existence since the night you met him for the first time.

Of course this wasn't too bad either. Taking a few moments of quiet for yourself while Dean cleaned his guns and sorted some of his tools in his duffle. The two of you were getting more comfortable around one another. When you’d first met there had been a lot of screaming and several "she's not going to be there is she?" and "what the hell is she doing here?" questions that Dean moaned to Sam over and over the more the three of you teamed up.

You weren't used to working with other people, well, now you were,  but before it had just been you and the endless road. But as it began to happen more and more you tried to fit comfortably into the swing of things. Dean and you would occasionally bump heads, but it happened less now than it did before. After five years you'd hoped that the two of you could be more civilized, for Sam's sake at least.

Sam and you got along much better. You didn't understand what Dean's problem was with you, or why he hated you so much. He was always correcting you, insulting you, and snatching things away from you as if you hadn't been hunting your entire life. Occasionally it wasn't that bad, like right now, but it had been much worse a few years ago.

When you'd met Dean you'd hated him, thought he was a dick, but the more the two of you spent time together on cases the more you saw that he did those things to hide what he was feeling and the more you saw how big his heart was.

You believed that your relationship now with him had progressed to a sort of symbiotic relationship, but honestly it was more like passive aggressive roommates who fight over whose turn it is to clean the dishes.

Dean still tended to get high and mighty sometimes and annoyed you without end, but you stuck around and in Sam's words "bickered like an old couple."

Sam had gone to grab some snacks and fill the tank at the gas station down the street twenty minutes ago, leaving with a joyful "Don't kill each other."

So far there were no casualties, but apart of you itched to beam Dean in the back of the head with the paperback just for a little bit of excitement.

Sam bursts into the room out of breath. "Okay I-"

"Where's the fire Sammy?" Dean sighs looking up from his gun.

"I ran into someone when I was at the gas station." Sam says it all together, as if it's one sentence.

"And?" You move your hand in a come on gesture hoping that Sam will get to the point.

"Well he's- he's-"

The man that pushes into the room past Sam is not Dean, he looks like him, but that's not why he's so familiar. He's muscular with dark brown hair that hangs a little longer than Dean's, over the top of his ears, while a few strands fall forward on his forehead. He's allowed a dark beard to cover his cheeks, but his eyes are the same piercing green that they were the last time you saw him. And if that wasn't enough for you to recognize him, the dark green superhero suit would be a dead giveaway.

Oh shit.

"Ben?" You drop your book onto the thick carpeted floor in surprise.

Two months ago you had been unwillingly transported to another reality, a reality where superheroes were real, people had powers, and where you met a version of Dean that you actually got along with better than the Dean in your reality.

You hadn't told Sam or Dean what happened between Ben and you. You weren't about to admit out loud that you actually got along with another version of Dean or admit that you found the other version of Dean aka Ben, attractive. So attractive in fact that you had spent a good amount of the time in the other universe in bed with him before you came back to your reality.

Ben doesn't respond, instead he crosses the room in several powerful strides, and hauls you up off the pull out couch.

"What are you-"

One of his hands tangles in the back of your hair, pulling your mouth against his in a furious kiss that steals your breath away and silences whatever you were going to say next. A part of you registers that Dean and Sam are still in the room, but it's quickly swept away by how it feels to kiss Ben. You hadn't forgotten him, anything but that. Sometimes you actually kind of missed him, when you were lonely or when the Dean from your universe annoyed you too much. Because Ben annoyed you too, but at least at the end of it there was a way to relieve the tension. With Dean the only place you put all your frustration was into the hunt and there were only so many times you could bash a Djinn’s head in.

Ben's tongue brushes against your bottom lip, begging for entrance, and you let him in, bringing your hands up to the back of his neck to thread into the long strands of his hair. The strands fall between your fingertips, feathering out from your grip. You moan softly into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, feeling the familiar scratch of his beard against your cheeks, and feel his hand begin to slip down your back to rest on the curve of your ass.

Well, he certainly hasn't changed.

"Fuck I missed you sweetheart." Ben murmurs against your mouth squeezing your butt to emphasize the point. "You and this sexy fucking body."

"Ben." You roll your eyes with a snort.

"What? You didn't miss me?" He raises an eyebrow, forcing his mouth into an attractive pout. "Because you certainly seemed happy to see me a second ago." His free hand gently traces your plump lower lip with the pad of your thumb.

"I did and I am happy to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"Thought so." Ben leans his head back down towards yours, ignoring your question as he tries to kiss you again, but before he can Dean interrupts.

"What the fuck is going on?" Dean shouts, standing from the table under the window, and points his gun at Ben's unprotected back. "Who the fuck are you?"

Ben half turns over his shoulder eyes flicking from the gun to Dean with a sigh. "Look the only thing that's gonna do is piss me off. And you don't want that kid."

Dean makes a face. "Who the hell are you calling kid?"

"Now why don't you two fuck off for a few hours, let me give her a proper hello." Ben turns his dark eyes back on you, cupping your chin in his large hand.

"Y/n? You want to tell us what's happening? Or who this guy is?" Sam asks, but you can't look away from Ben.

You really had missed him. Ben was even more attractive than you remembered. The day that you'd left his universe, Ben had asked you to stay, well, had asked you in his own way. He'd said that he wasn't done with you and if you had stayed he would have made it worth your while. But you had to come back. You weren’t sure how Dean and Sam would survive without you and also because the universe that Ben inhabited was more terrifying than yours, and that was saying something, given that you dealt with demons on a daily basis.

"Guys this is Ben." You clear your throat. "Ben this is Dean and Sam."

"Ben as in Soldier Boy? From the fucked up reality with the people with superpowers Ben?" Dean sputters. He lowered the gun slightly, but he's still looking from Ben to you like he's just walked in on his parents making out.

"Yes." You say it slowly, trying to find a way out, but there really isn't any way to hide this.

It's not that big a deal, is it?

Ben releases you and turns to look at Dean, eyes skating over his body. "So that's Dean?" He tilts his head to the side. "Kinda scrawny. The way you described him made me think he'd look a little more like a man and less like a fucking pussy."

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Dean takes a step towards Ben, holding his gun steady out from his chest. You noticed that Dean did try to puff it out more after Ben's insult.

"You heard me." Ben smirks, welcoming the challenge.

"Whoa!" You step between them. "Calm down ladies there's enough Prada to go around at this sample sale."

Ben's eyes narrow in confusion at your comment, but he doesn't back down from Dean.

"I'd say that you left a few details out of your trip!" Dean shouts looking from Ben to you in disgust. "Did you sleep with me?"

"What?" You look at him like he’s crazy.

What does he mean?

"You, and him." Dean gestures wildly with the gun. "Did you sleep with me?"

"What are you talking about? No I didn't sleep with you, I slept with him and it was only once!" You shout back.

Ben clears his throat.

"Fine. A few times.” You correct with a sigh.

“But- you- him-“ Dean’s head turns from Ben to you. “Him- you-.”

“Yeah. Me and her fucked.” Ben says it slowly like Dean is a child.

Honestly he was acting a little bit like a child.

Sam is holding back his laughter behind a hand while Dean’s eye begins to twitch aggressively.

This is exactly why I didn’t tell him. They aren’t the same person! Dean is Dean and Ben is Ben. Someone who shares the same face. And probably the same other things that I’m not going to think about right now because that seems crazy.

"How many times is a few?” Dean demands.

"Why does that matter?”

"HOW MANY?" He shouts so loud that you think the people in the next room over were probably having a wonderful time listening to this soap opera.

Because it kinda did sound like one right? The main character never gets along with someone and then gets transported to another reality through a colorful portal and immediately clicks with another version of him. And-

Maybe I need to rethink my life.

"Well..." Your face scrunched up trying to count exactly how many times that you and Ben had sex. It was difficult. Not that it was hard to remember, you knew that you weren’t going to forget it anytime soon, but just the amount of times the two of you were together was more than you could count on your fingers.

"Well what? You were there for five days!"

"I mean..." You shrug.

“Why?” Dean groans pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to scrub the images from his brain.

Honestly, if he’d told you that he had sex with another version of you, you probably would have had the same reaction, but you were not about to admit that to Dean Winchester of all people.

He’s not gonna win this argument. Especially not when he's waving his gun around like a psychopath.

“Because he's-“ You  glance over at Ben who winks at you. “I don’t know. He’s just kinda-.”

“Everything you’re not.” Ben raises his eyebrow at Dean.

“Sammy you gonna weigh in on this?” You look at Sam expectantly hoping that he can jolt Dean out of the never ending loop he seemed to be stuck in.

“Nope. I’m staying out of it.” Sam holds his hands up in surrender.

“I cannot believe you slept with me!” Dean shouts again.

“Stop saying that! I didn’t sleep with you! I slept with him. Can we please move on-“ You groan.

"Same thing!"

"What? How is it the same thing?” You plant your hands on your hips glaring at Dean.

"He's me from another universe!" Dean is gesturing wildly with his gun now. “How would you feel if I slept with an alternate version of you?”

“It’s completely different!”

“How?”

“They aren’t us!”

“He sure as hell looks like me!" Dean snaps back. "What did you close your eyes the whole time or something?"

Your cheeks flare bright red with Dean's question. "No I didn't!"

“And I don’t look like you.” Ben grunts crossing his arms over his chest and giving Dean a once over again.

“He also doesn’t act like you.” You add.

It was true, Ben didn’t. And for some reason you got along with him more. You didn’t understand what Dean’s problem was, but for the better part of five years he’d been treating you like you hadn’t been hunting your whole life. Not to mention the first three years were spent with Dean barely saying two words to you without some kind of insult attached.

“That’s beside the point!”

“How is that beside the point?” You demand.

“I can’t believe you did this!”

"I didn't kill anyone Dean. I didn't torture any babies or kill any puppies. We are consenting adults! We had sex-"

“No no no!” Dean puts his fingers in his ears. “Lalalalala.” He sings to himself to avoid the image.

"And we're gonna have it again. So the two of you should clear out, unless you're in to that kind of thing Deanie.” Ben wraps his arm around your shoulders to pull you into him, but you don’t take your eyes off of Dean.

“Fuck I’m gonna need so much therapy after this” Dean groans putting the gun down on the table. Which was a good sign because now you weren’t worried that he would accidentally shoot Sam in the foot.

“Really? After everything you’ve gone through that’s what pushes you over the edge?” You ask him in shock.

“Yes. Are you happy? You’ve driven me to the point of insanity!” Dean snaps.

"You're acting like a child."

"I am not! I am having a completely normal reaction to finding out you slept with Wannabe Captain America!” Dean gestures to all of Ben who looks at Dean like he can’t tell if it’s an insult or not. 

You take in a deep breath to calm your racing heart. “Why are you so upset that I slept with him Dean? I don’t understand how this is so earth shattering to you that two people had sex! You have sex with people all the time-“

“Not with you!”He snaps back, but then clears his throat when he realized what he just said.

“He is not YOU!” You shout rolling your eyes for the millionth time. At the rate he was going, you were sure they were going to roll out of your head. 

“As important as this conversation is… can we maybe put a pin in it and go back to why he’s here?” Sam asks diplomatically.

“No-“ Dean says at the same time you say.

“Yes! Ben why are you here?”

“Don’t really know.” He shrugs taking a long hit from a joint that seemed to materialize out of thin air, while tightening his arm over your shoulders. “All I know was that I was fighting Homelander and someone hit me from behind. Then I ended up here.” Ben’s eyes trace your body. “But I’m not complaining, especially not because I got to see you again doll.” He winks.

