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chiwhorei · 16 days ago

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@bluebellhairpin *rattles tin can* psssst I found some food

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍

‎ ‎ [ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: protective daryl, reader is extremely girly and feminine, fingering, very light dom/sub, fucking on a motorcycle, daryl sucks his fingers, pet names, oral sex, cum swallowing, slightly rough sex, some dirty talk, true love

warnings and triggers: age difference, reader is a former sex worker, trauma bonding, violence, death, slut shaming, bullying

word count: 13.4k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

you’re known as the princess of your group - soft, feminine, a girly girl who doesn’t want to get her hands dirty. despite the cruel new world you’re living in, you still hold on to whatever remnants of beauty you can find, hoping for a better tomorrow.

daryl is the opposite of everything you stand for. he’s hardened, rugged, ruthless - he’ll do whatever it takes to survive. despite your differences, you find yourselves drawn to each other in ways nobody, not even you two, can really understand. you bring softness to his strength, and in daryl you find a friend, a lover, a protector.

he’s everything you find warm and safe in this cold, scary world. you cling to him, and the best part?

daryl clings back.

“Cookies?”

The look Daryl gives you actually makes you crack a smile, and it’s a nice feeling. It’s been a long time since you smiled, now that you think about it - but it’s not like you’re keeping score.

Because if you were - you’d probably be able to count the amount of grins that’ve graced your face in the last eight months on one hand. Life has been brutal to everyone this year.

“I know it sounds weird,” you explain, crossing your legs on the rock you’re sitting on. Daryl’s supposed to be keeping watch of the camp while Rick and a few other men from the group make a run into the neighboring town for supplies. The plan was, because even the smallest things need well thought out plans in this world, that the women and children of the camp would rest, and if Daryl saw any walkers, he’d wake everyone up.

Sort of dumb, in theory, with how fast things happen when walkers are added to the equation, but it’s all this group has got.

Plans and Rick’s hope.

You’re supposed to be resting too, since yesterday was a travel day - long and exhausting. But you can’t sleep. You’ve got a headache, you’re hungry, and your sleeping bag is still a little damp from your water bottle, the plastic gone thin from having been dropped too many times, breaking while you drove from your last destination. Your tent is cold and you’re sharing it with a single woman who has a child, and their crying is really starting to bum you out.

So you decided to join Daryl keeping watch. He’s perched on a little ledge that overlooks the rest of the camp, able to see anything coming or going before anyone on the ground can. You’re not great with a gun, but since the world went to shit, you can handle yourself pretty well.

You want to help protect the camp and everyone in it, especially since you asked Rick to pick up another reusable water bottle for you while he was in town. The look on his face was so priceless it actually made you a little sad.

“Doesn’t just sound weird,” Daryl replies, shifting to get more comfortable on the grassy ground. There’s another rock for him to sit on, but it’s something you’ve noticed about him - Daryl always chooses to sit close to the ground, even if there’s a proper place for him to sit. “It is weird,” he grumbles the last part, busying himself with chucking a rock a few feet away while a squirrel scampers up a tree. He curses under his breath, no doubt pissed at himself for not securing another meal.

You’re distracting him. You should feel bad, but you don’t.

Before walkers and the end of the world as you knew it, you used to be so concerned with manners. Worried about what others thought about you more than you worried about your own well being. You’re not like that anymore. It’s a dark, although funny thought - that it took something as drastic as an apocalypse to finally rid you of your people pleasing habit.

There’s a crunching sound a few yards away that has the both of you tensing up, frozen while you listen for the sound of growling, but it never comes. Daryl visibly relaxes after a minute, which is your cue to start talking again. He just listens, although from the angle you’re sitting at, you swear you see him roll his eyes.

“You ever think about how weird it is, the stuff we miss?” You ask, but you already know he’s not going to reply. Daryl rarely replies, but you know he’s listening. You don’t have any real proof that he is - but what else would he be doing while you chat his ear off? He can stand up for himself, doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do - if he didn’t want you talking to him, he’d tell you to fuck off.

It’s a small victory you hold close to your heart - the fact that he just puts up with you. You continue. “I mean, everyone always says they miss things like hot showers, electricity, or whatever. I do, but I guess it’s not the thing I miss the most. For me, it’s cookies. But not bakery cookies. The kind of cookies you get from the store, the cheap ones. When you flatten the cookie dough yourself, and no matter what, always burn them or undercook them,” as you talk about it, you can taste the ghost of cookies past on your tongue. It waters a little, your mouth, which goes to show you just how hungry you are.

All you eat these days are protein bars and uncooked cans of whatever food the group can find. Sometimes, with your eyes closed and your breath held, you’ll try bits of squirrel or owl or whatever other animal Daryl hunts and shares with the group, but even the thought makes you nauseated. You never knew you’d be able to have preferences when the other choice is starving to death, but the difficult human spirit prevails, you suppose.

Daryl glances at you, and although it’s pretty dark, the moon shines light enough that you can see his expression. You’d expect his face to be mean, aggravated - tired. Listening to a young woman ramble about baking cookies while his body is on high alert to protect an entire fucking camp - but instead, Daryl’s expression is soft. He lets you continue, although his reaction does remind you that you’re also on guard. But aren’t you always?

The gun strapped to your hip and the knife in the pocket of your boot feel extra heavy at the reminder.

You clear your throat, trying to keep your voice low. God forbid a fucking walker kills you or anyone else in this group because you couldn’t shut up about cookies.

“Maybe it’s stupid, you know? I just,” you look down, playing with the zipper on your jacket. Suddenly, you feel really embarrassed. On the spot. Daryl probably thinks you’re a fucking idiot. Your face heats up.

But it’s not just the cookies. You leave out the part where the cookies remind you of your parents. How your mom, when she was alive, used to make them for you after a rough day. That those cookies were the staple of every sleepover you’ve ever had with your best friends. How those cookies were -

“It ain’t,” Daryl’s voice takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him, brows furrowed. You catch his eyes for only a second, before he looks away quickly, pretending to be occupied by something on the dirty ground. “It ain’t stupid,” he finishes.

You wonder that night, after Rick and the others come back to relieve you and Daryl of your duty, while you’re laid up in your sleeping bag that hardly protects you from the cold - what does Daryl miss? Sure, out of everyone in the group, he’s most equipped at living this kind of life. Knows how to hunt, can stomach raw fucking meat, isn’t scared of anything, or so he says. What reminds him of home? What thoughts comfort him?

Surely, whatever those thoughts are, they’re not as dumb as store bought cookie dough.

But what Daryl said stuck with you. Not stupid. You fall asleep, albeit with one eye open, feeling a little less cold.

Because for a moment, Daryl’s understanding?

It made the world feel a little less broken.

────

“Gross,” you mutter, blood slashing on your face. You just shot a walker in the head, and your ears are ringing from the loud noise of the gun. You’ll never get used to firing that thing. How loud it is, the way your hand shakes even minutes after you pull the trigger.

Daryl comes from behind you, and he lets out a laugh. It’s low, short - if you weren’t trained to hear the noise, you’d miss it. Because really - it’s like you’ve literally trained yourself to look for little cues that Daryl is having a good time. Or, since you doubt anyone these days is having a good time, at least that he’s alright. That he’s not annoyed at you for hanging around him or talking to him or irritated at your presence in general.

“Blood on your face grosses you out, but you’ll pick through walker guts for a bottle of nail polish,” he shakes his head, but it's not like he’s judging. In fact, Daryl actually seems a little…fond? He’s teasing you, and normally the reputation you have in this group as a girl that’s afraid to get her hands dirty, too girly to do anything for yourself - it stings.

But not when it comes from Daryl. You can tell he’s teasing, and you roll your eyes playfully.

“Didn’t dig in walker guts for that nail polish,” you remind him, even as he walks past you to lead the way. You glance at his back, the angel wings on his leather vest, and will yourself to stop the heat rushing to your face and the arousal pooling in your belly at how fucking strong he is. Big arms, muscles that look like he should be on the cover of a body building magazine instead of in these creepy woods with a crossbow. You gulp. “There was a little blood in the nail polish section when we did a run the other day. I cleaned it off the bottle I wanted. No biggie.”

Daryl scoffs, and you smile. “Yer crazy, girl,” he replies, and at that you look down at your nails. Baby pink, the same color you always used to choose when you’d get your nails done back at home. You could shiver with pleasure, just from thinking about the feeling of warm water on your hands, someone paying special attention to your cuticles - lotion, that you don't have to share with every other woman at the camp. The polish you’re wearing, painted just two days ago, is chipped and stained red with walker blood, but it’s better than nothing.

Makes you feel a little more human. A little more like a woman. A little more like yourself.

Now, if only you could find some hairspray and a razor.

You’ve been joining Daryl whenever he lets you - or, more truthfully, whenever Rick tells Daryl it’s okay for you to join him. Rick still doesn’t believe that you know what you’re doing, thinks of you as a liability, but you’re determined to prove yourself. You got to go on a run the other day, and today, Daryl went to check out the perimeter of the grassy hill the group is currently camping in, and you volunteered to go with him.

“You sure?” Rick had asked when the plan was originally made, looking at Daryl with squinted eyes. He pretended like you didn’t exist, even as you were standing right next to him. Daryl nodded. “S’okay with me. I’ll look out for her. Bring yer gun,” he told you, and you nodded, skipping after him down the trail.

Around Daryl, and maybe this is why you like him so much - it’s easy to feel like a woman. Easy to feel safe, too. Daryl just knows what he’s doing, and he’s so strong, big, can handle so much. Being around him feels good, but you know it’s all just a farce.

You’re not safe and neither is Daryl, a fact that becomes even clearer when you almost trip on a dead body by a stream you’re both passing on the way back to camp, alerting a walker that was only a few yards away. Daryl was able to kill him with an arrow, but it was a close call.

One minute, laughing and talking. The next, like you’re begging death to open the door after ringing his doorbell a few too many times.

You walk back to camp in silence, walker blood splattered on the both of you. When you get back, it’s nearly dark, and you help a few of the other women finish some laundry and keep an eye on a few restless kids. Life sucks in this world as an adult - but you can’t imagine living like this as a kid. Although, you think, watching them throw dirt at each other and believe the food their mothers are giving them really tastes just like chicken nuggets, maybe being so clueless is for the best.

After dinner, on your way to your tent, you see Rick and Daryl talking. You try to listen in, pretending that you’re just getting your sleeping bag ready for bed, but you don’t hear anything of importance. Meaning, you don’t hear either of them bring up your name. You feel like a highschooler, desperate for friends, eager to belong - hoping your crush notices you.

Because that’s what this is with Daryl, isn’t it? You’ve got a crush on him. Butterflies, wanting his attention, looking for excuses to be around him. It’s pathetic but a little beautiful, you admit - that even in a situation like this, where death surrounds every person, no matter who they are - there’s room in the human spirit for a little love.

A crush, you think again, fixing your nails in your tent. You can almost convince yourself that life isn’t so horrible, just for a minute, until the woman you share your tent with comes in for bed and complains that the smell of the polish is too strong and makes it hard for her to sleep.

Okay, bitch, you say in your head. It’s not like the walker guts and dead bodies beyond our tent smell any better. You bite your tongue and walk out of the tent, making your way to the empty clearing a little ways away from the tents. It’s so quiet, there’s no way you wouldn’t hear a walker if one was to come around you, but you have a knife on you just in case. No gun, since the noise would just draw more to you.

You think these things through. You just wish Rick, and the rest of the group, would see that too.

It’s dark, except for the moon and the stars shining pretty above you. Maybe the little fact you read online years ago about the environment is true - people are the cause of everything bad and all the pollution. A little more than half a year into the apocalypse, and there’s no smog clogging up the skies. It’s a gorgeous night.

You sit with your hands flat on the ground, waiting for your nails to dry. You get a good few minutes of silence, until the noise of footsteps has you nearly jumping out of your boots, reaching for your knife, only to realize that it’s not a walker, but Daryl coming to plop down next to you.

“Gosh, Daryl. You scared me,” you complain, letting out a whine. He doesn’t say anything, just sits next to you on the ground, although he moves so his back is facing your back. Makes sense, so you're both safe from all angles. Daryl always thinks about little things like that.

He’s quiet for long enough that you start to think of something to fill the silence. “Damnit,” you mutter, letting out a huff. “I ruined my nails.”

“Oh, quit it,” Daryl replies. “Whatcha doin’ out here all by yerself? You got a death wish, girl?” You’re mortified that Daryl is scolding you like you’re a kid, like you’re an idiot, and coming from him it just hurts even more.

You’ve always had an even temper, but in this new world, you lose it more often than you used to. It’s probably just the way life is now - the stress, the hunger, the cold and the dirt and the sweat and the lack of anything that used to bring anyone joy. It makes everyone crazy.

“Yeah, well - ‘m sure your buddy Rick hopes a walker gets to me. Know he was talking shit about me earlier.” You sniffle, but you’re not crying yet - it just really hurts, that you feel like such dead weight at this camp. You’ve never really been insecure, but you feel like nobody likes you. Nobody understands you. And yeah, surviving is more important than being miss popular with a group of people in the apocalypse, but everyone’s always talking about this group being family. Does that include you? It doesn’t feel like it these days.

Daryl is silent, as you expected. Normally you don’t mind the company, even if it’s a mute one, but tonight you’re feeling on edge. Until Daryl speaks. “Rick ain’t my friend. No one wants you to die, kid. Yer too much,” he mutters, and then you stand up, aggravated and not wanting to take it out on him.

You begin to walk away when Daryl reaches out and grabs your ankle to stop you. “Daryl,” you warn, as if you’d do anything to retaliate even if he pulled you on the ground with him. But you keep up the hard ass attitude - it feels good, you admit, being difficult for once. You don’t get to be anything but accommodating at camp.

“Rick and I were sayin’ how valuable you are to the group. How much you’ve grown,” he explains, and you roll your eyes, make a show of stomping away, knowing, loving that Daryl is right on your heels. Because there’s no reason for him to stay in that clearing - he’s not on watch tonight. He was only hanging around there for you.