“Homelander?” Dean repeats. “That is the stupidest hero name I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

“He’s anything but a hero.” You fight the shudder from the last time you ran in to him. “Think about Superman if Superman was a narcissistic sadist with a massive inferiority complex, no weakness, and an obsession with perfect hair.”

Dean looks Ben up and down with a heavy sigh. “I’m disappointed that I couldn’t have at least been a bit more like Batman.”

“Trust me. You don’t want to meet knockoff Batman from his reality either.” You respond.

"I guess I'll start doing some research." Sam says slowly, looking from Ben to you while hiding a smile.

He’s enjoying this way too much.

"Good." Dean frowns at Ben, before he claps him hard on the shoulder. You saw Dean fight the wince when he felt how solid Ben was. "Let's get you home buddy." His eyes dart from Ben to you. "Before you do anything else that'll scar me for life."

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are not required, but are always appreciated! 😊

Taglist: @roseblue373 @mrsjenniferwinchester

[moochymoony]

OH MY GOD!!!!!! my beloved readers >>>>

😭🤲🏻🩷🥹🫶🏼🥰🌹💗

muggle AUs keeping the people FED this week!

My AO3 (+music, iykyk) vibes today

Love to @moochymoony @moonyslunatic and @arcadianstar27 I love your fics so much <3 thank you for making my day brighter

For anyone looking for wolfstar and/or jegulus/jegulily muggle AUs, these 3 are my fav WIPs I’m currently following:

Entr’acte (jegulus theatre kids)

Inevitable (wolfstar + jegulus, playboy Sirius x psychologist Remus)

The Unwritten Language of Loss (part 2 of The Improbable Rhythm of Love) (wolfstar airport meetcute, part 2 will have jegulily)

Highly recommend! But check the tags for each of those!

I’m thinking of doing a fic recs post, but idk when I’ll actually do it… it’ll probably take me ages haha, so enjoy this in the meantime :)

[sparrowsfallingfromthesky]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Interview with the Vampire (TV 2022), Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death Relationships: Armand/Hanschen Rilow Characters: Hanschen Rilow, Armand (Vampire Chronicles) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, I LOVE both of these characters but in their own ways they’re both kind of awful and I let that come through, Palma Vecchio, theatre des vampires - Freeform, uh if you think hard enough about what Armand is doing during the sex scene you might consider it vaguely dubcon in at least one direction, Crossover, I know this is a pretty niche fic but please consider giving it a shot even if you’re thinking ‘who is that?’ Summary:

Paris, 1895. A young German artist trying to pursue his passions and move on from grim events of his past encounters a beautiful man who seems like something straight out of his fantasies, but he will soon discover that there is more hiding beneath the surface.

[wintrwinchestr]

strangers | part 3

summary: when nothing comes of the frantic call for help you'd made just before joel had attempted to take your life, you realize that he had been telling you the truth—nobody cares about you, and nobody is coming for you. the fear of being forgotten becomes so overwhelming, you decide to go against your better judgement in a last-ditch effort to make sure that somebody knows you're still here. what you hadn't anticipated, is that you'd be putting more than just your own life in danger by doing so.

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, talk of death/murder and blood, mommy issues, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, introduction of female original character, reader's skintone shows bruises, reader has at least shoulder-length hair, reader's hair texture can be put into ponytails, reader has pubic hair, groping, fingering, kissing, fingersucking (both reader and joel), mild blood kink, domination and control that is essentially abuse, development of stockholm syndrome, pet names (baby, darlin', babydoll, sweetheart), story inspired by "preacher's daughter" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 12.9k

a/n: heyyy... how y'all doin... it's been a while. i am very excited to share the next part of this story, written by some miraculous feat of perseverance. if you're still here, thank you for sticking around. i love joel and babydoll so so much and they have never left my heart or my mind, even when i was taking a break from them. i thought that putting a hard stop to my hobbies while i was having a difficult time at work was a good coping mechanism, but i realized last month that i can't let them take my creativity away from me no matter how hard they try. thank you @chippedowlmug and @polaroidpascal for always yapping with me and keeping their story alive even when i didn't have it in me to write it all down. there is much more of them still to come, thank you for being here <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

part 4

You can’t sleep.

Each time the air conditioning kicks on, or the pipes let out a rattling groan, or the mattress springs creak underneath Joel’s weight, your eyes snap open again. Each time you hope to awaken to the sight of blue and red lights streaming in through the crooked blinds, and each time you’re disappointed. Your heart rate hasn’t been able to settle into any kind of steady rhythm all night, the muscle beating erratically every time you hear so much as a cricket chirp or a gust of wind outside. You could’ve sworn at one point you had heard distant footsteps crunching through the gravel parking lot, and you’d held your breath as you imagined they belonged to a police officer coming to your rescue, sent by the woman who had picked up your call for help. Any minute now the footsteps would reach your room, and you’d hear fists pounding on the door as they demanded entry. 

That minute had turned into five, then ten, and then fifteen, before the sound had repeated itself, and you’d realized it was just some nocturnal critter rustling around in the trash can outside the door. 

It’s been hours now since you’d made your futile little escape attempt, since you’d uttered all of about four words to the woman on the other end of the line before Joel had pounced on you like an animal, ripped the phone out of your hand, and dragged you back into his lair. 

…Someone had picked up, hadn’t they? Your memory is failing you now. Maybe the line was dead, maybe you hadn’t inserted enough coins for the call to go through, maybe you had only wanted there to be somebody out there who cared, and you had just hallucinated the woman’s tinny voice in your terrified state.

What you can be sure you hadn’t hallucinated, however, is the contents of the box you wish you had never pulled out from underneath the bench seat. You can’t escape the graphic memories of the polaroids that project themselves onto the backs of your eyelids each time they dare to close, jolting you back into reality the second your consciousness begins to slip away. You can’t help but think about how Joel had made you lay perfectly still for him while he forced himself inside of you, and you taste bile in the back of your throat as you wonder if he had ever really violated any of the other girls that way, or if it was just some sick fantasy.

You’re almost certain of what the answer is, but you try to swallow it down along with the sourness in your mouth.

You think about how scared you were, how scared you are, and how scared they must have been in their final moments, knowing there was nothing they could do anymore except submit themselves to his violence and hope he would at least make it quick. Eighteen or so years’ worth of dreams and desires and ambitions dashed in a single night, snuffed out in an instant as he reduced their bodies to nothing more than something limp and pliant for him to play with. You think about Ruby, and try to blink away the sudden vision of sunken glassy eyes and blonde ringlets covered in dirt and blood, skin pale and body decaying in a forgotten patch of land off the side of the road somewhere. You hope if he had ever spared even one of them from his grotesque defilement, that it was her.

You’re crying, you realize, when you feel a hot tear pooling in the shell of your ear, and you try to suppress your shuddering sobs as the guilt begins to feel all-consuming. How come you’re still alive to feel Joel’s hot breath raise the hairs on the back of your neck, and yet there’s a fucking shoebox full of dozens and dozens of girls who’d been brutalized and violated and discarded like trash? What makes you so fucking special? Being lost and naive and stupid enough to play into his little game without knowing what the cost would be if you’d tried to back out, to say that you’d changed your mind because he was too rough and controlling and it wasn’t fun anymore, like the rest of them probably had? It isn’t fair that you get to escape their fates just because you were the only one fucked up enough to enjoy the game, at least while it had lasted.

You’re going to wake him up with all your sniffling and shivering if you don’t get yourself under control somehow. You need to breathe. You need to get some air. Feel the breeze on your face and look up at the stars and calm yourself down enough to try and get at least a couple hours of sleep tonight. Lord knows you’ll probably need them tomorrow. 

Although Joel had fallen asleep with his arm locked tight around your chest, it rests across his own now, rising and falling slowly with his breathing. He seems to be in true, deep sleep, having laid perfectly still for the past couple of hours save for the bear-like snorts he lets out every once in a while. Must have really worn himself out last night, you think to yourself, the tone of the voice in your head dripping with venom.

You wait another couple of minutes for the AC unit to turn back on, and use its obnoxious metallic rattling to cover the sound of you peeling back the thin sheet and musty comforter. You do so carefully, in as slow and as delicate movements you can manage in your current state, practically placing your feet on the carpet one toe at a time before pushing yourself up to a standing position. Joel makes some kind of grumbling cough just as you finish straightening out your spine, and it startles a gasp from you. You cover your mouth quickly and turn back to face him with wide eyes, afraid that you’ll find his own darkened ones staring back at you. 

They’re still closed, to your immense relief, but his mouth is hanging open now, his sharp canines catching the moonlight in a way that sends a shiver down your back. You still have another minute or so of cover from the air conditioning before the room is cloaked in sinister silence once again, so you use your last remaining seconds to sweep the floor with your bare feet, blindly feeling around in the dark for your shoes. Come on, where the fuck are they? you wonder, sure that you would’ve kicked them over by now, if they were still in the spot Joel had put them after he had stripped off your clothes and pulled you into the shower with him. 

Fuck.

He locked them in the fucking truck, along with the rest of your clothes, along with all of his clothes and both of your bags full of your modest belongings. You’d been tucked into bed already, sniffling quietly into the pillow as he’d made one last trip outside in nothing but his briefs just to ensure that you wouldn’t be motivated to try something again during the night. You’d hardly be able to make it anywhere without a stitch of clothing on your back except for his threadbare t-shirt, after all, the length of it just barely enough to cover the tufts of curls that poke out from the apex of your thighs. 

“Just a lil’ insurance policy. You understand, sweetheart,” Joel had whispered, slipping the key to the truck underneath his pillow before slithering into bed behind you, wrapping his arms around you and constricting you like a snake. 

Fuck it. It’s been too long. You tiptoe across the few feet of space between your side of the bed and the door to the room, thankful that the AC rattles out one last dissonant groan loud enough to cover the squeak of the hinges and the click of the lock. 

Free from the confines of that cage-like room at last, you shakily exhale the breath you’d been holding, and the desert air is cold enough for you to see the pale cloud of it against the onyx-colored sky. With your back pressed up against the door and your hands splayed out against the wood, you look up at the endless expanse of stars above the treeline and let out a shuddering sob, the sight both comforting and overwhelming all at once. 

You feel small. You feel lost. You feel trapped. Scared. Sick. Confused. Everything. Nothing.

There’s a whole world out there, right in front of you, all around you, and it was waiting to welcome you with open arms, if you hadn’t fallen into the wrong ones first. You feel both grateful and damned to be alive, relieved that you’ve been fortunate enough to live to see another day, but knowing that each one that follows will be spent with him. In his captivity, doing his bidding, spending the rest of your life trying to decide which side of his polaroid camera is the worse one to be on. 

The polaroids. You just can’t fucking get them out of your head. The only physical evidence of what happened to any of those girls, now sitting at the bottom of a gas station trash can, likely covered up with empty soda cans and fast food wrappers and grease-stained napkins by now. That black plastic bag was probably tossed into a dumpster sometime last night, ready to be loaded onto a trash truck and taken to a landfill, never to be seen again. Discarded. Forgotten.

If anything, you wish you could at least provide some kind of closure to their parents, to Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, who only gave up the search for their daughter because they had let the police convince them that their bright, beautiful, and promising child had just decided to run away that summer. You wish you could somehow make it back across the country, walk up to their home and knock on the door and be able to tell them “I know what happened to her. A man took her—a monster. He killed her. I’m sorry.”