Despite acting like Rick’s comment meant nothing to you, on the inside, as you walk to your tent, you fight a smile. So Rick has noticed your effort. That’s all you wanted, except -

You realize that maybe approval you wanted so badly never needed to come from Rick -

Because the approval from Daryl feels pretty damn good.

────

Daryl fixes you with a look that makes you burst out laughing.

You’ve only been at this spot in the woods for a few weeks, but so far, quality of life among the camp has improved. Almost a year in this new world, and this is the first time anyone’s ever slept with both eyes closed since before people turned into the living dead. There’s a river nearby perfect for fishing, and tonight at the campfire, you had your first taste of - what did Daryl call it?

Sushi.

“Just so you know,” you say, crossing a leg over the other on the little log you’re sitting on. The sun is going down, and the sky is a pretty shade of pink and even a little purple. You wonder if nature has always been this beautiful - you’d always just been too preoccupied to see it. You put a tiny piece of the fish Daryl caught and cooked into your mouth, surprised at the taste. You don’t have to fake your reaction. It’s not bad at all - but you wouldn’t necessarily say it’s good. Tastes better than another can of old spaghetti rings though, that’s for sure.

Still, you can’t help teasing. You finish your original statement. “Sushi tastes much better than this.”

Daryl smiles, just slightly. And not the fake kind of smile he does when he’s just trying to be polite. Like when an elderly man from the group tells a joke no one else laughs at, or when the strap of your last bra broke and you started crying until Rick promised, cheeks red, that he’d look for your size on the next run.

Right now, it seems like Daryl’s actually having a good time.

The thought makes you smile.

“Thank you,” you tell Daryl, and you swear you see him blush. “It's better than sushi, really.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, nodding. He’s grown uncomfortable with the compliments already. “It’s the best yer gonna get.” Others from the group join you around the campfire, and then Daryl takes off, but not before giving you one last lingering gaze. He has small eyes, you’ve noticed - a little hooded, but so beautiful. He’s incredibly handsome, in a unique way. A pretty, no, beautiful man. His stare burns you, warms you up even with the chill in the air.

It’s only later, when the rest of the group clears off and you and Daryl are alone again, that he speaks. He’s sharpening a knife, leaning on the side of a camper van for support, and you’re at a makeshift sink (bucket) washing the dishes. It was your least favorite chore before this new world, and it’s still your least favorite after.

But, if you let your mind go there - something about the dynamic between Daryl cooking dinner and you cleaning the dishes up has you -

No. You’ve got to stop acting so juvenile.

On one hand, this little crush you have on Daryl is something positive that gets you through the day. Waiting to talk to him, excited to be around him - it shines light on a dark, terrible reality. On the other hand, getting attached to anyone at this camp is a bad idea. You just lost someone else a few days ago.

The reality, that death really is lurking everywhere - that something could happen to you, or Daryl…it makes your palms sweat and your breathing become erratic. The reality of this new world is just so scary and cruel.

You’re done with the dishes and you dry your hands on an old flannel that the camp uses as a dish towel. You feel Daryl watching you, and you like it.

“What are you looking at?” You tease, pushing some hair away from your face. “There a walker behind me or something?

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t look at no walker like that,” he grumbles, but then he must realize what he said - what it really means. You’re so excited you’re almost vibrating, wondering, realizing now - that maybe this crush isn’t one sided. But you still try to play it cool, even as Daryl shakes his head, says, “Wasn’t lookin’ at nuthin.’”

You don’t know what to say to that. You begin to walk away, excited to spend the rest of the night in your tent going over this interaction until you fall asleep, but what Daryl says next stops you in your tracks. You freeze.

“Gotta get you a bra on the nex’ run,” he says, and your knees feel weak. “Those things almos’ poked me in the eye. You cold or sumthin’?’”

You fast walk to your tent, nearly crying from embarrassment - but your entire body is dizzy with excitement. It’s adrenaline, but not the same kind you get when you’re running or kill a walker and make it out alive - a different kind, one you haven’t felt since maybe even before the walkers. It lights you up inside, makes it hard to breathe - and the funniest part?

Daryl has no idea your nipples are hard because you’re aroused - all from watching him sharpen a knife. What can you say? A man who can handle a weapon like that can surely handle…other things.

────

The fire crackles as you sit back, the warmth from the flames doing little to ease the chill in your bones. It’s freezing outside, but you’re under a warm blanket, and if you delude yourself enough you can almost convince yourself that this is just a toasty evening with friends and not a risky fire that could very well lead walkers directly to the camp.

But there’s nothing the group can do - it’s simply too cold to go without a fire tonight. Even Daryl, king of having his arms always showing, is in a jacket tonight. Which sucks, because you really love looking at his arms…but this is survival.

There’s hushed conversation while Rick tells a story, a few pairs to the side chattering, and you feel left out until you notice that Daryl isn’t talking to anyone either. He’s just looking at the ground, then the fire, gaze flickering to you every few minutes.

And you only notice that because your eyes can’t stay off of him. You can’t help it - it’s like you’re always looking for him. There’s something about that man, as dumb as it sounds, that makes him feel like your own security blanket. Even seeing him from across the camp, just a glimpse, can settle your nerves like nothing else.

Suddenly, a voice from next to you tries to get your attention. It’s Derek, a decent looking guy about your age - but he’s pretty useless, as far as skills go. He accompanies the rest of the men for runs into town, can kill a walker if necessary, but he’s selfish and all about himself. Won’t even take watch at night, says it interferes with his sleep. You can’t stand him.

You try to avoid his gaze and pretend to be busy, picking at your cuticles and hoping he leaves you alone, but no such luck.

“Look at you, princess,” he teases, and you cringe so hard you wonder if it’s visible. It’s embarrassing, being referred to like that - so what, that you like the color pink and happen to be attractive? You’re not hurting anyone. The clothes you’re wearing, the pink clips you have to hold your hair back, the floral printed pillow case - those were all things you had before the world went to shit.

You didn’t know the apocalypse had a dress code.

You’re sick of being teased. Of being reduced to this overly feminine character - as if you don’t keep watch just as much as the men. As if you don’t kill walkers when they get close to the camp, while the other women hide. As if you don’t cook, and clean, and -

Derek is still talking.

You sneak a glance across the campfire at Daryl, who holds your gaze for a minute before dropping it. You look back down too, play with your fingers on your lap. You’d go to your tent right now if you weren’t scared about the safety of falling asleep with no one actively on watch.

“So, what’d you all do before this?” Derek asks, leaning forward. He’s asking the group, but he’s looking at you, which means - you’re supposed to go first?

You wonder if this has anything to do with what you told Cindy, someone you used to share a tent with before she found room in another one. There’s not much to do these days when you’re not cooking or cleaning or hunting or moving - lots of time to sit and talk. The apocalypse is so much more boring than you ever anticipated. You shared a lot about your past with her, but surely she wouldn’t gossip about you to the others in the camp?

You thought girl code was still a thing, even in these trying times.

Everyone is silent, waiting for your answer. Even Daryl and Rick seem interested, which makes you feel even worse. You wanted to fit in, not be the center of attention.

You shift uncomfortably, before clearing your throat. You can feel Cindy’s eyes on you, sitting just a few people down. “Nothing special. Just,” you pause and shrug, unsure of what to say. “Whatever I had to. To survive.”

Back then, surviving was all about money, and ever since your parents died when you were a teenager, money is the one thing you never had enough of. One thing you did have though, is your beauty. So you used it, to get the things you needed, and sometimes a little more - but it all boiled down to one thing, just like it does now - to survive.

That’s all life is about, really? Take away the frills, the fun - people just want to stay alive, no matter how rough things get.

So - you had a boyfriend to pay your rent. A man that loved to take you shopping. A lonely guy who paid off your car. You’ve never lived in luxury, but you always made it. Always got by. Had the things you needed and a little bit more. Always -

“Yeah, well, we all knew you were a whore.”

The words leave Derek’s mouth and you’re frozen. Speechless - and that never happens to you. You’re so shocked at what he said that your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and it’s only then that you realize the bottle of hard liquor on his lap.

You glare at Cindy, who quickly gets up and runs to her tent, more scared of you than walkers apparently - good, you think, because she’s such a bitch for talking about you behind your back. You try to be cool about it, to laugh it off like Derek is so wrong it doesn’t even deserve a reaction, but you’re so embarrassed you feel your chest aching.

Has everyone known about your history the entire time you’ve been at camp? You shared those stories with Cindy in the beginning, one of the first nights you arrived, desperate for some comfort. Is that why everyone treats you so differently from the rest? Is that why you’re the black sheep of a fucking camp formed during the apocalypse?

Does Daryl know?

You’re ready to defend yourself, but you don’t get to. Because Daryl is around the fire so fast you don’t even have time to blink, grabbing Derek by the collar of his shirt and pounding his fists into his face.

The sound of knuckles against bone is excruciating, makes you want to hurl - but you don’t tell him to stop. You’re frozen, and anyway, Derek deserves it, doesn’t he?

It’s Rick, and a few other men that pull Daryl off of Derek, who’s sporting an eye so swollen it won’t shut and a busted lip, a cheek that’ll be purple for the next few weeks for sure. “Whore,” he spits, still able to talk, even as someone drags him away. “Man, shut up already,” one of the guys says to him, but nobody eases the sting of what he says.

Daryl wipes sweat from his brow while Rick walks off to talk to Derek, but he can’t get a word in with the shit the other man is spewing. “Fucking whore,” he keeps grumbling. “There’s no money to milk from men anymore, is there? Bet you put out for that fish Dixon caught for you. Did you do the same for that new bra? Or that water bottle Rick brought back for you? Almost died you know, getting that shit for you, maybe you can thank me with,” Rick kicks him in the ribs before he can finish and tells him to shut up in that leader voice of his.

You run off, now that the rest of the group has scattered, but you hear Daryl yell out, “Yeah, man, you should’ve died,” with a string of curse words. “All you fuckin’ people looking’ at her. Yer all whores in your own way. Useless too,” he continues, but you don’t hear it because you get into your tent and zip it up.

Great. All this drama, and now nobody is ever going to fucking like you now. You’ll be the black sheep forever, won’t you? It’s a harsh wake up call, and you’re thankful you’re alone. Your tentmate must’ve taken her daughter out to be with the other kids, away from the rowdiness at the fucking campfire. You sniffle, and climb into your sleeping bag.

A minute later, before you’ve even had time to process what’s happening, Daryl enters the tent. He’s so big, it’s hard for him to fit, but he manages - cursing and crouching in a way that would make you laugh if this wasn’t such a depressing situation.

He sits next to your sleeping bag. Knees bent, arms around his legs. He just sort of watches you. You look anywhere but his face, but you notice his knuckles are bloody red and torn, all because of you.

“Didn’t have to defend me,’ you say, instead of thank you. “I wasn’t a whore, so,” but Daryl cuts you off.

“Don’t matter what you were. He shouldn’t talk to you like that. Little prick deserves his ass kicked anyway. Can’t even shoot straight,” it’s like this moment is as uncomfortable for him as it is for you. You share a look, but you look away first, afraid of the intensity. You’ve never had someone stand up for you before - not like this. What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do?

You say nothing at all. A few more minutes go by, with your vision blurry as you stare at Daryl’s knuckles and he stares at the hole that shows the grassy ground in the bottom of your tent. Finally, he sighs, annoyed, and even though you’re not talking you’re still worried he’s going to leave. He’s your teddy bear after all, right? Your security blanket. Maybe you’re selfish - but you don't want him to go.

And he doesn’t. Instead, Daryl adjusts his position so he can reach into his pocket and pull something out. It’s bright pink, satin looking - you wonder if he’s going to hand you a pair of racy panties just to seal the deal that he thinks you’re a slut. A whore.

But is he wrong? The look of the muscles in his arm, at his sheer size - at the smell of him, so masculine and woodsy in this little tent it almost makes you dizzy with want.

After what just happened, how can you be thinking about sex? Maybe you are a slut. A whore. You’ve done things for money before, but -

Daryl hands the piece of pink satin to you. “S’posed to be a ribbon,” he says, shrugging. He’s embarrassed you realize, and it’s cute. “Found it on a toy, er, teddy bear, thought you might like it. If you don’t, I,” but you cut him off, scoot closer to him as you tie it around your wrist.

“Thank you, Daryl,” you say softly, sweetly - and it feels so natural to lean in and press your lips against his cheek. His body is warm, and when you grip his bicep every cell in your body is on fire with desire. He must’ve taken his jacket off after the fight. If it could even be called that, with the way Daryl jumped Derek. Fights are usually a two way street.

Your heart swells, at the fact that he protected you. Thought about you on a run. Saw something and thought of you. Men have bought you things before, of course - but never something personal like this. Never something you didn’t have to ask for beforehand, for nothing in return.

Daryl, he - he gives you feelings so fuzzy and pure in your chest that you almost forget you’re sleeping just a few feet away from a forest of dead bodies.

He doesn’t wipe his cheek when you pull away after the kiss, which is a step in the right direction. You’ve seen Daryl lose his shit over the intimacy of a simple thank you hug with someone else from camp before.

You feel special.

“Was nothin,’” he says, before pausing. He looks at you, then away again, wringing his hands before continuing. “Don’t feel any typa way about doin’ what you had to do to survive, ya hear me? I know what it’s like to do what you hav’to to live, ya know? That fucker. He doesn't have a clue about makin’ it on your own. How tough it can be. Don’ listen to the shit he’s got to say. Don’t listen to none of these people,” he won’t look at you, but you look at him, the side profile of his face so handsome you want to reach out and touch him. But you refrain.

Instead, you squeeze his arm, bicep tan and bulging. You lick your bottom lip. “Daryl,” you interrupt him and he looks at you, gaze on your eyes, then your lips, then to the pretty ribbon tied around your wrist. He visibly swallows, before looking back at your eyes. His eyes are blue, pretty. Too pretty for a man as rugged as him, but what’s the saying?

A person who is good on the inside - their beauty shines through. You think that’s true about Daryl. At this moment, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man as beautiful as him. You breathe him in, going crazy over his pheromones - his smell. You can feel your body getting aroused at his closeness, and he’s not even doing anything sexual.

“Next time,” you say, teasing tone in your voice, “Can you bring the whole bear?”