But then, what condolence would that provide them, without a body to lay to rest? You wouldn’t even know where to begin to look for her. Joel probably doesn’t even fucking remember where she is anymore, where any of them are. He probably just picks the most unassuming, low-trafficked area he can find nearby to dump their bodies after he’s done with them, chosen as carelessly as he would the next cigarette out of his pack—a thatch of tall grass off the side of a back road, a pile of dry-rotted debris where a barn once stood, an algae-covered pond behind a long-abandoned farmhouse. Bleak, filthy, forgettable places, where nobody would ever be able to find them.

Another sob wracks your body, and you muffle the sound with your hand as you slide down the door, your knees giving out from underneath you as you collapse onto the sidewalk. 

Nobody knows where you are, or what happened to you, and nobody fucking cares. Not the police, not your own mother. You’ll be forgotten just like the rest of them if you haven’t been already, whether you make it out of this alive or not. 

You can’t bear the thought. You thought you could, when you had first left home and started following Ruby’s trail all that time ago. It had seemed inspiring at the time, the idea of leaving that suffocating little town in search of somewhere else to plant your roots and let yourself bloom. But now… you have to make sure that someone knows the truth. Whether they care about you enough to come to your rescue or not, you need at least one person out there to know that you didn’t just vanish into the wind. That you’re still alive. That you’re still out there. That you haven’t given up yet.

You close your eyes for a moment, taking a few steadying breaths as the cool night breeze dries your tears and the thin veil of sweat that your anxious spiral had produced. When you open them again, your gaze lands on the payphone across the parking lot, and you heave a despondent sigh as you study a moth fluttering dizzily around the bulb that illuminates the little booth. The phone is even more useless to you now than it was the first time, without access to the handful of quarters that are still locked inside Joel’s truck. With that option eliminated, you push yourself up to your feet, and feel the tiny muscles in your toes spasm with the desire to run. You try to rewind your memory several hours back, searching for even a glimpse of something that might tell you where the fuck you are, which direction to head in—had you passed any street signs, local schools, city halls, anything? You must’ve been too terrified to pay any attention to your surroundings as Joel drove from the gas station to the motel, devoting all of your focus to planning your failed getaway. Joel was probably counting on that, and had intentionally picked this drab little motel in the middle of fucking nowhere in order to imprison you here.

You finally tear your eyes away from that hopeless, trapped little moth, instead turning your head toward the motel office all the way down at the end of the row of rooms. There’s a dim light on inside, but no other sign of a person working there. Considering the isolated nature of this bygone stretch of highway, the motel might not even get enough business to justify paying a person to man the front desk all night. You chew on your lip, debating if it’s even worth a shot just to take a look around and see if you can find anything of use in there.

Your feet are stepping one in front of the other before you can stop them, leading you toward the door with “OFFICE” painted on the glass window in bold red letters. Goosebumps rise on the exposed skin of your legs as you walk, and you almost hope that there isn’t anybody in there after all, just to spare yourself the embarrassment of having to talk to some innocent bystander while you grasp desperately at the bottom hem of your shirt and your remaining shreds of dignity. You hate how well Joel’s little “insurance policy” is working exactly the way he wanted it to.

The doorknob is cold against your fingertips, and your breath hitches in surprise when you’re able to turn it with no resistance. You slip inside the office and close the door behind you quietly, taking a beat to survey the wood-paneled room—there’s a corkboard of room keys with only one empty hook, a clock on the wall that makes you jump with each startling tick, and a coffee maker in the corner covered in a thin layer of dust, illuminated by the slices of white moonlight coming in through the blinds. It’s all too still, too untouched, everything about the room only emphasizing how absolutely alone you are here. And yet, you can’t shake the eerie feeling of a presence, of eyes on you, watching you and waiting to jump out from the shadows and drag you back to your keeper. 

Just find what you came in here to look for and get the fuck out, you scold yourself, stepping behind the front desk and opening each drawer one by one as you search for the handful of items on your mental checklist—a pen, paper, an envelope, and a stamp. 

It’s not your brightest idea, attempting to send a letter back home to your mother. But it’s better than doing nothing, just disappearing into the forest and letting the monster that lurks there kick dirt over your trail of breadcrumbs. Even if just one remains, it will be enough to prove that you were ever there at all.

The pen and paper were easiest to find, sitting right on top of the desk in plain sight. You’d torn off a sheet of the motel’s personalized notepad, the place’s name and address printed neatly across the top. If your mother does find it in her heart to come looking for you, at least she’ll know where to start.

The envelope and stamp are proving more difficult to locate, and each deafening tick of the clock above your head taunts you with its reminder of how much time you’ve been in here, out of bed, away from Joel. Your searching becomes a little more frantic, less gentle moving of objects out of the way and more haphazardly swiping them around the drawers in your fruitless scavenging. 

“Um… hi there—” comes a voice from behind you, nearly startling a scream from your throat as you whirl around. You hit your hip on the open drawer and wince, and the owner of the voice puts her hands out in front of her, as if she had just spooked a small dog. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…” She flits her eyes up and down your minimally clad form as she apologizes, and you self consciously yank your shirt down over your thighs. “Are you okay? Can I help you with something?”

She’s young, pretty, maybe a few years older than you, with doe-like green eyes and a pale face dappled with caramel-colored freckles. 

“I-I was just, um… looking for an envelope? A-and a stamp, if you have any,” you confess shakily, your heart pounding and cheeks burning as you fidget nervously with the hem of your shirt. You glance over the girl’s shoulder and see a door you hadn’t noticed before, now open. There’s a drab-colored couch and a small flickering TV inside, playing at a volume low enough that you hadn’t heard it at all through the closed door. She must spend most of her night shift in there, watching reruns of old movies and munching on stovetop popcorn to stay alert just in case some poor soul comes stumbling into the office in need of her assistance. You feel a small pang of jealousy in your stomach as you imagine what a relaxed, carefree night she must have been having, while you were fighting for your life under the very same roof.

“Oh, sure! They’re just, um… Excuse me—” she says meekly as she steps in your direction. You scurry out of her way, swiping the pen and paper from the top of the desk as you do. She takes your place to crouch down and tug open the very bottom drawer in the stack you had been searching through, and rifles around for just a moment before she finds what she’s looking for. She hands the items off to you as she rises back to her full height, just a couple of inches above your own. “Here you are. Is that all you need?”

Yes. No. Not even fucking close.

You turn over the stationery in your hands, running your thumbs across the smooth surface of the envelope as you debate whether or not you should ask her for what you really need—help. 

But the girl has so much life in her eyes, so much color in her cheeks that you can see even in the office’s low lighting, that you’d never be able to forgive yourself if you decide to involve her in this. Her face would be printed on the side of a milk carton the second you open your mouth.

“Mhm, just this stuff. Thank you.” You do your best to make it sound like the truth.

“...Are you sure?” She presses, gesturing to either side of her neck, her auburn eyebrows peaked with concern.

Shit.

In your effort to make sure your bottom half stayed covered, you had forgotten about the dark marks Joel had created around your throat just a handful of hours earlier. They must be pretty noticeable already, if this girl—Chrissy, her name tag reads—is able to spot them just by the light of one yellow bulb and a few slats of moonlight.

You nod, fighting the whimper that threatens to escape when you bring one hand up to press into your bruises, the other holding your letter-writing supplies in front of your lap.

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” you lie, though you can tell she doesn’t believe you. You wouldn’t believe you, either. But you’re thankful that she decides to let it go, anyway. 

Chrissy nods, too. “So… you’re trying to mail a letter, then? We can’t really send it from here, but there’s a few mailboxes in town, if you’re gonna be sticking around for a little bit.”

“Oh, um… I’m not sure. Maybe,” you reply, offering a small smile as you shift your weight awkwardly. “Thank you.”

Chrissy presses her lips together, giving you another quiet nod along with one last sympathetic glance at your disheveled form. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else? I might have a pair of sweatpants with me if you—”

“No, no, it’s okay. I have to… he’s gonna, um…” You fumble, gesturing back to the room at the end of the row while you scramble for some kind of excuse that doesn’t give too much of your situation away. “I’m just going back to bed anyway, so… I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

A few beats of silence linger between you before you speak up again. “Could I write it in here, though? Just like… at the desk? I’ll be quick, I promise.”

She looks at you like you’re a kicked puppy as she replies, “Of course you can. I’ll be back there, if you decide you do want the change of clothes after all. If you could just close the door on your way out, and… be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” you half-whisper, and you can’t help the way your bottom lip trembles when Chrissy retreats back into that cozy little room, leaving the door cracked open just enough for the voices from her movie to keep you company while you write. You glance up at the clock once before you begin, promising to allow yourself no more than five minutes to say what you need to say, seal it away in the envelope, and sneak back into bed without Joel ever noticing you were gone. 

You used to pride yourself on your neat handwriting, when you were still in school and a thing as trivial as that actually mattered. But you haven’t had to write anything by hand in so long now that you hardly recognize the disconnected capital “T”s and chaotically pointed “M”s as you scribble them down. The words are still mostly legible, though, even the ones that were accidentally blurred by stray tears you couldn’t wipe away in time before they hit the page.

You read over the letter once as the clock counts out your last remaining seconds, and decide it’s good enough to be slipped inside the envelope and secured with a swipe of your saliva. Your stomach flips when you go to write your home address on the front, fearing that you’ve forgotten it in all the time that Joel has spent scrubbing you clean of who you were before you met him. But when you close your eyes, you hear the song your father used to sing to you to help you remember it when you were little, in case you ever got lost and needed to tell someone where you came from. It had never really come in handy, until now.

With your sufficiently addressed and stamped envelope in hand, you quietly exit the office and pad your way back down the sidewalk to the room where your captor lies waiting. You press your ear to the door before entering, and wait until you hear the telltale groan of the air conditioning kicking back on. When the mechanical sound reaches its full volume, you slip back through the door and shut it behind you all in one swift, delicate movement. You slink over to your side of the bed like a cat, and tuck the envelope underneath the mattress as you gently crawl back underneath the covers, next to Joel’s still-sleeping form, in the exact same position you had left him in. The slight disruption of your weight depressing the mattress prompts him to roll over in his unconscious state, and his skin is scorching against your own as he wraps you up in his arms again, pulling you tight against his chest. He gives a slow buck of his hips against your backside and releases a quiet growl into your hair that makes you shiver despite the heat he radiates.

You can’t fight the pull of your heavy eyelids for much longer, the wave of adrenaline you had been riding all night finally coming to a crest and crashing against you all at once. Telling your story, getting the words down on paper, having some kind of half-assed plan to make sure you don’t just disappear into the ether, seems to have given you more peace of mind than expected, at least in your delirious, traumatized, and sleep-deprived condition. For now, you’re still treading water, still holding your head above the surface of the deep dark unknown that awaits, and it’s enough for your exhausted mind to finally show you a few hours worth of mercy. 

You will survive this, you won’t disappear, even if you have to take it one excruciating day at a time.

—

The first day of the rest of your life begins that hazy morning after, when Joel finally rouses around ten o’clock from what seems to have been a relatively deep slumber. He tightens his grip around your upper body as he purrs out a sleepy groan, wetly kissing under your ear before mumbling, “Mornin’ babydoll.” Your body seems to have not caught up with reality just yet, evident in the way your cunt still flutters involuntarily at the sound of his gravelly morning voice and the warm slide of his tongue. You curse yourself for the instinctual reaction, wishing you could just reset all of the ways that your nerves have been trained to react to his touch over the past few months.