────

“Look at us,” you say, trying not to skip beside Daryl. A mood this good feels eerie in this new world, but you can’t help the way you feel.

Daryl asked you to join him for a walk, and ever since that night when he gave you the ribbon in your tent - you’ve been closer than ever. You wear the ribbon around your wrist every single day, except for right now, when you’re wearing it to hold some of your hair back.

You’re not sure what’s going on with you and Daryl, but there’s a freedom about it that fills you with joy. Helps you exhale easier in this crazy, cruel world - because he’s safe, and you like being around him, and he obviously likes you too, right? Or he wouldn’t ask you to go for a walk every single day, wouldn’t pay special attention to you during meals, making sure you’re eating enough -

And he really wouldn’t have kissed you against a tree during his watch last week if he had any bad feelings towards you.

Things at the camp are complicated, because that stunt Derek pulled separated the group. There’s people that hate you, because they’re really mad at Daryl - but nobody can be actually mad at Daryl, since he does so much for the entire group. Catches animals for food, is one of the strongest men besides Rick. You’re not exactly his girl, not even close, but you know that the only reason you haven’t been used as walker bait is because of Daryl’s status at the camp.

When he kissed you, just a few weeks after that night in the tent - it was so much softer than you imagined. Because, yeah - you imagined what it would be like to kiss Daryl Dixon. Ever since you met him, really. He’s so tough, so crass, such a force. It’s always been an opinion of yours, that the toughest people really just need some softness. You wonder now, when he smiles shyly at you as you walk past a stream, if you’re that softness for him these days.

“Look at us, what, girlie?” He asks, and you stifle a giggle, trying to remain serious for the bit of the joke. You brush your hand against his as you walk, wondering when he’ll grab it. Wondering when, if, he’ll ever claim you. But you’re trying not to rush things. It’s easy to get worried about time, when every single day is life and death - but there's something kind of beautiful about just going with the flow of what feels good.

Living in the present, which is literally all you have now. All anyone has. And right now, your goal in the present, is to make Daryl laugh.

“You’ve got your bow,” you say, gesturing to his weapon, “And I’ve got mine.” You flip your hair, showing off the pink, satin ribbon holding your hair away from your face. Daryl chuckles and shakes his head, but it only lasts for a second.

Your face heats, pleased with yourself for making him laugh, and then your breath hitches when he grabs hold of your hand.

“Yer sumthin’ else, girl,” he says fondly, and you walk into an area dense with trees before he nudges you against the trunk of one.

You don’t know what life was like for Daryl before walkers took over the population. You’re not sure if he had a lot, or a little, experience with women before this all happened. In fact, you don’t know a lot about Daryl at all. He’s closed off, he’s a little mean sometimes, too tough for his own good -

But god, the way he kisses.

Hesitant, like he’s scared to take something he didn’t earn. You want to tell him that every single part of you, he has earned. You’ve known him for more time than your longest relationship. You’ve seen each other filthy, desperate, depraved. Covered in blood, covered in guts - starving, dirty, depressed. For a man that hardly talks, Daryl somehow knows you better than any man, maybe even any other person, ever has.

He stood up for you. He tries to take care of you. He’s a good friend, he’s -

When he slips a hand to your hip and drops his crossbow on the ground, squeezes at your skin in a way that’s so possessive it makes your breath hitch, you literally let out a cry. Against your lips, Daryl murmurs, “Quiet, ‘less you wanna have a threesum with a walker.” His tongue tastes like cigarettes, a little bit like the apple juice one of the kids at the camp wanted him to try, because he’s a good sport, even if his resting bitch face might suggest otherwise.

There’s something about him ordering you around that does it for you. You let him take charge of the kiss, but you grab his roaming hand and move it to your breast. He squeezes, but in your new bra, you don’t feel the friction you’re so desperately craving from him rubbing over your nipples. You want more, and you whine, trying not to be greedy but it’s just so damn hard.

Against the tree, Daryl slips a leg between yours, and you shamelessly bend down to try to rub your aching core against it. “Daryl,” you whine, and he laughs, pulling away to look at you, his hair that’s getting longer plastered against his forehead with sweat. Everything about him is overwhelming. His smell, intense, his lips, delicious, his strength and size, so fucking hot you just want to curl up in the pocket of his shirt and stay safe forever.

Because you don’t have a doubt in your mind - Daryl would keep you safe. You wonder, why you wasted your time with finance guys and entrepreneurs and men who’d never gotten their hands dirty, back when life was normal. Daryl, with calloused fingertips and his thick accent, a country boy through and through - he pleases you, makes you happier than anyone you’ve ever met before.

Yeah, even in the apocalypse, you can find the romance. You kiss Daryl deeper.

He moves his hand down from your breast to slip it into your pants, and he lets out a low noise in his throat at the feeling of your wetness already. Just from kissing him. You’re not ashamed - it’s been a long time since anyone touched your pussy like this, a long time since you even touched it yourself. There’s just no time alone, and you share a tent, and -

“Yer soakin,’” Daryl comments, and your entire body flushes with humiliation. But the good kind. You nod. “For you,” you whisper, and he leans his forehead against yours before capturing your lips in his again.

Just as you expected, Darly is good with his fingers. He positions one of your legs over his hip so he has better access to finger you, rough hands, the calloused pads of his thumb dragging over your clit, so swollen after so long without cumming. It’s not going to take long, you know, to completely fucking burst. You want it so bad, to come apart on his fingers, to show him just how good you can be. He’s knuckle deep inside of you while still also putting pressure on your clit when you let out a screech, thankful you opened your eyes in time to see the walker coming from behind Daryl.

You push him off of you until he curses and tries to pick up his crossbow, fingers still slick with your pussy, but you beat him to it. You grab the knife out of your boot, even though your body feels like jelly, and you slam it into the walker’s forehead as hard as you can. You huff and puff, because it takes a lot out of you, and when the walker is on the ground you slam your boot into its face a few too many times until the bottom of your shoe is covered with walker brains.

“He’s dead,” Daryl says behind you. “Don’ waste yer energy.” You roll your eyes, wiping sweat from your face with a bandana you had in your pocket.

“I know. That’s for him ruining my orgasm,” you say out loud, and behind you, Daryl lets out a low whistle. You’re really humiliated now, but what are the chances? A fucking walker trying to eat Daryl while you’re trying to get him to eat you? Some fucking luck.

There’s still blood splattering on your face, and you turn to Daryl, wiping it with your sleeve. “Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” you say sheepishly, unsure of how to read his bland expression. But just because a walker interrupted, doesn’t mean you don’t want to continue your little fingering session. Just in case, shame out the window, you reach for him. Daryl backs away slightly.

“Slow down,” he says, pulling away from you. “Don’ wanna fuck you in the forest,” and you understand, but also - where else can you have sex? Everyone’s always watching each other. When else can you get some time alone?

Daryl looks down at the bulge in his pants, and you reach down and grope him, like some kind of horny harlot. Maybe you are. He watches you, the color of your nails, your tiny hand - and he lets out a groan himself.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says, leaving you speechless and wet in the middle of the woods. He starts to walk away, but his head is turned to you and his eyes never leave you. You know it’s because he’s making sure you’re safe, watching over you, even with his dick chubbing up in his pants. He tugs his weapon up to rest on his shoulder.

If that’s not a man, you don’t know what is.

“Daryl,” you start to say, following him, about to beg him for something more, but he just throws an arm around your shoulders and tugs you along. You use the opportunity with his hand on your shoulder to tie the ribbon around his wrist, a small mark of your ownership. You wonder what he’ll say about that, if he’ll be mad -

He just squeezes your shoulder. “Not tryna deny you. I want you. Me and the little guy,” he looks down to his cock in his pants, obviously referring to that. “Yer just too pretty to do somethin’ like that in the woods. My tent, tonight?” You know that his tent mate is keeping watch tonight, so you’ll be alone for a good amount of time. Enough time to - you shiver just thinking about it.

You nod eagerly.

“You sure you’re not just disgusted at what I just did?” You phrase it like a joke, gently rubbing your lips on the healing cuts of his knuckles, but you’re serious. Maybe seeing a woman behave greedy, wanting, desperate - violent - maybe it was a huge turn off.

Daryl shakes his head and tugs you closer, presses his lips to the top of your head. “Nah,” he assures, looking back down to the bulge in his pants. It’s even more noticeable than before. He takes the hand he used to finger you and sucks the digits, covered in your slick, into his mouth. The muscles in your cunt clench, at the way his cheekbones look, the level of lust in his eyes aimed at you.

“That was fuckin’ sexy,” he assures, popping his fingers out of his mouth.

────

At dinner that night, which is squirrel - so you settle for half a protein bar and a bruised apple, Rick sits down beside you. You’re eating away from everyone else, because Daryl’s helping someone with something like he always is, but it’s alright because you’re in your own world, thinking about what’s to come later tonight with him.

You’re in a trance, remembering the way he scratched at your scalp fondly when he walked you to your tent and watched you bend down to get inside. “Don’t sprain yer wrist before tonight,” he joked, insinuating you’d be finishing yourself off. He went off with a wink, leaving you reeling - because since when did Daryl Dixon joke around?

You’ve been riding on a high for the rest of the night.

Rick sitting beside you takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him and swallow the bit of stale protein bar you’ve been chewing for probably ten minutes, quirking an eyebrow at him. He’s so serious, it’s annoying.

Don’t get it wrong - you like Rick. Appreciate everything he’s done, does for the camp - he’s just so intense, but he’s handsome in his own right too. Not your normal type, but then again - neither is Daryl. You just don’t understand a man like Rick, and he doesn’t get you. But he’s the best thing this group has, because he has everyone's interest at heart. Even someone like Daryl, well -

He puts himself, and you by extension now, maybe - first. It’s not a bad thing, in fact, you find both sides of the coin admirable in their own way.

“What’s up, Rick?” You finally ask. He looks down to his hands, before nodding behind you, and you turn and look at what he’s referring to - it’s Daryl, looking angrily at Derek, who’s by the fire drunkenly talking shit about everything while people try to calm him down. You sigh.

“You and Daryl,” Rick says, and you’re not sure what to say to that - statement? Accusation? You just nod. “What about us?” You ask, and you really don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not sure why whatever you’re doing with Daryl is any of Rick, or anyone’s, business?

You expect a lecture. Something about needing to earn your keep, to stop distracting him, to make things right with Derek. Instead, Rick just pats you on the back, literally.

“You’re good for him,” he says, before awkwardly walking off when someone calls his name. No doubt for a crisis that could easily be solved without his help. You feel sorta bad for Rick - people are so stressed, so traumatized in this new world, that they don’t want to use their brains at all. They put all their problems, no matter how small, on Rick, and that’s gotta be hard.

You want to call out some sort of acknowledgement for all he does as he walks away, but Daryl begins walking towards you before you get the chance. You’re still looking towards Rick. “You checkin’ the boss out?” Daryl jokes, with something like possessiveness or jealousy in his tone. It burns you in the best way possible - that Daryl might worry about something like that.

What can you say? You’ve always thought a possessive man was hot.

Daryl plops down beside you. You’re sitting on a log, but he’s on the ground. Typical Daryl behavior. He wraps a hand around your ankle - and suddenly you’re very glad you got a chance to shave with the razor you stole from someone’s pile of toiletries after the last run.

“That all yer eatin?’” He asks, referring to the empty wrapper in your hand. You shake your head and show off your sorry apple, but Daryl just shakes his head and scoffs. “Tha’s not enough. You can’t be picky about,” but he stops when he sees the expression on your face.

You’ve talked to him about this before. He didn’t reply, but you know he was listening. Food - it’s the only thing you can be a little picky about. Everything else, you don't have any choice over. Where the camp goes, who you share a tent with. Food and now, this thing with Daryl - that’s all the power you have. Daryl nods, like he gets it but doesn’t like it, and then changes the subject.

“Are you cold?” You ask, and Daryl laughs. As kind as he is to you, you know that he’s uncomfortable when you, or anyone, tries to show any kind of care for him. He nods his chin towards the ratty blanket you’re using. “You gon’ share with me, girlie?” You shake your head, a grin spreading across your face.

“No,” you say, tossing the blanket, the apple, and the wrapper into a duffle bag next to the log you’re sitting on. “Just thought I could warm you up in your tent.” Daryl looks like a deer caught in headlights as he peaks over your shoulder to where the rest of the group is getting ready for bed, his tent mate grabbing a gun before heading to the area where he’ll keep watch while everyone sleeps.

Daryl nods. “Yer dirty,” he grumbles, standing up, but he runs his hands up and down his bare arms like he’s feigning being cold. “C’mon then. You gunna warm me up or what?”

────

The first time Daryl fucked you, he went slow. Took his time, opening you up with his thick fingers, even though you didn’t need the extra time. You were aching, wet - desperate for him to shove his cock inside of you, because you’d been thinking about it for too long. Too much kissing, humping, friction between the two of you - all you wanted, could imagine, was how his cock would feel against your throbbing center.

When he finally thrusted inside of you, stretched you out and began to fuck into you, he didn’t let himself go like you always imagined. Insecurely, you narrowed your eyes, even as your back arched off of his sleeping bag. “When’s the last time?” You asked, referring to the last time he had sex. Daryl just let out a shaky laugh and calmed your fears with a thrust that made your toes curl and a moan escape your lips.

“Long enough, pretty girl,” he assured, all while you huffed in brat and dug your nails into his shoulders. “Jus’ wanna enjoy it. We’ve finally got the time.” And Daryl was right, but really, when is he ever wrong?

The first time you had sex you got to enjoy going slow. But the rest of the times after that - and there’s been a lot now, it’s always a quickie. A rush, because shit hit the fan at your current camp soon after the first night together. The entire group had to move, you lost people to walkers (though not Derek, unfortunately), and now getting off with Daryl only happens in quick spurts whenever you’re alone.

In a way, the drama surrounding the camp has made the two of you closer.

When the entire group has to drive down a walker infested highway, normally you’d be in a camper van with the other women and children, but Daryl has your back.

“You’re ridin’ with me,” he says, shooting Rick a look before anyone can object. As he walks off, he purposely bumps his shoulder into Derek, who scoffs and does the same to you. Daryl doesn’t notice, but Rick does, and he tells Derek off before Daryl can do anything drastic like beat his ass again.

“Hey,” he warns, shoving Derek away from you. “Watch it,” Derek grumbles, glaring at you before hopping into the back of a truck with a few of the other men. “What?” He asks mockingly, because you’re frozen, watching him in a trance while Daryl starts up his bike.

Derek just can’t leave you alone - he picks on you every single chance he gets. “You got Rick standing up for you now too, huh?” He says, shaking his head in disgust. “You let him fuck you too?”

It’s not his words that hurt so much, but it’s the fact that he’s saying them at all. You’ve never done anything to Derek, have only been nice, yet he looks at you like a target and it hurts so bad your eyes threaten to spill tears. Thankfully, Daryl comes for you, and you get on the back of his bike with ease.

“You okay?” He asks, even though it’s hard to hear with the sound of the rumble from the motorcycle. You nod, and press your face into his back. Daryl takes off down the highway, leading the way while Rick follows behind, and you selfishly let yourself doze off against him. You trust Daryl, more than you’ve ever trusted another man - and that’s a lot of pressure.

Trusting anyone these days means you’re putting your life in their hands. It’s exhausting. When you tell the women at camp you’ll watch their kids while they go to the restroom, or go for a walk - essentially what you’re saying is you’ll protect their kids if shit was going south. Even just the thought, being responsible for someone else - it makes your chest heave.

Your arms are tight around Daryl as he drives. You’re not sure how long you’re on the road for when the motorcycle stops, but you know you’re much farther ahead then the rest of the group. In another life, you imagine Daryl happy and free - driving to a city, or another town on a brand new motorcycle. Maybe working in a shop. You feel a pang of sadness, that he’ll never get that.

He deserves so much more than this shit. You all do.

Except maybe Derek.

And Cindy. Fuck that bitch.

Daryl stops the bike and you get off, stretching your legs.

“You good, dolly?” He asks, and you wrinkle your nose at the nickname. You’re pretending not to like it, when in reality, it makes you tingle all over. You nod.

“You go fast,” you say, and he laughs, steps off of the bike and walks to an empty field off to the side of the highway. “‘S the only way to go. Stay here,” he orders, before walking off. He grumbles something about taking a piss and you stifle a laugh, pretending to salute him. You see his hand twitch, like he wants to jokingly flip you off, but he stops himself.

Something about that, that he won’t play rough with you, has your knees feeling wobbly. You feel like you can breathe, without the rest of the group breathing down your back, insulting you, accusing you of doing sexual things just to be treated like a human being. You try not to think about it, because you want to have a decent day and don’t want Derek to be the cause of tears when you’ve been through worse circumstances without crying. It’s hard though.

You walk around the motorcycle, eyes on the ground. You catch a glimpse of your shoelace, pink against the black of your boot, because you used the ribbon for added flair when you gave your shoelace to someone at the camp who needed a belt.

Daryl saw you, and promised you that night with his cock buried deep in your throat, “I’ll get you some more ribbons, pretty girl,” he assured, while you gagged and spit dribbled down your chin. “Too hard to hold your hair back when yer suckin’ me off like a pro.”

That comment should’ve stung, but you know Daryl didn’t mean it like that. In fact, it was so hot that you did your best, until he spilled down your throat and you licked the mess you made off of his cock and balls and thighs.

You’re lost in your thoughts, busy giving your pussy a heartbeat when you notice a little gold, bullet shaped thing on the ground. You’re not sure what it is, but if it is a bullet, you know having extra is always good. You reach down to grab it, only then realizing that it's a lipstick.

You pop open the lid. It’s a pretty pink color, and while it’s used - you can’t even remember the last time you wore makeup. You wipe the top layer off before dabbing some with your finger and putting it on, trying to check yourself out in the mirror of the motorcycle when Daryl comes back.

“The fuck are they?” He asks, zipping his pants up. He’s so, so, so - crass sometimes that it’s endearing. You shrug, and that’s when he notices the lipstick you’re wearing. His eyes are hooded, heavy with tiredness, and it makes him look all the more handsome. “There a makeup store aroun’ here I shud know about?” He teases, and you shake your head and hold up the lipstick tube.

“Found this. How’s it look?” Daryl just nods, looking at you with a strange expression. You’re not sure what he’s thinking, until he tugs you closer to him by the wrist and tentatively presses his lips against yours.

“Don’ care about the gloss,” he comments, and you resist the urge to explain it’s not gloss, it’s lipstick. “But I don’ call you pretty girl for no reason. Always pretty,” he says shyly, and Daryl is a perfect guy, but he never opens up. Hardly ever says how he feels, or what he thinks - but he’s being clear now. That he wants you, verbally, even though his actions in everything he do is always proving that to you.

It’s crazy, the feeling of happiness bubbling in your chest, all thanks to Daryl Dixon. On the fucking highway filled with walkers probably silent in their cars, with flat tires and blood stains and ramsacked belongings, you stand on your tip toes and nudge the toe of your boots against his, grabbing hold of his handsome face and peppering kisses all over. You leave pink lipstick marks, but he doesn’t know that yet - and it makes you giggle.

Putting your mark all over Daryl - you’ve never been possessive, but wow does it feel good. When you finally pull away, Daryl looks at you like you’re crazy. Then he takes a look down the highway to make sure nobody’s coming, before bending you over the front of his motorcycle.

“Grab the handlebars,” he orders, a hand on your back before roughly pulling your pants down your ass. It’s risky, knowing that the rest of the camp could drive up at any minute, but who really cares? They already think so low of you. They already -

Your eyes shut as Daryl shoves his half hard cock inside of you, and your walls clamp down around him, so tight you feel him growing. It happened so fast he wasn’t even fully hard, but now he is, small thrusts so the both of you can get used to the feeling. Your hands are cramping where they grip the bars of his bike, so tight, until it almost starts to tip. Daryl has an idea.

He pulls out, cock in hand with his fucking pants not even pulled all the way down, and he sits himself over his bike like normal. “Take em’ off,” he says, nodding towards your pants, and you obey, stripping them off until it takes too long because of your boots and Daryl just hauls you over to him.

You almost trip as he lifts you onto the bike, bent over the handlebars, eyes on the road, before he slips his cock into you. It’s like you’re sitting on his lap, and he reaches around you, fully supporting your body while rubbing your clit.

“Can you move?” He asks roughly, and you whine, trying to go up and down on his cock but it’s too hard at the angle. Daryl presses a kiss to your head, moves some of your hair back while he takes hold of your hips and ruts you back and forth over his dick. You know he’s strong, but feeling it first hand is something else entirely. It’s like you’re a doll with the way he easily controls your body, dick so thick it feels like he’s stretching your pussy into the perfect mold just for him.

“Don’ worry,” he assures, letting out a breath of pleasure right by your ear. “I got ya. Only time yer quiet ‘s when you got my cock in you, huh?”

He’s not wrong. You wish you could see his face, but this position, your back to his front, is pretty hot too.

It’s only a minute later, when his hand slips while you try to pull your body up to do some of the work, that he nearly pinches your clit and it’s the pain that sends you over the edge. You cum, that easily against him, and you cry out his name just as you both hear the sound of an engine in the distance. Daryl curses, throws his head back at the feel of your tight pussy squeezing him, and quite literally picks you up off his cock and puts you on your feet.

“Knees,” he says quickly, and you obey, because of course you do, even though the gravel of the road is a little painful on your knees. He grabs you by your hair, and forces your mouth onto his cock where he spills his load down your throat. You swallow it down and kitten lick the head of his cock clean after, admiring the pink lipstick marks all over his perfect dick as he quickly zips tucks his dick in his pants and zips up, but not before helping you get your pants back up too.

“If we live another day,” Daryl says, helping you straighten out your pants when the other cars pull up. He snaps the band of your panties, white cotton and floral print, against your skin while the rest of the group gets out of the cars to have a meeting over some bullshit, you’re sure. “I’ll return the favor,” he finishes.

You don’t know if he’s joking or not, but you pull up his arm and cuddle into his side as he stands up, his tongue on your mind even though you just came all over his cock. You wish you could’ve had time to ride your orgasm out, but you’ll take what you can get.

Rick nods to Daryl as he gets out of his truck. He looks between the two of you, and for the first time, maybe ever, - you see him smirk a little.

“‘S your color, man,” he says, closing the car door. Daryl is confused, and takes a look at himself in the rearview mirror of his motorcycle, notices all the kiss marks and another first happens -

Daryl Dixon blushes red.

────

“I wanna come,” you say, resisting the urge to literally stomp your foot as Rick and Daryl and a few other men head out on a run.

It’s not like you actually want to go, but you can’t bear the thought of Daryl leaving without you. You know he can take care of himself, but the thought of him not returning - it literally makes you feel sick. You tug on the sleeves of your sweater while Daryl loads a bag of guns into the back of Rick’s truck, the other men exchanging glances that you know are them hoping Rick puts you in your place.

Ever since people caught on about you and Daryl, they’ve kept their mouths shut in regards to you. Which is good. You’re still ignored, like before - but at least you’ve got a little respect. You cross your arms as Rick and Daryl walk towards you.

“It’s dangerous out there,” Rick says, as if you’re an idiot who’s head has been buried in the sand for the past year. He sighs. “Look - we need you here. This is your role,” he looks like he wants to continue, but Daryl places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a look that Rick knows means let me handle this.

But you already know what Daryl is going to say to you, and you don’t want to fucking hear it. “I want to come, Daryl,” you say, trying not to whine. “I’m good with a gun, and since Derek can’t go,” you lower your voice, but Derek must’ve been slinking around. He pops up next to you, and Daryl tenses.

“You,” Daryl warns, mood gone sour just from Derek’s presence. “Fuck off.”

Derek laughs, but he’s obviously pissed. He can’t go on anymore runs, at least not for a while - he’s too scared, after a walker almost bit him the last time.

It’s only when you tense up, that Daryl realizes the other reason you don’t want to be left alone.

You don’t want to be alone with Derek. Yes, there’s other women at the camp and a few other men, but Derek is a scary, loose cannon. He’s the last person you want to be around right now. Daryl’s jaw locks, and he looks between the two of you, at the way you’re uncomfortable. Someone in Rick’s truck blares the horn, and he turns around, stressed out, not knowing what to do.

“Fuck face,” Daryl grumbles, running a hand down his face. He’s addressing Derek with a glare. He walks closer to him, chest to chest almost, backing Derek almost onto his ass. Derek can pretend to be tough all he wants - but he’s a bitch in comparison to a man like Daryl.

“Stay away from her. Don’t even look at her. If I come back and you so much as,” but Derek smirks. “If,” he emphasizes, until Daryl literally shoves him. Rick calls his name, and Daryl backs off.

You end up dropping whatever you’re saying, hating the position you’re putting Daryl in - like you’re a kid who has to have your way. Daryl is just trying to help the group, he has responsibilities - you don’t need to make his job harder than it is, so you wave him off. “I’ll be fine, Daryl. Just - come back safe.” You kiss his cheek and then he’s off.

You go to your tent to avoid Derek when the men going on the run are gone, but as you walk away you hear him speaking to you. “What’re you doing with that white trash? You might’ve been a whore, but you’re no trailer trash. You wouldn’t be with him if this was any other world.”

You stop in your tracks. “Don’t talk about Daryl like that,” you say softly, but firmly. For all Daryl does for everyone - you can’t believe Derek has the fucking nerve to talk shit. You want to flip him off, but he walks closer to you, and you freeze. You’re more scared of this man than a fucking walker, and your stomach flips with anxiety at his nearness.

“I worked in finance,” he says, like it matters. You actually have to stifle a laugh, confused at why his past matters - he’s so worthless that this is all he has to brag about? He thinks you care? Is he trying to relate to you, by putting Daryl down? He’s an idiot.

You smile sweetly, as if that’s anything to brag about. All the finance guys you knew in the city before all of this - they were horrible people. Of course that’s what Derek used to do.

“Trust me, Derek,” you say, hoping it stings. “I know.”

You walk away again, but just as you do, he grabs you by the arm. You try to pull your arm out of his grasp, but he won’t let you go. He tugs you closer to him, and you wish anyone cared about you enough to help you.

“Let go of me,” you spit, but Derek just shakes his head.

“You’re such a stupid bitch, you know that? Acting too good for any of us, treating all of us like shit. But you put out for fucking Dixon - let all of us hear you letting him fuck you in his tent and the woods. We saw you on your knees that day on the highway. I mean, it’s not a secret you’re a slut, but it’s another thing to see it. And now Rick is defending you? That why you were talking to him the other day for dinner? Offering yourself up for more rations or something? You’re sick,” Derek rants and raves, bruising your arm with his grip.

“Let me go,” you say, trying not to show how scared you are. “Or I’ll fucking scream.”

Derek actually laughs, shaking his head. You’re disturbed to know that he’s been watching you? Following you and Daryl? Because the both of you know - you only ever fooled around with Daryl when nobody could listen and see unless they were trying to. You wouldn’t do that, and neither would Daryl.

“If I’m such a stupid slut, that must make you pretty bad, huh? That I won’t even put out for you,” you hate that you even say those words, like you’d ever consider having sex with this man, but you want to hurt him. To get him to see that he's wrong about you - you want him to leave you alone.

“You fucking bitch,” Derek says, pushing you to the ground.

You let out a cry. You should’ve never told Daryl and Rick you’d be okay, you should’ve -

Suddenly Derek is off of you. You’re frozen for a second, before you hear screaming and someone calling out your name.

You’re in shock as someone helps you up. You know it’s Rick, because you notice his watch. “Damnit,” he curses, and you register the sound of Daryl’s voice. You look around for him, and when you find him, you see Derek on the ground, an arrow in his head.

He’s dead - for now. That fast. Until he turns into a walker.

Daryl walks to you, pulls you into his arms. “What happened?” He asks, and you’re worried he’s going to blame you, because you provoked him, and you stupidly left your weapons in your tent. You’re worried he’s going to think differently of you, that Rick will be mad that Derek is dead, and all these worries start swirling in your head until you can’t be strong anymore. You start crying so loud that you know you’ll be responsible for any walkers coming into camp tonight.