“Morning, Joel,” you whisper, and you can feel his half-hard length pressing into your back.

“You sleep okay, sweetheart?”

Your eyes go a little wide at his question, and you’re grateful that you’re still facing away from him. Is this a test? You can’t be sure anymore. But if he had ever realized you were gone during the night, surely he wouldn’t wait until the next morning to do something about it… right?

You nod. “Mhm, fine.” Your voice cracks a little, but Joel doesn’t seem to notice.

“Good, tha’s good…” he snakes a hand between your legs, finding its way underneath your—his—oversized shirt to lightly prod at your bare little hole. “And how’s she doin’, hm? Was dreamin’ about her all night, how fuckin’ good ‘n tight she was for me… She feelin’ sore at all this mornin’, babydoll?”

“A little, yeah.” His touch makes you shudder, but you know better than to try and reject it.

Joel tuts, circling the roughened pad of his finger over your clit. “Poor thing… ‘M sorry about that, baby. Jus’ got a lil’ carried away last night, tha’s all. You forgive me, don’t you, sweetheart? You understand?”

You hesitate, swallowing down the bitter taste of the lie you’re about to tell. “Yes, it’s… it’s okay, Joel.”

“Mmm, just the sweetest lil’ girl, ain’t you?” Joel says, swiping two of his fingers through your folds to collect some of your involuntary slick. He pulls his hand out from under the covers and sucks one of the damp digits into his mouth, releasing a pleasured groan. Joel gives another slow grind into your ass before bringing his hand in front of your face, pushing the other still-wet finger between your lips and forcing you to taste yourself. “See how sweet she is for me, baby? Think she forgives me too, don’t she?”

You nod around his finger, humming in pretend agreement.

“Perfect… so perfect for me, my lil’ doll,” Joel muses, sliding his finger back and forth across your tongue and teasing the back of your throat with each intrusive thrust. You fight to suppress your gag reflex until he eventually removes his finger from your mouth, wiping the dampness off on your shirt. “C’mere, pretty girl. Gimme a kiss,” he grumbles, gripping a paw onto your shoulder and pulling backwards, using the leverage to get you to roll onto your other side to face him.

The warm morning light coming in from the window illuminates the back of his head, highlighting the way his mussed salt and pepper locks stick up every which way. This is the first time you’re getting a good look at him since you had first spotted his disturbing keepsake box peeking out from underneath the bench seat, since he had snapped at you for trying to grab it, since you had still thought that would be the worst thing he’d ever do to you. It’s almost comical, in a sinister sort of way, how harmless Joel looks like this, with his scarred nose and stubbled cheeks still rosy from sleep.

You hadn’t anticipated how complicated it would be to still have to feign intimacy with him, how dizzying it already feels to stand on the sidelines in your own mind and watch your desire wrestle with your disgust. Joel presses his lips against your own, and you do your best not to grimace as you kiss him back. He still feels the same, still tastes the same, like black coffee and cigarettes and spearmint. But he isn’t the same.

Joel parts your teeth with his tongue as he deepens the kiss, hungrily lapping into your mouth as you let him take what he wants, only pulling away from him once he breaks the connection first. He brushes some of your hair away from your face when he does, admiring your slightly swollen lips as he rubs his calloused thumbs across your cheeks.

“Whaddya say we just have ourselves a nice afternoon together, hm? Think there might be a lil’ town nearby, could get us somethin’ to eat, maybe even do some shoppin’, dependin’ on what’s there.”

There’s a few mailboxes in town, if you’re gonna be sticking around for a little bit, you hear Chrissy’s voice repeat what she had told you last night, and feel an exhilarated pang in your chest when you remember the envelope you have hidden beneath you.

You try not to answer too eagerly, taking a beat before you respond with a quiet “Really?” “Yeah, babydoll. Why, you don’t wanna?”

“No! No, I—that sounds good. I just didn’t think… I thought you’d wanna get going again, or something. After… you know.” You bring your hand up to touch the sore sides of your neck instinctually, unable to bring yourself to say it, to think about it for longer than a couple of seconds. 

“Like I said, sweetheart. We’ll just leave your hair down today, nobody’ll see ‘em,” Joel says casually.

It’s unsettling, the evenness in Joel’s tone as he suggests having a normal day together, attempting to just move on as if the contusions you’re discussing aren’t a direct result of his abuse. You’ve only just woken up, and you’re already feeling the whiplash from the softness of his words in comparison to the degradation he was spitting at you last night. You wonder how much of it he even remembers, if he had really just let some entirely separate entity inside of him get “carried away”, or if it was all Joel. He couldn’t have been that good at hiding his true self from you the entire time you’ve known him, could he? What does it say about you if the signs had been there all along, and you’d either chosen to ignore them, or missed them completely? How can you ever be sure now which Joel you’re in the company of at any given time?

“Okay,” you agree, putting on a small smile that he’s quick to return. 

“Alright, we’ll get to it, then. Jus’ stay put, sweetheart, lemme bring our stuff back inside, find you somethin’ to wear.” Joel plants a whiskery kiss on your hairline before tossing the sheets aside and rising to his towering height, retrieving the key to the truck from underneath his pillow in the process. You can’t help the way your stomach flips as you watch him lumber towards the door, squeezing your thighs together under the covers at the sight of his visible morning wood bobbing in his briefs with each heavy step. You roll back onto your other side as soon as he steps over the threshold, letting the corners of your mouth drop as you curse yourself again. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? A constant battle between wanting to forget and feeling disgusted with yourself for even trying to? There has to be some way to navigate this without completely fucking loathing yourself for just trying to stay alive. 

Joel returns to the room a few minutes later with his arms and hands full of the clothing he’s chosen for both of you. He drops his boots onto the carpet with a heavy thud, but sets your own shoes down next to them with more care. He tosses a few articles of his own things onto his side of the bed before coming around to yours, holding out his free hand for you to take. “Up you go, babydoll, c’mon,” he commands. You grab hold of his steady hand, using it for support as you slide out from underneath the covers and push yourself off the mattress, the springs creaking in protest.

Joel entwines his thick fingers in yours as he leads you toward the small bathroom. You loosen your grip to shut the door behind you, expecting him to drop his handhold to allow you some privacy, but his grasp only tightens. You inhale sharply at the dull pain caused by his fingertips digging into the back of your hand, and turn to face him with panicked eyes. The stern expression you’re met with makes your heart rate quicken, terrified that you’ve already somehow found a way to upset him again.

“I just need to use the bathroom first, I’ll try to be quick,” you insist, still attempting to untangle your fingers from his.

“Not with the door closed you don’t.”

“...W-why?” You question timidly.

Joel jerks his head toward the shower, his gaze still trained on you. “That lil’ window up there. Just gotta make sure you ain’t gonna try anythin’, tha‘s all.”

You glance over to the tiny window he’s referring to, the kind that doesn’t even open all the way, just cracks open enough to let the steam out.

“But… I couldn’t even fit through there. And I… I learned my lesson, Joel, I promise—”

“Shh, don’t gotta get all worked up, ‘s alright, sweetheart. Jus’ do what I ask, okay?” Joel finally drops your hand in favor of cradling the side of your neck, brushing his thumb across the tender cartilage at the front of it. “You understand, don’t you, baby? ‘S just a precaution.” 

Joel speaks to you so gently, with such adoration in his tone and in his expression, even with the threatening placement of his hand on your throat. The blatant display of manipulation makes you dizzy. You drop your gaze from his face to the bathroom floor, and try to use the cool sensation of the tile against your bare feet to ground yourself. 

“Are you gonna watch me while I… go?” You ask meekly, your cheeks warming with embarrassment.

“No, no, sweet girl,” Joel placates, using a hooked finger to lift your head back up. “I’ll wait outside for you. Jus’ leave the door ‘bout halfway open, ‘s all I’m askin’. Besides, ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before, hm?” He pinches at your chin with a teasing smile, continuing to act as if everything he’s asking of you is completely ordinary. 

“Yeah, but…” You start, but Joel huffs in warning.

You concede with a sighed “Okay,” and he finally leaves you to conduct your business. You’re thankful that he at least isn’t watching you, instead just leaning his broad back against the doorframe outside the bathroom with his arms crossed. Although, you think he might’ve taken a peek when you had first sat down, in the brief moment when your oversized t-shirt was rucked up to your tummy. You go through the motions as quickly as possible so as not to prolong your mortification, practically flushing and stepping over to the sink all in one hurried movement. Joel slides himself behind you as you’re washing your hands, setting your clothing down on the back of the toilet before placing his hands on your hips. His hard length is slotted against your backside, and you do your best to ignore him as you dry your hands with the bleach-stained motel towel. He only continues to use his weight to press you harder against the edge of the sink, undeterred by your efforts, and you wince a little at the pain that begins to pulse under your ribcage.

“Lemme tell you how this is gonna be from now on, okay babydoll? Look at me,” Joel orders, and you meet his darkened eyes in the mirror where he towers above you as he continues, “You ain’t gonna do nothin’ for yourself or by yourself ever again, ‘s that clear? Nothin’. Know we had some of that before our lil’... incident… and you liked that, didn’t you, baby? Liked me takin’ care of you like that?”

You nod, because it’s true.

“You’re nothin’ but a lil’ doll to me from now on. Gonna let me dress you this mornin’, do your hair up, brush your teeth, everythin’... And when we go out today, you ain’t gonna talk to anybody, ain’t even gonna look at anybody, you understand? Nobody except for me. I’m all you got for the rest of your life. And that’s what we always wanted, ain’t it? Just each other…” He says the last part almost wistfully, letting go of your waist with one hand in favor of twisting a lock of your hair around one of his roughened fingers. “You’ll come to like livin’ like this, babydoll. Got no other choice, do you?” 

You swallow, biting your lip to stave off burning tears that you know will only upset him if you let them spill. 

“Do you?” Joel repeats.

“N-no, I don’t,” you reply, and he hums in satisfaction before rewarding you with a wet kiss to your temple that makes your skin crawl. 

“Yeah, tha‘s right… Turn around now, arms up for me, sweetheart.” Joel steps back from the sink to allow you room to obey his command, and you don’t hesitate to do so. He carefully lifts his t-shirt over your head before tossing it to the floor, and you shiver as the breeze blowing in from that one cracked window wraps itself around your naked form. Joel tuts when you wrap your arms over your pebbled nipples on instinct, gently scolding, “Nuh uh, don’t cover up what’s mine. Lemme look at ya.” He uses a light touch to guide your limbs down to your sides, whistling low as his predatory eyes roam around your trembling body, spending a few extra moments on your exposed chest. “Most gorgeous lil’ thing in the whole world… Would jus’ parade you around with me all bare like this if I could, show y’ off to everybody. Bet you’d like that, huh babydoll?” He taunts, pinching at one of your hardened buds.

“Y-yeah, I would,” you appease quietly, but he doesn’t seem to pay your unenthusiastic response any mind, too preoccupied with shimmying a new pair of panties up your legs. He takes a little too much extra care in settling them around the creases of your thighs, and huffs to himself when he notices the way your little hole squeezes around nothing at the sensation of his fingertips sliding underneath the elastic, just barely teasing your folds. Joel has you turn around to face the mirror again so he can clip your bra behind your back, and a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite yourself when he zips on the pretty blue dress he picked out for you. You like how it compliments your eyes, even with how tired they look.