Rick starts to talk, but Daryl, for the first time ever, shuts him down harshly. “No, man. I ain’t sorry. He had it coming,” he says sharply, and Rick just swallows, holds his hands up like he agrees.

“Jus’ was gonna say to finish the job,” and you know he means, kill the fucker before he turns.

But you don't want Daryl to do it.

No, this is a job you can do.

Wordlessly, you pull yourself out of Daryl’s arms and walk towards Derek’s corpse. Everyone at the camp has gathered around now, too little too fucking late, but Rick tries to stop you from getting closer. You smack his hand away, and hold your palm out. It takes a minute, until Daryl finally orders Rick to give you what you want.

Rick hesitantly places a gun in your hand - and you shoot Derek in the head.

────

You’ve never killed someone who hasn’t turned yet. Derek was the first.

What scares you the most, is how little you care.

After what happened, you told Daryl everything that Derek said. You learned that night, from both Rick and Daryl, that the reason Derek was so horrible is because he wanted you - and how scary is that? What if he hurt you in another way once he had you on the ground? You’re lucky Rick forgot his gun and backpack on the run, that they had to turn around and come back to camp - the reason they got to you in time.

Rick assured you that you did the right thing. Which felt good, coming from the moral compass of the group. Everyone else was kind too, apologetic - you guess Derek scared more people into submission than you thought.

But Daryl was just pissed. More angry than you’d ever seen him. Throwing shit, breaking stuff - burning Derek the minute he dragged him a far enough distance from camp. Derek never even got a chance to turn.

Daryl threatened to leave the group with just you. It seemed like a good idea at first, until the reality that two people can’t survive on their own. No matter how resourceful, strong, and brave Daryl is.

But that meant a lot, that Daryl was trying - but the important thing is to survive.

The last few weeks, you’ve kept your head down. You clean, you help cook, you even take a few bites of whatever Daryl cooks because he pretty much forces you to - and because, secretly, you like how proud of you he looks when you try something new.

You just wish the world was different. But Daryl’s been amazing.

Rick’s been kind too. Everyone has, and maybe -

The sound of the zipper on your tent takes you out of your thoughts. You’re braiding your hair since you just washed it, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. You’re thankful for the distraction.

It’s Daryl.

“I already ate,” you tell him, worried that he’s bringing you some rodent that’s badly cooked. But you’re trying to be nice - he’s the only good thing in your world these days, so you soften your words. “Come inside and cuddle.”

Daryl squeezes inside the tent, and he leans on his side by your sleeping bag, just watching you. His head balanced on his hand, propped up on his elbow.

“Have somethin’ for you,” he says, not waiting for you to reply. In his hand is something wrapped in a tissue and you wonder what it is. He places it on your lap, and you look at him, excited but also a little upset.

“I told you to stop risking your life to get me things,” you scold, because everytime Daryl goes on a run, he finds things for you. Ribbons, hair clips, a pink toothbrush the other day. Lip gloss and lipstick (he knows the difference now), a pair of socks with little bows on them that are a size too big but still your favorite. He’s always saying how cute you are, how he thinks about you whenever he sees something pink.

It’s the best compliment ever.

You look to the other end of your sleeping bag, where a teddy bear Daryl found for you on a run a few weeks ago faces you both. It’s missing an eye, has the ribbon, the first gift he ever gave to you tied around its neck, and you love it so much that you sleep with it every night.

It’s definitely seen better days, and you don’t really know where he found it, but it’s so special to you - partly because Daryl gave it to you, and partly because it’s a little part of him that’s always with you. Part teddy bear, part security blanket - just like him.

It’s also a little scraggly. Sort of rough, dirty - but cuddly just the same. Kind of like Daryl. You move it a little closer.

Daryl groans in frustration and you almost roll your eyes at the dramatics. “Hush, lady, y’know I can take care of myself. ‘S nothing,” he nods to the thing on your lap, and you sigh and open the tissue.

It’s a cookie.

Your brows furrow, and you look at Daryl, all confused. “What,” you start, and he shrugs, sitting up. He rubs a hand down his face.

“Remembered what you said, about the cookies,” he’s sheepish, as if this isn’t the sweetest thing in the world. You gulp, trying not to cry at how touched you are, but you can’t help it. Tears brim at your waterline, and you wipe your eyes.

“Oh,” he scolds, letting out a huff. “Don’ cry. I just remembered what you said, is all. It’s probably not good anymore, but you’re my girl, and I want,” you smile even as tears run down your face.

“Your girl,” you hold that close to your heart, and Daryl nods, avoiding eye contact. You don’t care. You throw yourself into his arms.

His hug is warm, strong, and you feel the stress leave your body as he kisses your temple. He was listening, all those times you were talking.

Daryl Dixon, you think, the man that you are.

Your silence must be unexpected. He pulls away, watches your thumb brush over the most likely stale cookie he probably found on a run. You’re not really gonna eat it - but it’s the thought that counts.

“You talked about what ya miss, from before. But when I look back,” pretty blue eyes look at you. He cups your chin, presses his lips against yours.

You make a note to ask for chapstick for the both of you on the next run.

“Don’ cry, c’mon. You’re makin me soft,” he complains, even as he holds you closer. You want tell him that you can’t make him something he already is, but what he says next throws the sass right out of you. “When I look back, before I knew you,” he finishes shyly, “I just miss you, ya know?”

Daryl says that he’s not romantic, but he’s the most romantic man you've ever met. He’s a good person. He’s kind, and thoughtful, and even though he’s vague sometimes, too quiet for his own good - you know what he means.

You can’t believe there was a time you didn’t know - a time you didn’t love - this man. He’s everything to you.

And maybe, yeah - this world is hell. There’s death and decay and too much sadness to catch a break, but there’s one good thing in all of it. One thing so important to the both of you, that gives a little bit of meaning to this shitty, shitty world.

You found each other. You have each other.

You sniffle and nod, holding the cookie close, but Daryl even closer.

“Yeah,” you say, kissing his cheek softly. You feel him relax at your touch. “I’ve always missed you too, Daryl.”

#I read this twice by the way OASNDIDBFIFBE #I saw 13k and 2nd person POV and I strapped RIGHT in #fuck Derek all my homies fucking hate Derek

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bludovebunny · 5 days ago

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I wanna try a Lex Luthor x reader relationship hc thing but I’ve never wrote in 2nd person before🧍🏽‍♀️

#my dilemma right now cause it’s easier for me to write in 3rd pov but 2nd is too daunting #dawn small talk .

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immergladsss · 1 year ago

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Reading 2nd-person POV makes me feel like I'm being gaslit by a book.

#reading #harrow the ninth #books #2nd person pov #it's already confusing enough #the story drops you right in #assumes you know what is going on #add 2nd person POV on top of that #I'm annoyed but I really want to know what the fuck is happening

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m00ntunaart · 5 months ago

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2nd STARWARS/DAEMON AU POST!!!!! This time with the CC's and the Disaster Lineage!

Obi-Wan: Maned Wolf (Kee-Ayt)

Anakin: Lion (maned female lioness) (Asieko)

Ahsoka: Gryfalcon (Tuex)

Cody: German Shepherd (Beskar)

Rex: Siberian Husky (Queen)

Wolffe: Wolfdog (Whitefang)

Fox: Doberman Pinscher (Vulpe)

Bly: American Akita (Lyra)

LORE TIME: first off! Jedi! So I thought a lot about how daemons and Jedi should work. I did end up deciding that Jedi GENERALLY have bird daemons (like the witches in His Dark Material), BUT not always. The Jedi having bird daemons is not a ‘All Force Sensitives Have Daemons Who Settle As Birds’ thing. It wouldn’t make sense in this AU since Force-sensitivity is a spectrum and at what level would someone have ‘enough’ force-sensitivity to have a daemon for certain become a bird? I didn’t like that narrative as much, it felt restrictive. So instead Jedi tend to have bird daemons, but not Force-Sensitives. Like all Jedi are force sensitive ( and have bird daemons) but not all Force-Sensitives are Jedi, make sense? This is because of how the Jedi raise children and teach them to interact with the force. Because of how Jedi are taught to view and use the force, their daemons tend to settle as birds! It’s ‘nurture’ over ‘nature’ thing. Which is why (in this AU at least) the Jedi don’t take in older children to train. Because they’ve already probably learned their own way to interact with the force (different from the Jedi teachings) and therefore will have a non-bird daemon! Hence Anakin having a lion daemon. “But what about Obi-Wan?” (Well since Obi-Wan is one of my favorites I get to spice him up lol). He was originally very Jedi like (daemon wise) but after the whole Jedi Apprentice/Xanantos enslaving him/Melida-Daan war thing, he daemon ended up settling as a Maned Wolf! I imagine he was just about the age where his daemon would settle (usually 13-15, which is the same reason this is the age Jedi initiates are made padawans), so it was a surprise that his daemon so abruptly changed and settled. Most likely the effects of being so abruptly exposed to violence and war right out of being only use to the peace of the Jedi temple his whole life.

(Extra) The 3rd page of the post! Cody and Obi-Wan’s daemons! Beskar and Kee-Ayt! Even though in my doodles Beskar seems to be very grumpy and even hatful towards Kee-Ayt, DO NOT BE FOOLED. Beskar adores Kee-Ayt. Their relationship just mirrors how I headcanon Cody’s and Obi-Wan’s. Where they will harass and bitch at each other to hell and back. Sounding from the outsider’s POV like two people who hate each other. When in reality these two are joined at the hip and love each other. They just will never admit it because “we have reputations to uphold!’ (Anakin says “what reputation? the reputation that one of you would murder the other if it wasn’t for the fact the GAR would court marshal the other?”) But yeah, Beskar makes fun of Kee-Ayt’s long ass legs. The mini ‘comic’ is about how I imagine that since all the Clones’ daemons are dogs/canines, when they win a battles they have a ‘Victory Call’ where they all howl. Beskar offers for Kee-Ayt to join in, but Maned Wolves can’t howl. They do this thing called a Roar-Bark (look up a video it’s so loud). This is the first time Beskar hears Kee-Ayt roar-bark and it scared the shit out of her.

(Extra Extra) The 4th page of the post! This is mostly doodles of Rex, Anakin and Ashoka’s daemons (Queen, Asieko and Tuex). All three reflect the close relationship that Rex, Anakin and Ahsoka have. Hence Tuex nesting on Queen and Asieko trying to groom Queen (who doesn’t appreciate the rough lion tongue bath she’s getting). (In fact Asieko tries to groom Tuex and Kee-Ayt too, but Tuex is too small and Kee-Ayt just starts biting Asieko bcs she doesn’t appreciate the bath either lol). We also have Tuex dive bombing Asieko (a common occurrence whenever Anakin and Ahsoka bicker). Tuex also does this to literally anyone who slightly annoys him or Ahsoka. And lastly the little doodle of Rex and Queen screaming! Idk if you’ve ever seen videos of Huskies, but oh boy are they loud and dramatic. I think with all the stress and insanity Rex has to deal with leading the 501st, he and Queen often have therapy screaming sessions. They deserve to.

(ALSO, I will be making follow up reblogs with lore/plot stuff for each individual character)

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cloudtransprncy · 30 days ago

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Cheat Code

ITZY Yuna x Male Reader | 5k words Part 1 out of ? Tags: PWP, Blowjob, Size Kink, Cock Worship, Mutual Horny Chaos, 2nd Person POV, Yuna Is Down Catastrophic

She said glasses and earrings were a cheat code—so you tested it. No big deal. Just an experiment. But the second Yuna opens the door, she short-circuits, and next thing you know, she’s on her knees. I guess it works?

The car is parked in your usual spot, tucked away from the main road where the streetlights don’t quite reach. It’s summer.

The air outside warm enough that the windows are cracked just enough to let the night breeze slip through. Chill R&B hums from the speakers, blending into the comfortable silence between you and Yuna.

Yuna’s lounged back, slides kicked off, feet propped up on the dashboard like she owns the place. Her phone screen flashes in quick bursts as she scrolls TikTok, fingers moving lazily while she sips from her boba. Cropped pink tank, low-rise jeans that hang just right, a couple of delicate rings on her fingers—casual but calculated, effortless, she knows she’s hot and she owns it.

You’re half-watching, half-zoned out, fingers drumming absently against your drink. Not thinking about how good she looks. Or trying not to.

Then she speaks, totally unprompted.

“Glasses and earrings are such a fucking cheat code for guys.”

You blink, slow to process. “…Huh?”

She doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Like, if a dude who’s my type pulls up with that? Whip it out already, I’m on my knees.”

You choke on your boba. Cough, nearly die, and have to thump your own chest to recover. “You’re a slut”

Yuna finally spares you a glance, completely serious. “I’m sooo serious. Glasses? Hot. Earrings? Hot. Together? Killy me now. Instant buff.”

You recover, rubbing your throat. “Any guy?”

She scoffs. “Obviously he has to be cute, I’m not gonna suck off some rando that's ugly and gross.”

You stare at her, a mix of disbelief and amusement creeping in.

Yuna shifts, folding a leg under her and turning fully towards you, sitting up. Her tank top rides up just slightly, exposing a sliver of skin, but you don’t look for too long. She leans in like she’s about to tell you the secrets of the universe. “Like, okay, hear me out.”

You sigh, playing along. “K, I’m listening.”

“The glasses just make the guy look smart, but like, not too smart. Unless he’s a nerd, but you get my point.”

“Suuure.”

“The earrings? Hot. Earrings are just hot. Like, I wear earrings. I’m hot.”

You stare at her, unimpressed. “I don’t get it.”

She waves a hand, exasperated. “Like, hot but not too hot, smart but not too smart. ya get me?.”

You squint. “But what if the guy’s ugly?”

She pauses, then scoffs. “See, that’s where it’s tough, ‘cause the buff only works if you’re already cute, ya know? Or like… almost hot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You saying some guys are almost hot?”

“Yeah, bro, like some guys just need to hit the gym, dress better, get some earrings.”

You just give her a look, telling her you don’t really get it.

Silence lingers for a beat. Then she shrugs, says it so offhandedly you almost don’t catch it. “Like, you’d actually be hot if you tried.”

Your brain stalls. “…What?”

She doesn’t look up, just sips her boba. “You heard me.”

You’re still blinking. “No, repeat that.”

A slow, shit-eating grin spreads across her face. “Nope.”

“That felt personal.”

“It wasn’t. But if you feel attacked…”

You scoff, sitting up slightly. “I literally gym, and you gotta admit I dress nice.”

She finally looks at you, eyes dragging over your plain black tee and gray sweats, unimpressed.

You gesture vaguely. “When I go out.”

She snorts, shaking her head but doesn't disagree. “Yeah, aight.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re basically saying I would be hot if I wasn’t ugly.”

Another shrug. “That’s not what I’m saying, but if that’s what you’re hearing…”

You laugh it off, shake your head, shift the conversation elsewhere. But Yuna? She sits with it, lets the words settle.

The idea is planted.

She doesn’t bring it up again, but it lingers. Her gaze flickers to you when you’re not looking, her teeth pressing lightly into her bottom lip like she’s trying not to think too hard about it. Then, just as quickly, she shakes it off, scrolling her phone with a little too much focus.

A week later…

The drive to Yuna’s place feels normal—same streets, same turn signals, same playlist humming low through your speakers. But today? Today’s different. Today, you’re running a test.

You grip the wheel with one hand, glancing at yourself in the rearview mirror. Glasses on. You always needed them, just never wore them. Now? Gentle Monster frames, clean, sharp. A flex, but a subtle one.

Earrings? Left ear—a small silver star stud. Right ear—a tiny dagger earring. A balance of soft and sharp. Like you weren’t thinking about it, but also? You were.

Your fit? Casual but intentional.

Black compression shirt, snug and sculpting but not obnoxious. Grey wide-leg sweats, laid-back and effortless. Fresh kicks, spotless with no creases.

It’s intentional, but not try-hard. Like you just threw shit on, but somehow, everything fell into place.

You exhale, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel.

Let’s see if she notices.

You knock. A shuffle of footsteps inside. The door swings open.

Yuna stands there, the striped pajama set hugging her tiny waist, sitting snug on her hips, showing just enough skin to be lethal. The fabric stretches over her curves, hinting at the toned stomach underneath, the kind of body that looks soft but still tight in all the right places.

Her red hair falls in messy waves, catching hallway light like she planned the whole damn lighting setup. Even "just hanging at home," her skin glows with that I-woke-up-like-this perfection you know for a fact takes at least three serums to achieve. Light makeup—because of course she wouldn't be completely bare-faced—just enough to make her eyes wider, her lips fuller, slightly glossed and parted in what starts as a greeting but dies somewhere in her throat.

She was expecting movie night. Takeout containers. Stupid debates about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. The usual safe routine.

Instead, she gets you. Version 2.0.

Her entire body freezes. Processing.

Her eyes make a deliberate journey: glasses, earrings—that small hesitation when she notices they're mismatched—down to how your shirt remembers every gym session you've been putting in, lingering just a beat too long where your sweats hang low, then back up to your face with the slow-dawning realization that you've weaponized her own words against her.

She straight-up blue-screens.

Her weight shifts subtly, thighs pressing together like she's trying to create pressure where she suddenly needs it. Her fingers flex at her sides, curling then uncurling like she's physically restraining herself. The sharp inhale is audible—chest rising, lips parting before she catches herself. A full system restart happening in real time.

"What. The. Fuck." It comes out flat, almost accusatory, like you've committed a personal offense.

You can't help the smirk. "What?"

Yuna's eyes narrow, flicking to your earrings again with something dangerously close to hatred—not for the accessories, but for how effectively you've played her. Her jaw works, tension visible as she grinds her teeth. The mental battle is written across her face: pride versus want, restraint versus impulse.

"You're a fucking bitch," she mutters, the words carrying more heat than venom.

Your grin widens, victory sweet on your tongue. "Hmm? Didn't catch that."

No verbal response. Just the sudden, almost violent way her fingers hook into your shirt, yanking you inside before kicking the door shut with enough force to rattle the frame.

Her grip on your wrist is tight—too tight to be casual, not tight enough to hurt. She pulls you down the familiar hallway, the same path you've walked a hundred times before, except now your heart hammers against your ribs like it's trying to escape. This isn't movie-night Yuna leading you to her bedroom to argue about Netflix choices. This is something else entirely.

The words barely form in your mouth before your back hits her mattress, the air rushing from your lungs in a soft "oof." Suddenly everything is different. Same room—same fairy lights strung across her headboard, same pile of clothes heaped on her desk chair, same vague scent of vanilla and something distinctly her—but the air feels electrically charged, dense with potential.

She climbs onto you with feline precision, one knee planted on either side of your thighs, lowering herself with a deliberate slowness that borders on torture. The weight of her settles against you—warm, solid, undeniable. The smirk playing at her lips is both challenge and promise, a silent I told you so mixed with you're going to regret this in the best way possible.

And just like that, the tables turn.

Your earlier confidence dissolves under her gaze. Your breath catches as she studies you like a meal she's about to devour, eyes dragging from your face to your throat, lingering on the pulse point there before traveling lower to where your shirt has ridden up to expose a strip of skin.

Pure instinct drives your hands to her hips, fingers just grazing the warm skin exposed between her top and pajama bottoms—but before you can get a proper grip, she's caught your wrists. One fluid motion and your arms are pinned against the wall above your head, chest exposed, completely at her mercy. Her nails dig just enough into your skin to send a shiver racing down your spine, a silent warning that makes your pulse spike.

"Yuna—" Her name escapes as a whine, embarrassingly breathless.

"Did I say you could touch?" The edge in her voice is new—commanding in a way that makes heat pool low in your stomach.

She leans in close again and you flinch slightly, turning your head, caught off-balance by this sudden shift in dynamic. The predatory smile that spreads across her face tells you exactly what you need to know:

You might have started this game, but she's the one who's going to finish it.

Her grip tightens. "What? You getting nervous?"

And you are. Because you don’t know what she’s gonna do next. Because your hands are pinned down, because she’s taking her time, because she’s in complete control.

"Too late." Her voice is soft as her fingers catch your jaw before you can answer—firm, controlling. She lets it hang there, the weight of her words sinking in before she tilts your face up like she’s testing the weight of you in her hands, deciding whether she wants to break you apart or take her time savoring it.

She doesn’t kiss you yet. Just hovers. Close enough that you can feel her breath—warm, teasing, curling over your lips. Close enough that you can smell her—sweet, like strawberries, something feminine and bright, but dark underneath. Something heady. Something that lingers.

"What..." It slips out soft, almost breathless, escaping before you even realize. You're already leaning in—just slightly, just enough to chase the warmth of her mouth, the phantom touch of lips that still haven’t pressed against yours.

She grins. Pulls back just enough to make you ache for it. Watching, waiting. Letting the moment stretch, letting you need.

Then she finally kisses you—hungry, consuming, impossible to escape. Her lips move like she’s starving, like she’s been waiting for this, for you.

Her hands roam without hesitation, clawing at your shirt, nails scratching lightly before pressing harder, groping, gripping, taking. She grinds down, pressing herself closer, hot, desperate, soaked through.

Her tongue slides against yours, deep, messy, filthy. She tastes like strawberries and something warmer, something intoxicating. She bites your bottom lip, sucking it between her teeth before letting go, leaving you breathless, dizzy.

You manage to get half a word out—something cocky, something desperate—but she just presses her thumb over your lips, silencing you effortlessly. "Shh."

Her smirk is wicked, teasing. "Did I tell you to talk?"

One last kiss—hard, bruising—claiming—before she finally pulls back, pupils blown wide, breath heavy, hot against your lips. Still teasing, still in control.

Her eyes flicker, dark and sharp. She lets the silence stretch, lets you squirm just a little before tilting her head, smirking. And then, finally—

“Whip it out when I tell you to.”

She shifts back, slow and deliberate, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Legs crossed, arms folded, head tilted slightly—waiting.

“Shirt off.”

You hesitate. Her expression doesn’t change. Just one perfectly raised eyebrow.

You exhale, dragging the fabric over your head, the fabric peeling away from your skin, leaving a fleeting chill before the heat of the room settles over you. The shift makes your muscles tense briefly, instinctively flexing, your lean frame now fully exposed. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches. Eyes dragging down, slower than usual. She’s seen you shirtless before—at the beach, when you work out together—but this feels... different. More deliberate. More assessing. Like she’s realizing something she hadn’t let herself think about before.

Her fingertips trail over your chest, nails scraping lightly as they move down. Her breathing shifts. Not a full pause, but a subtle inhale, like she’s registering something new.

She barely skims your waistband before stopping. Lips part, but no words come out. Just a beat of silence, her fingers still resting against your skin.

Then, just as quickly, she shakes it off. Moves like she never hesitated. “Pants too.”

You move to pull them down, and her hand shoots out, gripping the fabric at your waist. Stopping you. Holding you there.

She tilts her head. Smirks. “Hmm, one sec.”

She leans down, lips trailing from your chest to your abdomen, slow and deliberate, each press of her mouth sending heat curling low in your stomach. Lower. Lower. Until she’s hovering over your bulge, her breath warm against the fabric, her smirk returning as she glances up at you—waiting, teasing.

“Whip it out.”

You follow her command, fingers hooking into the waistband of your sweats and boxers at the same time. You push them down in one slow motion, the fabric dragging over your hips, your thighs, until they pool around your ankles. The cool air hits first, sending a shiver down your spine, your skin prickling in contrast to the heat of her stare. You kick them off, tossing them aside without a second thought.

Your cock, already stiff, springs free, swaying slightly before settling upright.

You expect some kind of reaction, a smirk, a comment, something. But she just sits there. Silent. Taking you in. Making you wait.

Then, the shift.

Her jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough to notice. Her fingers twitch, like she’s resisting the instinct to reach for you. A single exhale slips out—soft, sharp, involuntary.

“...Hah.”

Her thighs press together.

She blinks once, slow, expression still unreadable before she scoffs, voice flat. "You're joking."

It’s not a question. Not disbelief. It’s irritation. Like she’s pissed off that she’s this affected.

Then, before she even registers it, her hand is on you.

Her fingers wrap around the base, testing the weight. Thumb pressing into the ridge, sliding down, measuring. Her grip is firm, not teasing, not soft. Calculating. Then, she swipes her thumb over the tip, smearing the bead of precum across the sensitive skin.

The slick warmth sends a sharp jolt through you, your stomach clenching at the sudden stimulation. A shudder rolls down your spine, hips jerking just slightly—instinctual, involuntary. She hums at the reaction, amused, dragging her thumb back over the head, slower this time, watching you twitch beneath her touch.

"...You’ve been walking around with this the whole time?"

One slow stroke. Deliberate. Frustrated. Her breath hitches for half a second before she exhales through her nose, sharp and controlled. She’s working through something.

Then she moves.

Slow, deliberate, sinking down until her face is level with your cock. She spreads her knees wider, arching her back instinctively, ass lifting behind her as she dips her head down. The motion is fluid, effortless, like she’s done this a hundred times before—but not with you.

Her breath fans over the head, warm, teasing, and fuck, she’s gorgeous. But the way she’s looking at you? The way her lashes flutter as she drags her gaze from the base to the tip, the way her lips part slightly like she’s thinking about something she shouldn’t? Filthy.

Your fingers twitch against the sheets, aching to touch her. To run through her hair, trace over her cheek, press against the plush curve of her lips. But you don’t. You know better.

She tilts her head, lining it up. Comparing.

Her fingers tighten around the base, giving an experimental squeeze, jaw tensing slightly like she’s still processing the math of it all.

She hums, amused. Like she just confirmed something. Her eyes drag from your cock to your frame, mapping out the proportions. She’s smaller, you’re lean, cut where it matters. Her fingers tighten around your thigh—just slightly.

She exhales slow, shaking her head. Testing her own reaction.

“It’s almost annoying.”

A sharp squeeze at the base, like she’s making peace with it.

"You're just big enough to be fucking perfect."

She looks up at you, doesn’t blink. Holds your gaze like she’s daring you to move.

"Look at me."

You do. Try to. But the intensity of her gaze is too much, hungry, piercing, hot. Like she’s devouring every inch of you without even touching. Your body reacts before you can stop it. It’s overwhelming. Too much. You instinctively try to escape it, tilting your head back, but she doesn’t let you.

Her other hand catches your chin, dragging you back down to her. “I didn’t say you could do that.”

Your breath shudders. You swallow hard. She notices. Smirks.

Then—she stops.

She knows exactly what she’s about to do. And she wants you to watch.

Lifting her arms, she gathers up all her hair, twisting it tight, securing it with practiced ease. It’s a ritual, a performance, because she knows you’re looking. And she likes it.

The movement stretches her out, making you take in everything—the pull of her arms, the soft dip of her waist, the sleek curve of her long torso. Cinched. Compact. Fucking perfect. Her neck, her collarbones, the bare skin of her armpits exposed for a fleeting second, all of it framed just for you.

"Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking hot." Your voice slips past you.

She pauses, just for a second. A slow, knowing smirk on her lips as she glances at you.

"I know."

Your fingers twitch, instinct taking over—you reach down, wanting to stroke yourself to the sight of her.

Sharp slap.

Your hand jerks away, stinging. Her eyes flicker up, challenging. Smirking.

"I already told you—keep your hands to yourself."

Then—she leans back down, the same position, same arch. She dips her head low. Her lips purse, and before you can register it, a thick glob of warm saliva drips from her mouth, landing perfectly against the tip. She watches it spread, her thumb smearing it across the sensitive skin, coating you in wet heat before she strokes again—long, slow, deliberate.

She looks up, eyes locking onto yours, smirking like she already knows she's won. "Now sit back and let me enjoy myself."

Then—she sinks lower.

Her red hair spills over your stomach, strands brushing against your skin as she angles herself just right. The dim light catches on the messy waves, glowing warm, wild, untamed. She looks up at you through thick lashes, half-lidded, pupils blown wide, mouth parted just enough to tease you with the heat of her breath.

She’s so fucking close.

But this isn’t about you.