Just like Joel had told you he would, he doesn’t allow you to do a single thing for yourself as he completes the rest of your morning routine, holding your chin securely in the dip between his thumb and forefinger as he brushes your teeth and tips a glass of water into your mouth for you to rinse out the minty paste with. He cradles the base of your skull with one hand, using the other to scrub the sleep from your eyes and the oils from your cheeks with a damp washcloth. Joel gets to work on your hair next, pulling the top half of it into two small ponytails and tying each of them off neatly with ivory-colored ribbons. You’re surprised at the delicate movements his hands are capable of despite their size, despite the damage they’ve caused. He’s clearly had some practice with this, but you try not to think about it too hard.

Once Joel deems his doll pretty and presentable, he leads you out of the bathroom and has you sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling before you with some protest from his aching joints. He slips a pair of lace-trimmed socks over your feet, one at a time, followed by the same canvas sneakers you were wearing when you had first met him. The sight of them brings you a little comfort, somehow, the discolored laces and smudged rubber soles making up just about the only familiar things you have in your possession anymore. Nearly everything you own, everything about you, has been tainted by Joel in some way now. You should’ve just taken off in the other direction when he’d pulled over his truck, left nothing but a cloud of dust in your wake and never even have given him the chance to ask you in that stupid disarming Southern twang of his if you needed a ride, if you were lost, if you had family or a boyfriend who cared about you enough to come looking for you. You’d advertised yourself in big bold lettering that you were the perfect fucking victim, practically wrapping the rope around your white woolen neck yourself so he could lead you to slaughter. This is what you deserve, stupid lamb that you are. Look at you now.

Joel instructs you to stay perched on the bed while he completes his own morning regimen, and you hang your head low as you rest your hands in your lap, picking at the skin around your fingernails. They’re practically raw now, but you can’t stop even though you should, even though it hurts, even though you’ve made yourself bleed. It had always been a nervous habit of yours, and you hadn’t noticed until you started up again last night that this was probably the nicest your nail beds had looked in years. You’d felt so comforted, so safe with Joel that you hadn’t had a reason to continue the self-destructive behavior, until all those fluttery feelings were ripped out from under you in a second. You’d been biting and tearing at your skin all night in addition to the many other things you’d been doing instead of sleeping, the habit having returned with a force as you’d used the pain to… what? To make up for the lack of blood you’d shed, to apologize to the ghosts of Anna and Elizabeth and Ruby and ask them please not to haunt you, you’re sorry, you’re sorry, you’re sorry. See? He’d made you bleed, too.

You’ve been attempting to balance your attention between your hands and the bathroom, waiting for an opportunity to arise where Joel is distracted enough for you to retrieve the envelope from its hiding place without him seeing. You keep your chin close to your chest as you observe his movements, trying not to make it too obvious that you’re watching him. After a few minutes, he finally bows his head into the sink to splash some water onto his skin, and you quickly reach behind you to swipe the letter and shove it underneath the waistband of your panties. Joel still hasn’t lifted his head back up by the time you’ve got it situated, and the corner of your mouth twitches in satisfaction. For a plan that you’re basically just making up as you go along, it’s going better than you expected. 

You return to your preoccupation with your hands as you wait for Joel to finish up, and you remain hunched over yourself even as he flicks off the bathroom light and stalks over to where you’re now sucking the taste of bitter iron from one of your fingers. He startles you out of your focused state when he asks, “What’re you doin’, babydoll?”

You lift your head up, releasing the smarted skin from your mouth as you hold out your hand to examine the injury. Both of you watch a little crimson pearl begin to swell in the groove where your nail disappears into the skin. “Oh…” Joel sighs, grabbing your hand gently and raising it closer to his face, turning it this way and that to admire how your blood catches the light. You swear you can see his pupils dilate before he sucks your finger into his own mouth, swirling his tongue around your skin as he savors the metallic tang mixed with the remnants of your saliva. You feel the sharp edge of his teeth graze the pad of your finger, and your breath catches as you fear he might just bite the thing clean off from the last knuckle down. He doesn’t, of course, just lets his eyelids quiver and his cock twitch before releasing the digit from his mouth and rumbling out a quiet growl. You can’t help the somewhat sickened expression that overtakes your features as you watch Joel’s perverted little display, but work to fix it into something more neutral as he opens his eyes again.

“Pretty sure I got some bandaids in the truck, lemme get dressed ‘n then we’ll hit the road, hm?” he says, in a tone too casual to belong to someone who’d just had a near orgasmic reaction to tasting your blood. You suppose this is just another consequence of your survival—having to endure Joel’s unconcealed freakish tendencies now that he knows you’re not a flight risk anymore.

Joel tugs on his standard uniform—his thick canvas jacket layered overtop a simple undershirt and earth-toned flannel, paired with tattered jeans and his sturdy leather work boots. You allow him to help you to your feet as he leads you out to the truck, his thick fingers laced tightly through the ones of your non-bloodied hand. You have to squint at how bright the late morning sky is, your eyes aching as they adjust from the dim lighting of the motel room. 

“Hey, morning!” Comes a cheery voice from down the row. You turn your head in the direction of the sound, and put your hand up to shield your eyes from the sun in an effort to get a better view of the person it came from. When your gaze finally focuses, you’re able to make out a feminine figure with auburn hair and alabaster skin, her slender arm waving at you in greeting—Chrissy.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You dip behind Joel, attempting to hide yourself from her view. He puts a protective hand across your body, and takes the lead in responding to her. “...Mornin’. Can we help you with somethin’?”

Her footsteps pause on the pavement, and there’s a beat before she says anything else, likely not expecting Joel’s less-than-friendly response to her sunny demeanor. “...No. Well, I just wanted to say ‘hi’, check in on you—Both of you,” she corrects herself quickly. You’re staring straight down at the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact just like Joel had demanded of you. But you can still see her out of the corner of your vision, attempting to lean around Joel’s large form to get a better look at you. You feel like your heart is about to burst out of your fucking ribcage as Joel turns his head toward where you’re cowering behind his arm, then slowly back to Chrissy. 

“We’re fine,” he says plainly. 

The silence that follows feels like it lasts an eternity. You hate how weak you must look in front of her, practically shaking where you stand like a newborn fawn while you seek the protection of this much older man whose hands, Chrissy must notice, are large enough to have created the marks on your neck that she had pointed out last night. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, to figure out the reason—the person—behind your flighty, nervous, and fidgety behavior in the office. Chrissy takes a few steps backwards, away from this strange couple standing before her, one she realizes is in her best interest not to engage further with.

Her voice comes out noticeably more unsteady now than it did when she had first approached you. “W-well, I just like to say ‘hi’ to guests on my way out if I see them. So… ‘hi’, and, um… if you need anything, someone else will be here soon to cover the office.” She rushes through the latter part of her sentence, like she just wants to spit all the words out as quickly as possible so that the interaction can be over with. You can’t see his face, but you suspect Joel is giving her some kind of hooded-eyed look that’s making her stumble over her words. “Have a good day, you two. Be careful,” she adds before she departs, and you know that those last two words were meant for you.

Joel watches her as she disappears around the corner of the building, only lowering his arm once she’s completely out of sight. You don’t look up until the sounds of her footsteps dissipate, until Joel’s arm is on your lower back as he ushers you into the truck. 

“Get in, baby,” he commands, opening the door for you and helping you up into the passenger side of the bench seat. He reaches across your body to buckle your seatbelt for you before you can even lift your hand to do it yourself.

Once you’re situated to his liking, Joel closes your door and makes his way over to the driver’s seat, climbing inside and igniting the rumbling engine. He roots around in the truck’s center console, tossing aside cigarette butts and gum wrappers and loose change, eventually coming up with a single bandaid. Its paper sleeve looks crumpled and neglected, and you suppose it’s because he’s never really had a use for it until now. There isn’t much of a point in trying to bandage the type of wounds he typically inflicts, anyway, the damage already having been done.

“Gimme your hand, darlin’, hold it still for me.” Joel tears open the wrapper with his calloused thumbs and flicks away the little paper tabs from the fabric’s sticky surface, wrapping the bandaid around your finger tenderly. It would be a sweet moment, if it weren’t for the way he adjusts himself upon seeing the deep red droplet bloom on the other side of the little cotton pad. You make a mental note to work on finding a different self-soothing mechanism, lest you want to wake up in the middle of the night with his knife at your neck and his cock in his hand, deciding that you weren’t worth keeping around after all, that he just had to know if you really are just as pretty on the inside as you are on the outside, to know if the rest of your volume tastes as sweet as the small sample he’d already taken. 

You sit on your hands the entire ride into town.

—

The drive was mostly silent, but actually kind of pleasant, finally giving you a real opportunity to take in the vast surroundings of… wherever you are, New Mexico. Your hands had gotten uncomfortably warm where they were squished under the bare skin of your legs for the entire half-hour or so drive, but you didn’t dare remove them. You’d have had nowhere else to put them anyway, not with the way Joel’s large paw was clamped onto your upper thigh, his pinky finger slipping underneath the hem of your dress and tracing the edge of your panties. You were grateful you’d had enough forethought to slip the envelope into the right side of your underwear, predicting that he’d get handsy like this in the truck. You’d just kept your body perfectly rigid with your head turned away from him, and tried not to descend into madness thinking about what he had made of your interaction with Chrissy earlier, if he suspected anything, if he knew you were hiding something, if he suddenly developed x-ray vision overnight and knew exactly what you were concealing under your dress.

Relief washed over your nervous system as you’d observed jagged rockwork and ochre-colored scrub brush gradually turn into modest Pueblo-style homes and businesses, glad to have finally been granted an opportunity to escape the motel after your twelve hours of terror. The steadily approaching signs of civilization had served as a reminder that the world does actually have other people in it besides you and Joel, despite what he’s been attempting to convince you of.

The town had become more populated the further the truck had chugged along down the main street, with a few friendly-looking people walking their dogs and carrying paper grocery bags as they strolled along the storefronts. You had even found yourself staring at a group of girls around your age sipping their coffees together on a bench, giggling and gossiping and making you wish you had problems as superficial as theirs. They reminded you of the type of girl Ruby was, bright-eyed and carefree and beautiful, and you’d tried to swallow down the bitter resentment that had begun to simmer in the pit of your stomach. Joel hadn’t even seemed to notice the girls as the truck passed them by, and you weren’t sure if his disinterest should make you feel satisfied or hopeless. Yesterday, you would’ve told yourself that you’re the love of his life, of course he wouldn’t dare have eyes for anyone but you, he’ll never leave your side for the rest of his life. But the sentiment takes on a much different connotation today, feeling more like a life sentence than a daydream.

You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until the truck had finally rolled to a stop outside of a quaint little restaurant, its terracotta awning decorated in twinkling lights. The sign on the facade read The Coyote Café, and had a little silhouette of the namesake animal painted next to the words. You could see through the turquoise-trimmed windows that there were already a handful of other patrons inside enjoying their meals, and it made you feel a little safer, knowing that Joel would be more motivated to put his mask back on in front of so many pairs of eyes. In a town this small, the two of you probably stick out like a sore thumb enough as it is, the café seeming like the kind of place where the waitresses know the regulars by name. You were eager to finally be able to drop your defenses, at least for a little while.