Her fingers wrap around the base, a slow, possessive squeeze, more for herself than for you. She exhales, lips barely parted, watching, taking you in. Her tongue swipes over her own bottom lip as if contemplating a meal she’s about to devour.

Then—she goes for it.

Heat. Wet. The first slide past her lips is tight, hot, an impossible contrast of softness and pressure. Her mouth stretches, lips plush and slick, sealing around you with a perfect, obscene suction. The wet heat of her tongue presses firm against the underside, dragging against every ridge, every pulsing inch, like she’s mapping you out with her mouth. The pressure of her cheeks hollowing pulls a groan straight from your chest before you can bite it back.

It's not careful, not teasing—hungry.

Her nails dig into your thigh as she sinks deeper, her own body reacting, thighs pressing together, chasing the heat curling in her own gut.

She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t drag it out like a game. She’s working herself up with every motion, letting herself indulge.

Another moan, this one softer, needier, and fuck, she’s enjoying this. Her tongue presses against the underside, massaging every inch she swallows. She pulls back, spit slick and glistening, gasping softly before diving back in, sucking harder, deeper.

She flicks her gaze up—not to check on you, but to see how much more she can take.

The wet pop when she pulls off is obscene, spit stretching between her lips and your cock before snapping apart. But she doesn’t wipe it away—you can tell, she likes the mess.

She tilts her head, gaze flicking up to yours, breathless, her lips curling into something between a smirk and frustration.

"Fuck, you taste so good." She mutters, voice wrecked, annoyed at how much she’s into this.

You start to smirk, breath hitching as you mutter, "Damn, you really know how to—"

But you don't get the chance.

She takes you deep mid-word, zero hesitation, lips stretching, throat tightening as she swallows you down in one sudden, slick motion. The shock rips a strangled sound from your throat, something between a gasp and a groan, because fuck, that was unexpected.

It's warm, so fucking tight, her throat flexing around you as she forces herself deeper, nose pressing flush against your groin. The wet grip of her throat clenching around the tip sends heat jolting up your spine, and when she pulls back—slow, torturous—a thick string of spit clings between her lips and your cock, stretching, breaking, dripping down onto her own chin. She watches you, gaze locked, eyes dark, sharp, daring you.

"You talk too much. And I haven't told you to open your mouth."

Her voice is wrecked, breathless, but smug as hell. She grips the base, firm, controlling, and slaps the head against her lips, wet and filthy, smearing spit and precum across them before taking you back in without hesitation—deeper, tighter, longer.

Your thighs tense. Your breath stutters. Toes curl, heat pooling low in your stomach, a wildfire spreading through your limbs. Your hands clench into the sheets because if you touch her now, you're done for.

She hums around you, low, vibrating, because she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

Then she pulls back, spit-slick and glistening, pausing just long enough for you to feel the absence, to make you ache for it.

You think she’s about to go back in, your breath catches—but she lingers, gaze flicking up, owning the moment, letting the tension coil tighter. Then, slowly, she slaps your cock against her lips once more, her own breath shuddering like she’s just as caught up in this as you are. But this isn’t for you—it’s for her.

She dips lower, tongue dragging down your length, lips wrapping around one ball, sucking slow, wet, indulgent. She pauses for a second, breathing heavy, swallowing like she’s processing how good it tastes, how much she’s enjoying it.

Then she makes a sound—a frustrated groan, muffled, needy, like she’s annoyed by just how good you are in her mouth. Her hand never stops moving, stroking you in time with every pull of her mouth. Then the next, her tongue rolling over the sensitive skin, a soft moan escaping her, sending a jolt straight through your core.

She licks a line back up your shaft, slow, messy, like she’s savoring the weight of you on her tongue.

Your hands twitch against the sheets, fists clenched tight, every muscle in your body strung too fucking tight, resisting the urge to grab her. She notices. She loves it.

She pulls off completely, spit pooling down her chin, tilts her head up at you, lips parted, swollen, smirking.

"Hold my hair up."

Your breath shakes as you comply, fingers threading into her red waves, feeling the silkiness as they slide between your knuckles. You gather them slowly, watching the way they shine under the dim light, then bunch them up tight, pulling them together like a ponytail, holding firm.

She exhales slow, eyes flickering shut for half a second like she’s steeling herself. Then, she looks up at you—hungry, determined.

"Good. Now don’t let go."

The moment you tighten your grip, she moans, low and wrecked, like it’s fueling her. Like she’s been waiting for this.

She takes you back in.

In one go.

There’s no hesitation now. No more teasing. Just her fucking her mouth on you, using your cock like a toy for her own oral fixation.

She goes messy, abrupt, taking you deep with zero breaks, her hands working in sync—one stroking your shaft, the other massaging your balls, slick with spit, wet, filthy, relentless.

She gags. Chokes. Sputters saliva down her chin, but she doesn’t stop—she loves this.

Each time she sinks down, she stays longer, testing her limits, forcing herself deeper, moaning around you, the vibrations traveling straight through your spine. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

She pulls off with a wet, deep, gasp, sucking in air, but her hands never stop moving—stroking, twisting, milking you even as she gasps for breath.

“Shit,” she pants, her voice wrecked, her lips swollen, glistening with spit.

Her grip tightens, both hands now working together, slick and dripping, saliva coating every inch. She strokes faster, twisting her wrists, making a fucking mess of you, her mouth hovering just inches away, lips parted, panting.

Your whole body is tight, legs folding in slightly, toes curling, arms flexing involuntarily around the grip in her hair. The pleasure is too much, too fucking good, overwhelming, and if she wasn’t in complete control, you’d be thrusting up into her mouth, chasing the heat, the pressure. But she’s already forcing herself deep, hitting the back of her throat for you. No, for herself, taking what she wants.

Your grip on her hair loosens.

She notices.

She fucking notices.

Her lashes flutter up, eyes glazed, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed—completely cock-drunk—and she lets out the softest, filthiest little whine, like she doesn’t want you to stop her. Like she needs this. More of this.

Your fingers clench, regaining control, and you hold her still.

Her moan shatters through you.

It’s wrecked, vibrating along your length as she hollows her cheeks again and sucks. Hard.

And then—she goes feral.

She spits again, a thick glob dripping onto the head, smearing it in with her tongue before slapping your cock against her lips, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. Then she leans in, sucking and slurping her own saliva back up from your cock and groin, her tongue dragging slow and deliberate—only to sputter it back down again, wetter, filthier.

The slick warmth trickles lower, dripping under your balls, pooling there as her fingers smear it across your skin like she never wants to waste a single drop. She’s moaning the entire time, whimpering under her breath, her own body tensing, thighs pressing together, like she’s getting off on the sheer act of ruining herself.

Her tongue flicks out, lapping at the sensitive tip before flattening against it, rubbing it against her slick, spit-drenched muscle like she wants to taste every inch.

Her hand never stops moving—stroking, twisting, pumping, both hands working together now, slick and dripping, her fingers sliding with ease from how fucking wet everything is.

She’s not thinking anymore.

She’s just moving, sucking, licking, moaning, lost in it. She’s devouring you.

She sinks back down, deeper, until she’s gagging again, nose flush, throat spasming. She pulls off just to spit again, rubs her own mess into your shaft with both hands before swallowing you back down like she missed it.

She stays down longer each time.

Testing her limits. Pushing past them. Letting them break.

She pulls off with a wrecked gasp, drool dripping off her chin, her hands still stroking you frantically, like she can’t stop. Like she won’t stop.

“Fuck—” Her voice is raw, strained, needy. Her lips glisten, her cheeks are damp with spit, ruined.

Next, she slaps your cock against her tongue again, holding it there, eyes locked on yours, lips parted, panting.

Waiting.

Wanting.

She flicks her tongue once. Then again.

Your whole body tenses, a choked moan ripping out of your throat before you can swallow it down. She notices instantly, smirking, lips flushed and glistening.

"Gonna cum for me?" Her voice is low, wrecked, teasing. "Gonna fill up my mouth?"

She doesn’t give you a chance to answer. She’s back down, and you know it wont be long.

She sinks down, deeper than before—deeper than you thought she could go.

Her throat tightens, a hot, slick vice around you, lips stretched wide, nose flush against your skin. She stays there, like she’s proving something, forcing herself to take it all.

Your body shakes. A helpless, broken noise tears from your throat, your fingers twisting tighter in her hair. Your entire body is locked up, muscles taut, overwhelmed, unable to do anything but take what she’s giving you.

She swallows around you—tight, pulsing—milking you. The suction drives you insane, your mind foggy with nothing but her heat, her wetness, the way she’s owning you with her mouth. Your stomach clenches, your toes curl, thighs shaking. The heat in your gut is unbearable, climbing too fast, too much—

And then—she pulls off.

Not all the way. Just enough to drag her lips, tongue, teeth back up, slow, deliberate, before sinking back down just as deep.

She does it again.

Slow. Controlled. Absolutely ruining you.

Her hands are still working—one stroking your length, the other massaging your balls, her slick fingers pressing, squeezing, keeping you so fucking close but not letting you fall.

This time, she pulls off completely.

Your cock twitches in the open air, aching, drenched in her spit, glistening under the dim light. The sudden absence is unbearable, like she just took the world’s best heat away from you.

And then—she stops everything.

Her grip loosens. Her mouth lingers inches away.

Nothing.

You make a noise—desperate, strained. Your fingers clench, stomach tight, chest rising too fast.

She tilts her head, mocking, daring, teasing. Lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

"Say it."

Your breath stutters. She’s watching you unravel, watching you need.

You hesitate.

Her fingers go completely still.

The absence is unbearable. The loss of heat, friction, her—everything.

She waits. Just waits.

Eyes locked on you, lips parted, not moving until she hears what she wants.

“You wanna cum or not?”

Her voice is wrecked, low, filthy—and so fucking amused. Like she already knows.

Your jaw locks, but your body betrays you.

“Yuna, please—I'm so close” It rips out of you, barely a whisper, shaky, ruined.

Her eyes spark. She grins.

She giggles. It’s horny, evil, delighted.

And with that, she dives back in.

Messy. Unforgiving.

Her mouth works you over, fast, relentless, sucking hard like she’s dragging the orgasm out of you. Her cheeks hollow, tongue pressing firm, head bobbing fast, sloppy, wrecking you.

Her hands won’t stop moving—both of them now, stroking, twisting, pumping, slick and filthy, drenched in her spit.

She pulls off just to spit directly onto your tip, spreading it with her tongue, letting the mess drip down your shaft, pooling at your base.

She goes back down, faster, tongue swirling, throat flexing, each motion more desperate, more demanding. The sounds she’s making—filthy, obscene, completely unashamed.

You can’t stop it.

Your hips jerk, thighs flex, toes curl, fingers pull tight in her hair.

And then—your whole body locks up.

It hits like lightning, brutal, full-body, overwhelming.

You moan—loud, wrecked, shaking.

She pulls off at the last second, her tongue stretched out, eyes locked on you, stroking you fast as you cum hard all over her tongue and inside her mouth.

Spurts of thick white streak across her tongue, her lips, pooling where she wants it.

She stays there, mouth open, holding it, letting you see it.

Then—she closes her mouth and swallows.

A loud, filthy gulp.

Like she was made for this.

She stays between your legs a moment longer, tongue flicking slow, deliberate, dragging over every inch of sensitive skin as she cleans you up, savoring it. Her lips press one last time to the tip, a lazy, lingering kiss, before she finally—finally—pulls away, her breath still hot and damp against your stomach.

She doesn’t hurry.

She stretches, rolling her shoulders like she just wrapped up a workout, sighing like she’s completely satisfied, her fingers pressing briefly into your thighs as she pushes herself up. She moves like she owns the space, like she just conquered something.

Without another word, she crawls up towards you. One hand grabs your chin, tilting your face up, making sure you’re looking at her.

She’s still wrecked, ruined—her lips glossy, chin damp, pupils dark and dripping with smug satisfaction.

"You're never taking those glasses off again."

Her other hand moves, fingers slipping up to the bridge of your glasses, pushing them back into place with the laziest, most condescending adjustment.

Like she just did fucking community service.

You’re still panting, your limbs heavy, your chest still rising too fast. And yet—a realization grips you.

You just unleashed something.

Something feral. Something dangerous.

She grins, tilting her head like she knows exactly what you’re thinking.

And then—she giggles.

That same horny, delighted, evil little giggle from before.

Like she’s already thinking about the next time she ruins you.

End.

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AN: Finally got through this one and can check it off. I'm currently starting a new piece, one of my longer ones so it might be a while until its posted. Ill try my best to fill the next few days with more shorter moments like this one, but I really wanna focus on my longer fics with more depth. As always, room for part 2 with this.

#male reader #kpop smut #cloudtrnsprncy #cloudtsmut #itzy yuna #shin yuna #shin yuna smut #shin yuna x male reader #yuna x male reader

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composeregg · 6 months ago

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edit (10/23/2024) now that the poll is over: Original version, with 10 questions, from April 2023 here

And, given that the original is from April 2023, that means I can very easily say:

No, this was not an ISAT reference!

Just because I use parentheses and 2nd person pov and love the same concepts of what a time loop can do to a person doesn't mean it's ISAT

(Yes, I like ISAT, the original poll is why I was recommended the game! But if you look at the original, you can see all the origins of the options to choose from, including what spurred me on with the moss option from the replies)

If I were going to make something for ISAT, I would never be so vague, you can simply look at my ao3 for proof of that

#egg speaks #writing #polls #my writing #egg writes #my polls #poetry #time loops #listen I want to run this again #time loop poll #<- check that tag on my blog for the original 10 option version lmao #unreality #you know I didn't think I'd get fed up with people making isat jokes about this #I thought it'd be like oh hey neat same hat #we both like the same game #but people keep going “oh this is JUST an ISAT reference”#as if it's not a genuine work of creativity I did myself. it feels a bit devaluing #“op you played isat” yes but that came after the original!!!!!#I KNOW it's not meant like that but I want people to engage in my work as its own thing. you can make jokes about similar media!!!#but this is it's own thing!!!!#I want people to like it for what it is. I want people to enjoy it outside of other media. I want it to stand on its own #I'm flattered someone said it was good enough that they think it could be narration from the game and read just as well!!!!#but like. idk. all the other medias popping up (pmmm. orv. higurashi. etc) aren't people calling it a /reference/#if I wanted it to be an ISAT reference I would have tagged it originally. I would have targeted it toward ISAT fans more intentionally.#I love fanworks but this was an ode to time loops alone. I wanted people to think. to have to CHOOSE. I wanted PARTICIPATION #time loops as a narrative and as horror and as a group activity via polls on tumblr. also s/o to the person who said 40 hr work week so tru

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butterfliesandwendigos · 5 months ago

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𖥔 ࣪ ᥫ᭡ꗃ⋆࣪. BEFORE — Josh Washington

SUMMARY — a rekindled romance with Josh Washington leads to a night of pleasure and requited feelings for one another.