Joel had chosen a table all the way in the back corner of the place, furthest from the door, and had insisted on the both of you sharing the same side of the booth. Although you could feel a few stares on you, you’d remained steadfast in your obedience of the rules he had laid out for you this morning, and kept your head down while he placed your orders with the waitress—a plate of enchiladas and a beer for him, and a cheese quesadilla with a glass of water for you. You probably would’ve been able to eat more, but you suspected that his choice of meal for you was deliberate, so as not to provide you with too much energy that you might use to make another break for it. It had reminded you of the way he had convinced you to take your coffee decaf at Moody’s that night, all of it seeming so fucking obvious now, in hindsight. 

“You know somethin’, babydoll?” Joel suddenly asks through a mouthful of beans and rice. “Think I saw a lil’ consignment shop just down the way. Whaddya say we head on over there next, let you pick out somethin’ pretty for yourself since you been so good today, hm?”

You hadn’t exchanged many words as you’d been eating, other than the occasional semi-awkward comment about how nice the weather is or how good your meals are. Ordinarily, you’d be making up stories about the interesting-looking strangers sitting at the counter, or quizzing each other on the country songs playing over the radio, or debating whether the color of his flannel was really green or brown. You’d sometimes hang out at diners so late into the evening that the waitstaff would have to kick you out, and you’d be apologetic as you made your way back out to the truck, hardly able to believe how much time you’d lost track of while you were flicking wadded up straw wrappers at each other or taste testing each other’s desserts. You mourn the version of Joel in those memories as you push around the crumbs on your plate, quietly responding to him with, “Really? You’d let me?”

“‘Course I would, sweet girl.” He wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin before lowering his voice, leaning down closer to your ear. “Long as you let me take it off of ya later tonight.”

“Let me.” As if you have any other choice.

Joel chuckles at his own crude comment as he slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you flush to his side. He finishes the rest of his meal with one hand while he rakes the other along your upper arm, occasionally sliding a finger underneath your bra strap and snapping it against your skin. You’re only able to let your posture relax for just a moment when the waitress brings around the check, and he finally removes his scalding hand in order to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. He slaps a few crumpled bills onto the table, and then his thick fingers are forcing themselves in between your own smaller ones as he pulls you up from the booth and leads you out of the café. You spare a glance at the motherly-looking waitress on your way out, and you exchange sympathetic looks with each other behind Joel’s back. You wish she didn’t look so sorry for you, like you’re a wounded animal being dragged around by the hunter who shot an arrow through your heart. But isn’t that what you are?

Your feet stop dead in their tracks when you step down onto the sidewalk outside the cafe, your brain too enamored with the landscape of the surrounding valley to tell them to keep moving. The wide open sky and limestone hills dappled with towering evergreens almost look like a painting, the way the mountains turn paler shades of blue-green as they extend further into the distance. It’s so unlike the flat, beige midwestern states where you and Joel had begun your journey together, it almost takes your breath away.

“You just gonna stare up at the sky all day, or d’you wanna get to shoppin’, hm?” Joel says, startling you from your state of wonder.

“Oh, no, we can go. I’m sorry,” you submit, hurrying to Joel’s side. He makes an enamored little hum and kisses the top of your head before continuing to pull you along the storefronts. You keep your head down, counting the cracks in the pavement as you work to keep up with his long strides. 

“See that buildin’ down there, the one with the pink siding? Tha’s the lil’ clothin’ store I was talkin’ about.” You flick your eyes upward to where Joel is pointing a lazy finger, immediately spying the technicolor little shop he’s referring to. The unusual choice in paint color is certainly eye catching, but what you’re really drawn to is the dark blue metal receptacle standing on the sidewalk just in front of it—a mailbox, just like Chrissy told you there would be.

This is it. This is your chance. When you get up to the mailbox, you’ll improvise a way to direct Joel’s attention elsewhere, and use the opportunity to slip the envelope from under your dress and deposit it into the box without him noticing. You’ll have to move quickly, precisely, quietly, or it’s all over. 

You should start tugging it loose now, so that it’ll be halfway in your hand already by the time you reach the store. You pat your hand against your upper thigh, expecting to feel the paper crinkling against your skin.

Except, you don’t. You can’t feel it. It isn’t there anymore. 

You feel panic start to bloom in your chest, but try your best to keep your cool. The mailbox is only a few paces away now, and you’ll have nothing to deposit into the slot, because your chance at preventing yourself from being completely forgotten by the one person in your life who might actually care, is gone. Vanished.

Where the fuck is it? Had it fallen out when you were exiting the truck? Is it laying on the floor of the cab for Joel to discover when he helps you back into your seat later? Where could it possibly have—

“Hey, excuse me! Mister?” A young-sounding voice—male, unfamiliar— shouts from behind you, followed by the sound of jogging footsteps. Joel turns around, your hand still held securely in his own. Your feet stay planted exactly where they are, your eyes unblinking and locked onto the mailbox, just barely out of reach. “Did one of you drop this? Found it on the floor by your table when I was cleaning up, didn’t want you to leave it behind.”

“Uh… don’t think so. Lemme take a look—” Your arm pulls in an uncomfortable direction as Joel reaches toward the boy to retrieve the mystery object. Well, it’s a mystery to him, you already know exactly what it is. All you can do is hold your breath while Joel undoubtedly reads your handwriting on the front of the envelope, hoping that if you stand perfectly still, you might really be able to disappear. Without the letter, that’s the ending you’re destined for now, anyway.

Joel laughs breathily. “Y’know what, son? Think we did drop this. Thank you kindly for bringin’ it back to us.” Joel squeezes your hand so hard you think all the fragile little bones might shatter, and you bite your lip to stifle a pained whimper. Your eyes start to water as the crippling fear you had felt last night begins to climb its way up the back of your throat, and you wonder if this bus boy in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, might just become the last person besides Joel to see you alive. Or at least, the back of your head. Without giving him a good look at your face, he wouldn’t even be able to recognize you when they show your picture on the news a day or two from now, or be able to go to the police and tell them that this lumberjack-looking older man he encountered was the one he saw you with last. You should’ve known better than to try tempting fate again. 

“Of course! Have a good one,” says the bus boy, and a tear escapes your waterline as you wait for the sounds of his footsteps to fade. You can’t be sure if the wetness collecting on your lashes is from the pain of Joel’s iron grip on your hand, or from the sheer terror of being found out by him again. What you do know, is that he doesn’t seem like the type to let you go through all three strikes before he puts you out.

“We will,” Joel responds, but only loud enough for you to hear.

He turns back around after what feels like an eternity, sighing disappointedly. You don’t need to look at him to know that he's upset, angry, furious. It radiates off his skin, penetrates your soul, wraps itself tightly around your throat in replacement of his hands. Your palm is sweating, but he doesn’t let go, just digs his dull nails into the back of your hand as he snarls a one-worded command close to your ear—”Walk.”

Joel drags you the rest of the way to the mailbox, shoving you down onto the wooden bench just beside it. You’re surprised that whatever it is he’s about to do to you, he’s confident enough to do it in broad daylight, in front of a few dozen potential witnesses. You keep your eyes on the ground, waiting to hear the flick of his pocket knife or the cracking of his knuckles, but all that comes is a tired groan as he kneels before you, lifting your chin up to face him. 

Joel wags the envelope in front of your face with his other hand, looking at you with a more pitied expression than an enraged one. “You wanna tell me what this is, babydoll?” He asks in a confusingly even tone. You search his eyes for the reddish hue they had become last night when he was spewing obscenities at you and threatening your life, but you don’t find it. 

“It’s… it’s a letter,” you admit, blinking away tears. You avoid his gaze even with your chin raised, looking around at the townspeople to see if any of them are staring at the little scene the two of you are putting on. 

“Don’t look at them, baby, look at me. They ain’t gonna help you.” Joel jostles your face in his grip, and you flick your eyes back to him immediately. “I can see that it’s a letter, sweetheart. Who were you plannin’ on sendin’ it to, hm? Whose name is this?” Joel prompts, using his thumb to tap the name and address you had scribbled onto the center of the paper.

You let out a sob, the patronizing tone of his questioning making you feel so fucking stupid with just a few words. How is he so fucking good at this? At breaking you down, spinning the effects of his own actions back onto you, making you feel like the one in the wrong.

“My mom, I… I wrote it to my mom,” you reply through little sniffles, and you can hardly stand the exaggeratedly sympathetic way that Joel’s eyebrows peak at your answer.

“Babydoll… What could you possibly have to say to her? You ‘n I both know she don’t care about you anymore, never did. She’d open this up and just throw it right in the trash… I mean—” Joel releases your chin from his hold in order to slide his thumb along the envelope’s seal, tearing open the flap and removing the page of motel stationery you had written your plea on in the dim lighting of the office. “Here, sweetheart. Why don’t you read it to me, lemme hear what you wanted to tell her so badly you decided to do it behind my back. You snuck outta bed last night to do this, I assume?”

You nod, taking the letter from his hand and unfolding it.

“Hm… Have to do somethin’ else about our sleepin’ arrangements from now on, then.” You don’t know what he means by that, and you aren’t looking forward to finding out. “Read it to me, darlin’, go ‘head.”

You take a deep breath, blinking hard as you try to get your watery eyes to focus on the page. “I s-said that, um… that I was sorry for leaving, that I don’t blame her for the way she treated me growing up.” You pause to swallow the moisture collecting in the back of your throat as you cry, and attempt to steady your wavering voice before you continue. “A-and… that I was with you, that we’ve been traveling together, but… But I got scared, and I w-wanted her to come get me. Um… ‘Please don’t forget about me. I love you. I’ll see you when you get here.’ That’s the last thing I said.” You set the letter down on your lap and collapse in on yourself, burying your wet face in your hands as your sobs become full force.

“Oh, babydoll…” Joel soothes, rubbing a hand up and down your arm as you cry. “Where did you get all these ridiculous ideas, hm? Sayin’ that you love her, that you forgive her? I mean, do you really believe she’d come lookin’ for you all the way out here, snatch you up and take you home ‘cause she cares so much about you?” “I… I don’t know, maybe. I just couldn’t sleep last night, I got so afraid of—” “That girl in the parkin’ lot this mornin’... it was her, wasn’t it? You moseyed on into the office lookin’ all pitiful last night and she talked you into doin’ this? She took advantage of you, baby?” Joel brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his face contorted in dramatic concern.

You’re so caught off guard by his accusations, your shuddering body finally stills. You lift your head up from your hands, wiping your eyes on the backs of them. “...What?”

“I mean, I know you know better than this, so it must’ve been her, puttin’ all these nonsense ideas into your head, convincin’ you to do somethin’ that’d only get you hurt… She don’t know what’s good for you like I do, baby. What was gonna happen when you sent off your lil’ letter, and you waited ‘n waited ‘n waited, and your mama never came for you? Who’d be there to take care of you, hm? Me. Always gonna be me.” Joel gently swipes his thumbs underneath your eyes, collecting the salty dampness still there. He sounds so sure of his own words, they’re almost convincing you that you’re misremembering your encounter with Chrissy last night. It was late, you were exhausted, and Joel is right, you do know better, you’ve told him yourself. Had she done more than just provide you with the envelope and stamp? Was the idea in your head before you walked into the office, or had she somehow persuaded you of it without you being any wiser? You’d remember if Joel’s version of the story is the one that really happened, wouldn’t you?

“No, Joel, she didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off swiftly.

“She did, baby, I think she did… Poor girl, must’ve been too out of it to even remember what really happened. D’you see now? This is why it’s gotta be just you ‘n me from now on, sweetheart. ‘Cause there’s all kinds of people out there like her who wanna get inside your head, convince you of things that ain’t true…”

As undeserving as Chrissy may or may not be of the blame for your childish endeavor, you feel relieved that your most recent act of defiance doesn’t seem to have the same effect on Joel as the one you attempted last night. He seems more… sorry for you, than anything else, and you aren’t quite sure why he seems to feel differently now than he did a mere twelve hours ago. Maybe he views it as proof of your loyalty, the fact that you had made it outside, gotten yourself a small taste of freedom, and still decided to crawl back into bed with him afterwards. You could’ve taken off running down the road if you’d really wanted to, his “insurance policies” be damned, but you didn’t. You stayed. And you hate what that says about you—that you’re fucking weak. But you’ll take “weak” over “dead”, at this point.

You decide to poke the bear a little bit, just to confirm if you’re in the clear the way you seem to be. “So… you’re not upset?” 

“No, no, I ain’t upset with you, baby. But this is why you can’t do things without me no more, okay? Can’t trust nobody out there except for me, can you?”

You pause, then shake your head at him.

“Good, good girl… Y’know what, baby? Here—” Joel reaches into the pocket of his jacket, and pulls out a tarnished silver lighter. “Why don’t we just forget about all this, huh? Forget about your mama, that girl back at the motel… All those people who don’t care about you the way I do.” He places the cool metal object in your hand and closes your fingers around it. 

“You… want me to burn it?”

Joel shrugs, quirking his mouth into a pout. “Don’t see why you’d wanna keep it… Ain’t goin’ anywhere, is it?”

“...No, guess not,” You mumble under your breath. You know what this means, what it symbolizes, why he wants you to do it yourself. So you can bear witness to your one last glimmer of hope dissolving into embers and ash on the sidewalk at your feet, so you can understand that there is no other outcome other than the one Joel had predetermined for you the second you had agreed to let him take you to Moody’s that night. There is no way out. There is submitting to him, and there is death. Take your pick.

You flick open the lighter, raise the flame to the paper, and watch it ignite. It only takes a few seconds before you feel the heat begin to lick at your fingers, and you drop the still-burning remainder of the letter onto the pavement below so as to spare your hands any further injury today. It curls in on itself and crumples as it chars, and the two of you stare at it until it’s nothing more than a smoldering pile of cinders. You swear you can see an amused smile tug at the corners of Joel’s lips in the edge of your vision.

“Don’t that feel better, baby? Finally lettin’ go of her?” he asks, taking the lighter from your hands and shoving it back into his pocket, along with the envelope. 

You sniffle once, shrugging. “A little.”

“I know, sweet girl. It will, in time. You’ll understand sooner or later.” Joel groans as he pushes himself back up from his kneeling position, then extends a hand down for you to take. He helps you stand, then adjusts your hair to sit nicely over your bruises again, before placing his hands on your shoulders. “Now, that red-headed girl… Did you get her name, sweetheart?”

“...Chrissy. Her name was Chrissy,” you answer hesitantly, the intonation of your response sounding more like a question.

“Chrissy…” Joel repeats, letting her name settle on his tongue. “Whaddya say we just head on back, see about payin’ Chrissy a lil’ visit, hm?” He retakes your hand in his, then starts in the direction of the truck.

Your heart sinks into your stomach, realizing the hidden meaning of his words. “Jus’ gotta bring ‘em to me, tha’s all. Maybe go after ‘em if they try to run,” Joel had rasped into your ear last night, when he was describing the role you’d be forced to play in continuing his sick habit. 

“W-what? Why? She won’t be there anymore, remember? She said she was leaving, that somebody else would be working in the office for the day,” you frantically remind him, hoping that she can be spared after all, hoping that you can be spared from your first time acting as bait.

Joel stops walking for a moment as he considers your words, then pulls you along with him again. “Pay a visit to whoever’s workin’ in there, then. See if they know where she might be.” He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, just stares straight ahead as he hones in on the truck like a missile. The overly concerned facade he had put on earlier seems to be faded now, replaced with something more akin to bloodthirsty determination.

You scrape the far corners of your mind for something, anything you could say to him that might talk him out of this. “But… I thought you said she took advantage of me? Why would you want to see her if you think she tried to hurt me?”

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks. His nostrils flare.

“You know why.”

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @alex-does-art-things @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @joelsdagger @natalieispunk @mermaidgirl30 @untamedheart81 @galway-girlatwork @pinkiec6-rubi @wand-erer5 @arminsbf @shivispunk @gigistorm @theoreticalfreak @vinceelser @always-andromeda @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @old-logan-and-old-joels-slut @zliteraturehoe @k1l4ni @hjzghi-blog @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @kay1805 (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

What a Mess 8

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: thick!Bucky Barnes

Summary: Your new job isn’t all that you expect. (maid AU – short!reader)

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You take care of the food when it gets there. It's an easy distraction from the man prowling like an animal. You don't know if he's more hungry for the food... or you.

You dish up the Thai noodles on plates and bring them to the table with the little styrofoam tray of spring rolls and plum sauce. As you lay out the utensils, Bucky approaches the table. His hand rests on the back of the a chair.

"Would you like something to drink?" You eke out, keeping your eyes on the black wood.

"I am thirsty... but could use a beer too. Thanks, doll." He sits with a smirk. You understand he's referring to something else but not entirely sure.

You go to the fridge and take out one of the dark bottles. The beer has a German or Dutch name. You don't know.

"You want one?" He offers. "Help yourself to whatever you like. What's mine is yours. I'm... all yours."

You hide behind the fridge door. You grab a beer stein from the cupboard and bring it to him with the bottle. You place both before him.

"I'll have water," you assure him.

"Good idea, doll. Drinking's no good for ya."

He twists off the metal cap with his prosthetic hand. You try not to stare. He's only in a pair of gray sweats and a black tank top. You still feel sticky from what he did.

You go back to get a glass of water. As you return to the table, he clears his throat. "Uh, uh, doll, come here," he beckons you with his gold and black fingers. He winks and you obey. You put the glass down as you near him.

He puts his hand on your hip. His real hand, and guides you around. He pulls you between him and the table and sits you on his lap. You flinch but don't try to get up.

He reaches around you and grabs the fork. He twines noodles around the tines and lifts them off the plate, wrapping them until there are no loose ends. He offers you it. You hesitate but open your mouth. You can see that glimmer of anger in your mind. You don't want to awaken that any further.

You chew and he takes a bite of his own. You watch the plate then look at the one you placed by the other chair. There's something off. Like he's not seeing reality. He just has an idea in his head and he's following that.

You continue the meal like that. It's strange and awkward. He doesn't seem to notice. When you're done, he slowly nurses his beer, one hand on your leg, rubbing through your pants. You fidget and clutch the plate.

"I'll clean up," you offer.

"You can relax," he coaxes. "There's no hurry."

There is. You were done hours ago. You have an apartment. A home. Your life might not be much but it's yours.

"You alright?" He asks.

You nod. "I just... I'm quiet. Please don't be mad."

He takes a breath and lets it out, "mad? At you? You can be quiet, doll. I don't mind."

You chew your lip. He's crowding you. Touching you. His hand crawls closer to your pelvis and you twitch.

"Please, I... I don't want the plate to dry up. It's harder to wash."

You get up before he can stop you. He catches the loop of your belt and tugs. You pick up the plate and look back at him.

"Sorry, I..."

"You're nervous. I am too. I told ya," he grins and unhooks his finger. "We don't gotta rush."

"I know. It's... It's just..." You look at the dirty plate. "I should clean."

You spin away and scurry before he can catch you again. As you turn on the sink, he huffs. You sense him get up. He strides to the other side of the counter and watches you.

"Stop acting like the maid." He says.

You nearly drop the plate. You glance at him and frown, "but... I am."

"No. You're fired."

You drop it then. It hits the bottom of the sink and you turn to him with lather dripping down your arms. "What?"

"I don't want you to be my maid. I want you to be..." He stares at you and his eyes grow foggy, "mine."

Your lip quivers. You peek at the door and suddenly, he's charging toward you. You back up against the fridge and shield yourself with your sopping hands. He stops short and winces.

"Doll, you think I'm gonna hurt you?"

"N-no," you look at him between your fingers then drop your hands. "No, it's just... I don't know. It's..."

"I know it's sudden. I know it's kind of crazy but doll, I know you feel it too," he cups your chin and looms over you. "I tasted it. I know you want me too."

You gulp and flutter your lashes at him. You squeeze your legs together. Your eyes flit away in embarrassment.

"You don't gotta be shy. Please. It's been a long time for me. It's like... it's like new for me too," he cooes as his thumb stretches up to pet your lip. "We'll both be learning, together."

[likeimurloverr]

Moritz and wendla friendship my beloved

hi people look at what i wrote so far

[misguidedasgardian]

AMOR VINCIT OMNIA III

III. Starving

MASTERLIST

Summary: The reality of your marriage finally hits you

Warnings: Use of she/her pronouns, reader has hair, Ancient Rome AU accuracies and inaccuracies, arranged marriages, age difference (Marcus is late forties reader is 20), cursing, reader is touch starved (to some capacity), use of historic characters that don’t belong on this timeline, and other sort of inaccuracies (i'm not an historian), MIGHT MISS SOME WARNINGS

Notes: I have to admit I have trouble calling Acacius, Marcus, but now its a reader thing 😂

This story is placed 10 years BEFORE gladiator II, so that’ll make Lucilla 39, Reader is 20, Marcus idk, Lucius (reader's bro) would be 18 if he was here.

This fic is based out of @stylesispunk's "Soldier in the armour" 💕

When you woke up, your eyes ached, as you cried yourself to sleep, your scalp still hurt and your hair was wild as you had to undo the intricate braids yourself. 

You sat on the bed and you looked down to see the beautiful sheer tunic, and you felt more of what you felt last night… Was it shame? you didn’t know as you felt like you had done something wrong, your own husband didn’t want to bed you, on your wedding night, after waiting six months

Tears spring to your eyes again, 

Everybody had claimed you looked beautiful last night, even Marcus said so himself… perhaps, he was truly tired… but the way he spoke to you… you felt something definitive in his words.

“I will not touch you”

Did he mean… for last night? or…?

Perhaps you had done something wrong…

And now you were spiraling. The door opened and two maids came inside, they didn’t look at you they just bowed and presented themselves

“I am Diana, domina”

“and I’m Tullia”

“Good morning”, you greeted, covering yourself with the sheets

“Do you need anything, domina?”, asked the one that seemed eldest, she looked at you and got all embarrassed, you guessed the state of your figure was worse that you believed

“I think I need someone to braid my hair”, you said shakily, “and I’d like one of my tunics from the big trunk… please”, they both nodded quickly and they as much ran to fulfill your requests. Tullia came back with a comb in her hands. You rose from the bed feeling a bit self conscious as you were as good as naked, but they didn’t seem to mind

She braided your hair carefully, and smiled softly at you, Diana came back with one of your most beautiful tunics, in your favorite colour.

“Is Marcus awaken?”, you asked Tullia 

“Yes domina, for a couple of hours now”, she mumbled, and you cursed yourself, what would he think of you? sleeping in your very first day as a married couple

“You look so pretty domina”, offered Diana, she seemed like a sweet girl, you guessed she was the same age as you

“Thank you, and thank you for helping me”, you said softly

“The General is in the triclinium, eating”, one informed you, and you were quick to find your way to him after thanking them once more.

You took long breaths to soothe yourself, and then, as you were about to show yourself to him in the triclinium, you put on your softest smile and walked in his line of view. 

He put on a soft red tunic, and when he saw you, he stood from the long chair

“Good morning”, he greeted. 

“Marcus”, you offered, “sorry for sleeping so much…”, he shook his head 

“There is no need for that”, he said, “I hope your night was pleasant”, yeah, very, you thought sarcastically, “and you are rested”

“I am rested”, you said, and you hoped your eyes weren’t red. 

“Do you want something to eat?”, he offered, and he seemed… relaxed, on the contrary of last night. 

You wanted to ask him about last night, about what happened, about what you did wrong, so you could fix it. But now, even if he was in front of you, he seemed so distant, so foreign, the little trust you had developed seemed like it evaporated 

“Sure”, you said, your mouth was dry and you guessed it was because you cried all the water inside your body 

“Was the temperature pleasant? Were you cold?”, he asked, you were cold, and not in the way he thought.

“It was fine”, you said simply, it was drier and colder than in your villa, the sun didn’t hit Marcus’ home as much, but still.

Should you ask him why he didn’t bed you? 

The very thought mortified you. Perhaps he was truly tired, perhaps it was just a one time thing, perhaps today or tonight…

But he didn’t

You ate in silence and then he left, he muttered how he needed to “take care of something” and left you alone in his house. 

You didn't understand what he possibly needed to do the morning after he got married, so perhaps it was your fault he didn’t bed you, perhaps he realized being in your presence was intolerable… perhaps

You felt that awful feeling in your chest again, a pang of pain… you’d realize that was the feeling of shame, and a bruised ego.

When he returned, it was late at night, you couldn’t possibly know where he had been, you grew tired of waiting for him, walking the passages of the vill like a ghost, the sweet maids gave you food, and showed you around, but still.

The villa was beautiful and big, it felt a bit empty, as Acacius barely lived here, but it could be so much more, and as he had said, you could make decisions over it now, as his wife, and you were looking forward to making it more cozy for you both. Maybe even for your family.

But well, now you remembered that if he didn’t bed you, you were never going to have a family

The night had fallen over Rome and the villa was lit by torches when you decided to take a bath, both Tullia and Diana helped you fill it, and then gave you essences, and then you dismissed them, as the hour was growing late. 

“You gazed upon the room, and the rest of the villa you could see from the bath, it was opposite of the room you slept in last night. You could see part of the hallway that led to your room, and… you now wondered where Marcus’ room was.

You leaned back against the edge of the bath, enjoying the warmth and the tiled surface, when you heard footsteps on the hallway. And when you opened your eyes, Marcus’ was there, he stopped in the threshold, and he was looking at you wide-eyed

You just realised your breasts were peaking out of the water, and you barely had any modesty behind the water darkened by the essences you had put on. 

“Marcus”, you mumbled, covering your breasts and hiding in the water to the neck. But as he stood there, watching you, a tingle of something unknown trickled down your spine. Perhaps like this you could… entice him. 

You would have been mortified before, but now… he was your husband, was he not? He did want to marry you, right? Besides, you were so used to being naked in front of other people, even if they were your villa’s maids.

But you didn't think about it anymore, you uncovered your breasts, and sat back.

He seemed to get out of his stupor, and looked up at your face

“I wanted to see if you were asleep”, he said, his voice plain, he seemed to regain his composure, standing very still like he did last night. 

“I wanted to take a bath”, you said softly, “would my husband care to join me?”, you asked, but you didn’t sound like the temptress you pretended to be, your voice came out all shaky, and doubtful.

“I’m sorry to disturb you”, he said, and you felt like the water froze around you, “don’t you worry, I’ll take a bath in the morning”, you just stared at him, speaking, apologising, making excuses, but no words could truly soothe the aching pain that seemed to be growing in your insides.

“Good night”, he whispered, and then he left you, in cold water. 

You had to cover your mouth to stifle the whimper that you couldn’t help.

It had to be you, right? it had to be

What was so wrong with you? that your husband would prefer to run in the opposite direction after gazing upon your naked form?

You wanted to say it got better, but it didn’t, you saw him a bit in the mornings and when the sun went down to eat together, he disappeared for most part of the day, sometimes he would hide in his office to attend to matters of his states or his household.

He would speak to you about the day, in a very superficial manner, he would ask you for your wellbeing, and he would not give you any space to talk into deeper levels of intimacy or for you to get close to him.

You found him barely looking at you, your hands barely touching if you both wanted to grab the same thing at the same time, and when they met? he would pull it back quickly as it was on fire

What was wrong with you?

Shouldn’t a husband hold his wife? should touch her, kiss her? you had seen it many times, even a gentle grabbing of hands… but he won’t even come close to you.

Is this how it was going to be?

The guilt started biting at your heels. You felt like you had a snake’s teeth sunk into your bosom, its body constricting around you, making you feel small, undesirable, unwanted, and you wouldn’t wish this feeling even to your worst enemy.

You were in Marcus’ study (he had allowed you to read his scrolls if you wished), reading a scroll of pre-Roman Alexandria, when Diana showed up. 

“There is a man here to see you Domina”, she muttered, her cheeks were rosy with embarrassment 

“Who?”, you asked, raising your gaze from the yellow parchment 

“He said his name was Lucius”, she said with wide eyes. You stood up at once, and with quick steps you arrived at the Vestibule so quick it made your head spin.

He was standing there, watching the clay made faces decorating the walls. He was as handsome as when you saw him last, the day of your betrothal 

“Lucius”, you called, “what are you doing here?”

“You look beautiful”, he said right at the start, you felt your cheek heating.

“Have you come to see my husband?”, you asked 

“No”, he said quickly, his gaze wasn’t the same one he used to dedicate to you, his eyes were now cold, even calculating, and it gave you chills, as you believed you were the guilty one of that ever happening, “I came to see you”, he said

“Lucius…”

“Is not what you think”, he said then as he was bored

“Marcus might return any minute it is not proper for me to see you, alone”, you said curtly

“Marcus is not going to come any time soon”, he said, “he is at my father’s villa”, you frowned when you heard him.

“What could he possibly be doing at your villa?”, you asked him

“He was with your mother too”, he said, he seemed to be relishing on the fact that he knew… something… paladating the news like one would a ripe fruit 

“To do what?”, you insisted, tired already of his dramatic pauses

“Marcus became your paterfamilias”, he explained, “that includes your mother, as he is your husband, the oldest male in your family”

“Yes… so?”, you asked him

“They were there discussing a marriage proposal”, you actually felt cold sweat dripping down your back

“Between who?”, you asked

“Your mother and my father”, he said firmly

“WHAT?”, you couldn’t believe what you were hearing 

“So now I understand why your mother wouldn’t even hear of my father’s proposal for us both”, he said bitterly

“I don’t understand”, you whispered brokenly, “Do they… love each other?”, you asked, he chuckled darkly

“My father loves power, yours must love money”, he said darkly

“Lucius”, you called

“They both betrayed us”, he said, frowning, “they denied us our happiness so they can have theirs”

“I don’t think that’s true”, you said, but you didn't even believe it yourself, “there must be something else in it”

“Why didn’t she marry Acacius then?”, he said, “everyone in Rome know how close they are ever since the emperor Commodus died, and everyone was surprised when they never married”

“She didn’t marry him because she did not love him, and because Acacius asked her for my hand instead”, you explained simply, he laughed, it was a bitter and dry laugh, it made your skin prickle.

“So she loves my father?”, he asked, you didn’t know what to answer. Never had you seen your mother talking to any men that weren't Acacius or one of the old turtles of the Senate, nor has she spoken to you about anyone else.

“I… I don’t know”, you answered truthfully, “you haven’t seen anything odd?”, you asked him.

“I haven’t, no… never seen your mother in my villa before, and neither does my father has visited your mother”. he said

“So it is a marriage for convenience”, you concluded

“it must be”, he said firmly, “so the question is… if it is, why didn’t they let us marry instead?”, he asked, “your mother can’t give my father any children… I don’t think”

“Maybe she can”, you said sadly. If your mother actually marries and manages to get pregnant before you… you’d not know what to do with that.

Your mother’s reason for you NOT to marry Lucius was that he might use you, for his benefit, your name, your lineage, and you understood that, so then she goes and marries his father? That was so odd. Because if it wasn’t out of love but convenience, why didn’t she let you marry Lucius instead? that had a chance of becoming love? Was Marcus’ request bigger than your happiness?

Lucius’ eyes landed on you, seemed to look you up and down your form, he ended up in your face.

“You are miserable”, he admired

“I’ve only been married ten days”, you said back

“Still”, he whispered, “does he not treat you well?”, he asked. You wanted to answer that he didn’t ‘treat’ you at all

“He is kind”, you said shortly 

“You deserve more”, he said, “you deserve someone who can give you the world” 

“He will… someday”, you said, but you didn’t even believe it.

After Lucius left, you were left alone, with your stomach twisted in knots, but for better or worse, Marcus came early today, and he brought your mother with him.

And in a normal day, you would have been happy to see your mother, but not today, as Lucius’ visit still lingered in your mind, you placed a smile on your face nonetheless as they approached you at the triclinium. 

She smiled when she saw you, her eyes searching your form and you weren’t sure for what, but she cradled your face in her hands and kissed your cheek 

“You look radiant”, she said, pleased, “married life suits you”, and you felt like you could laugh, bitterly, but laugh at least. When you looked at the mirror this morning you thought you had never looked so sad

Marcus barely looked at you, he looked positively displeased, but you saw his intent to fake it, at least he would give you this courtesy

“I invited your mother, I thought you would like to see her”, he said with a low voice

Should you tell them that you know? That you know of them meeting with Lucius’ father?

Your mother always had this air of secrecy about her, always so mysterious in the way she looked, the way she spoke to people, the way she would keep you both at your home, there was always something, and the same was happening now, only that she brought your husband in tow with her. Now she looked like the cat that ate the mouse, like she had gotten away with something, and you could only guess what, for what Lucius told you.

She stayed for dinner, and you felt like it was that time again, the time Marcus had come to your house to talk to you about marriage, they talked among themselves, not to you, and it's not like you wanted to talk anyways. 

“...my love?”, you finally snapped out of your stupor, raising your gaze to your mother, who was looking at you expectantly 

“Sorry I wasn’t paying attention”, you muttered, and Marcus was looking at you too

“I was asking, when are you going to make me a grandmother?”, she asked, oh how you wished you could drown yourself in the impluvium 

“Maybe you’ll make me a big sister first”, you said. And you couldn’t believe that came out of your mouth. For the first time, you saw her surprised

“What do you mean?”, she asked

“Lucius came to see me”, you said, and Marcus was about to say something, but you didn’t let him, “he told me, what you two were doing in his villa, with his father”

“Darling…”, she reached for you, but you stood from the long chair

“I do not wish to discuss this mother”, you muttered, no matter how long and hard you thought about it, you couldn’t find a reason why your mother did what she did, “what is done is done, I hope you two are happy together”, you said, “and for the grandchildren… you’ll have to ask Marcus”, you said with a fake smile. And the air turned bitter in a second, as both were rendered speechless, so you turned on your heel and left them sitting there, sharing guilty looks. 

Very tame chapter, I know, but a needed a "link" chapter between the wedding and the big chapter that's coming! hopefully saturday! I'm really excited for that one! muahaha

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like, I know writing fic can get bad, but I didn’t know it could get ‘3000 word prologue that is entirely exposition’ bad