W/C — 6k.

NOTES — written in 2nd person POV, includes smut, smut, SMUT, lowkey a bit of fluff, considering writing a part two involving josh’s psycho prank reveal.

PART ONE | PART TWO

The tension in the room escalates as a heavy silence settles over the group, and the cold air reflects the unease on everyone’s faces. The atmosphere grows thick with unspoken words, and the other friends exchange worried glances, unsure how to intervene in Emily and Jessica’s argument.

Standing in the centre of the room, Josh senses the confrontation spiralling out of control. He takes a deep breath, determination flickering in his eyes as he steps forward, his voice attempting to cut through the mounting anxiety.

“Mike, why don’t you check out the guest cabin? The one I told you about,” he suggests, trying to redirect the group’s attention away from the simmering conflict.

Looking at Jess with an eagerness that masks his concern, Mike jumps at the chance to shift gears. “Yeah, alright. Want to go do that?” he asks Jess, his tone light but tinged with hope.

Still bitter and glaring daggers at Emily, Jess responds with a sharp edge. “Any place without that whore,” she retorts, her voice dripping with disdain. Her eyes flicker to Emily, who stands rigid, hurt and anger swirling in her gaze.

Emily’s fists clench at her sides as she takes in Jess's words. “Wow, Jess. Classy,” she fires back, her voice strained as she struggles to maintain her composure.

Caught between the two, Josh tries to keep the mood light, though disappointment hangs heavy in his heart. “It’s right up the trail,” he chimes in, glancing nervously between them, desperate to diffuse the situation.

Mike, feeling the weight of Jess’s glare, takes her hand and pulls her gently away from the tension. “Let’s go,” he says, leading her toward the door, eager to escape the simmering conflict behind them.

As Jess and Mike step outside, the door clicks shut, leaving a heavy silence in the lodge. The warmth from the fireplace feels suddenly distant, and the atmosphere is charged with unresolved tension. Emily stands frozen for a moment, her heart racing with betrayal and anger, her body trembling as she processes the sting of jealousy.

Josh shakes his head slowly, disappointment etched as he watches Mike and Jess walk away. His eyes linger on Emily, concern flaring up as he witnesses the distress radiating from her. The remaining friends exchange uneasy looks, each uncertain how to navigate the sudden rift that has opened.

Matt, Emily’s boyfriend, stares at her with concern and confusion. He’s distressed by her jealousy, feeling her emotions pressing down on him. “Em, are you okay?” he finally asks, his voice hesitant, trying to bridge the gap between them.

Emily's expression hardens, turns on Matt, frustration spilling out in a flood. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’ll let her treat me like that! And do you know where my pink bag from the rodeo is?” she demands, her voice rising with agitation.

Matt is caught off guard and hesitates before responding. “Uh, I don’t know… I thought you had it with you,” he replies, unsure how to react to her outburst.

Emily’s eyes flash with anger. “Well, I don’t! So we need to find it. Now!” she insists, her tone leaving little room for argument.

With a heavy sigh, Matt nods, resigned to her request. “Okay, let’s look for it,” he replies, attempting to keep his voice steady, even as uncertainty lingers in his gaze.

Across the room, Sam, sensing the tension, tries to control her situation. “I’m going to have a nice, warm bath,” she announces, her voice breaking through the thick silence. “Maybe some relaxation will help.” She gives the group a small smile but does little to ease the tension.

As the air in the lodge remains heavy with tension, Josh takes it upon himself to bring some warmth back into the space. He moves toward the fireplace, fumbling with kindling and logs, determined to ignite a fire that can literally and metaphorically chase away the chill. He strikes a match, watching it flicker momentarily before it catches, the flame dancing to life.

His eyes search yours, filled with a mix of hope and vulnerability. At that moment, the noise of the lodge fades into the background, and it feels like the two of you are the only ones left in the room, standing on the precipice of a more profound connection amidst the chaos of friendship and rivalry.

Meanwhile, Ashley and Chris sit together in the corner of the room, their eyes darting nervously around the space. The silence between them stretches, filled only by the crackling of the match against the wood.

Ashley fidgets with the sleeve of her sweater, her cheeks flushed slightly. “It’s pretty intense, right?” she replies, trying to keep her tone light despite the seriousness of the situation. “I never thought it would get that heated. We’re supposed to be here to have fun, not fight.”

“Yeah,” Chris agrees, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s like, one minute we’re all friends, and the next… everyone’s at each other’s throats.” He glances over at Josh, who is still wrestling with the logs in the fireplace, trying to coax a flame to grow. “You think he’s going to be okay? I mean, he’s trying so hard to keep things together.”

Ashley nods, her eyes following Josh’s movements. “I hope so. He’s a good guy, you know? He wants everyone to have a good time. It’s just… hard to watch everyone fight like this.”

Chris, sensing a moment of connection, leans in a little closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I appreciate how you always try to keep things positive. I wish I could be more like that sometimes.”

Ashley looks at him, her heart fluttering a little at the compliment. “Thanks, Chris. That means a lot,” she replies softly, a shy smile creeping onto her face.

Before they can delve deeper into their conversation, Sam returns down the stairs, a towel draped over her shoulder. She looks a bit flustered, running a hand through her damp hair. “Hey, guys,” she calls out, her voice bright but tinged with frustration. “I just checked the bath, and the gas is off, so the water’s cold. Great, right?”

Josh is still focused on getting the fire to catch and grimaces. “Seriously? That’s not what I needed to hear right now,” he mutters, finally coaxing a small flame into existence.

Sam rolls her eyes playfully, trying to lighten the mood. “Yeah, let’s just add it to the list of things going wrong tonight.”

Josh, however, takes the news in stride and turns toward you with a spark of determination in his eyes. “Y/N, how about we go to the basement and check the gas? It shouldn’t be too complicated, and I could use the extra hands.”

Ashley and Chris exchange glances, their conversation momentarily forgotten. “Do you think you can fix it?” Chris asks, his brow furrowed in concern.

Josh nods confidently, but there’s a hint of uncertainty beneath the bravado. “Yeah, it’s probably just a quick adjustment.”

Sam shrugs, a smile returning to her face. “I’ll keep an eye on the fire for you guys. Just don’t blow anything up, okay?”

“Promise,” Josh replies, flashing a grin as he heads toward the basement door, glancing back at you. “You coming, Y/N?”

Josh’s hopeful gaze offers a chance for distraction, perhaps even a moment to connect without the chaos of the others hanging overhead.

“Yeah, I’m in,” you respond, pushing off from your seat. You can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline at the idea of stepping away from the drama and into the unknown of the basement with Josh.

He smiles, a mixture of relief and excitement crossing his features. “Awesome. Let’s go.”

Together, you head toward the basement door, the creaky wood floorboards echoing softly behind you. As Josh opens the door, a rush of cool air greets you, starkly contrasting the lodge's warmth. The darkness beyond is thick, with only a few dim lights flickering in the distance.

“Do you have a flashlight?” you ask, glancing back at him.

“Yeah, I got one,” he replies, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, rugged flashlight. He flicks it on, illuminating a narrow staircase that leads down into the gloom.

You descend the stairs together, the light casting long shadows against the stone walls. The air grows more relaxed, a bit musty, filled with the scent of old wood and dust. As you reach the bottom, the beam reveals an assortment of old furniture covered in sheets, boxes piled high, and the occasional rustle of a rat scurrying away.

“Welcome to the dungeon,” Josh jokes, trying to keep the atmosphere light as he sweeps the flashlight across the room. “Quite the sight, huh?”

You chuckle, appreciating his attempt at humour. “At least it’s not filled with creepy dolls or something.”

Josh nods, stepping further inside. “Let’s see if we can figure out what’s going on with the gas.” He moves to a panel on the wall, inspecting it closely. “It shouldn’t be too complicated. Just a valve adjustment, I think.”

You step closer, watching him with a mix of admiration and concern. He looks determined, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he kneels to get a better look at the mechanism. The moment feels profound and fragile as you and Josh exchange lingering glances. But the sudden crash from the living room jolts you back into the present. You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts and take a deep breath.

“I think it came from upstairs,” you reply, your pulse quickening as your heart races. “Should we check it out?”

Josh hesitates, glancing toward the stairs. “Maybe we should finish with the gas first? If it’s nothing, we don’t want to leave it unattended.”

You nod, trying to push aside the unease creeping into your thoughts. “Right, let’s focus on this first.”

With renewed determination, you both turn your attention back to the valve. After a few moments of adjustments and checking gauges, Josh finally gives a satisfied nod. “I think that should do it. Let’s head back upstairs and let them know.”

As you return to the stairs, the unsettling feeling in your gut lingers, amplifying the sense that something isn’t right. The sounds of the lodge—laughter, tension, muffled voices—float down to you, becoming a mix of reassurance and dread.

Just as you reach the top of the stairs, another loud noise reverberates through the lodge, a sharp sound like something heavy being knocked over. You exchange worried glances with Josh, both of you feeling the shift in the atmosphere.

“What was that?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Josh replies, his tone serious as he tightens his grip on the flashlight. “But we need to find out.”

With that, you both step back into the main room, the previous tensions overshadowed by an unfamiliar fear. The crackling of the fire is drowned out by hurried footsteps and raised voices, the friends agitated by whatever’s happening.

“Did you hear that?” Josh asks, his eyes darting around the room.

You nod, feeling the weight of the unknown pressing down on you. “We need to stick together,” you suggest a quiet resolve forming between you.

“Stay behind me,” he replies, stepping closer as you prepare to confront whatever lurks in the shadows. The night is far from over, and the real challenge has only begun.

Just as you reach the bottom of the stairs, a sudden flash of colour catches your eye. Before you can react, Chris bursts into the hallway, wearing a ridiculous, oversized bathrobe with a floppy hat and fuzzy slippers. He strikes a dramatic pose, grinning widely.

“Behold! The Phantom of the Lodge!” he exclaims, his voice booming as he swings his arms for effect.

You jump back, letting out a surprised yelp. Instinctively, you grab Josh’s arm, clinging to him tightly as your heart races. “Oh my God, Chris! You scared me!”

Josh chuckles, his initial shock melting into laughter as he steadies you. “Seriously, man? This is the best you could come up with?”

Chris leans into his performance, spinning around in the robe and throwing his hands up. “What? You don’t like my haunting style? I thought I’d bring some fun to this dreary evening!”

You can’t help but laugh, the night's tension momentarily dissipating as you release Josh’s arm, albeit reluctantly. “I mean, if the ghost you’re trying to scare is one of my nightmares, then sure, it’s working!”

Josh shakes his head, still smiling. “You need to get better at hiding, Chris. That was way too easy.”

Chris pretends to be offended, placing a hand over his heart. “Easy? I’m a master of scare tactics! Just look at my costume!” He twirls again, the robe billowing dramatically around him. “If I were a real ghost, I’d have you all quaking in your boots!”

Josh rolls his eyes but can’t help but smile at Chris’s antics. “You might want to reconsider your career choices, buddy. You’re more likely to make us laugh than scream.”

The lighthearted banter creates a much-needed distraction, and the tension from earlier seems to fade a bit. You take a deep breath, feeling more at ease, though you still chuckle as Chris prays around in his ridiculous outfit.

“Okay, okay, you’ve had your fun,” you say, finally regaining your composure. “But seriously, let’s focus. We must check on the others and see what’s happening.”

Chris drops the act, his playful demeanour shifting to concern. “Right, right. I just thought a little laughter would lighten the mood. Things have been pretty intense tonight.”

“Yeah, they have,” Josh agrees, his expression turning serious again. “But let’s get back out there and have some fun.”

As you enter the main room, the lingering echoes of laughter from Chris’s antics fade into the background, replaced by the familiar tension that still lingers among the group. You glance at Josh, feeling the weight of your unresolved feelings.

“Hey, Josh,” you say, lowering your voice to ensure Chris doesn’t overhear. “Can we talk for a second? Like… about last year?”

Josh’s expression shifts, a mix of curiosity and concern. “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

You take a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “I just… I feel like we’ve both been avoiding it. Everything that happened before...”

His gaze softens, the vulnerability in his eyes mirroring your own. “Before my sisters disappeared.”

Just then, Chris, standing a few feet away, suddenly perks up. He catches Josh’s eye and raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “Uh, I’ll be waiting over there,” he says, gesturing to a corner of the room. “You two take your time.”

You can’t help but smile at Chris’s teasing, but Josh rolls his eyes, a hint of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. “Thanks, Chris. We’ll try to keep it brief,” he replies, trying to suppress a grin.

As Chris saunters away, you turn back to Josh, feeling a rush of nervous energy. “So, where do we even start?” you ask, glancing around to ensure no one else is listening.

“I guess we start with the fact that I missed you,” he admits, his voice low and sincere. “When everything happened, my only focus was on finding my sisters. But I’ve thought about you a lot and regret not saying anything sooner.”

You feel your heart flutter at his words. “I missed you too. I didn’t want to complicate things when you already dealt with so much.”

“I know,” he replies, his expression pained. “And I appreciate you allowing me time to heal with my parents. Last year was such a mess. I’m just glad you had nothing to do with Hannah’s prank,” Josh admits, stepping towards you.

“Never, I could never have anything to do with that,” You say softly, giving him a warm smile.

He nods, his gaze unwavering. “I know. It would’ve hurt me a lot if you did.”

After a few moments, you poke some fun at the tension lingering from the past. “You know,” you say playfully, “I couldn’t have possibly been part of Hannah’s prank. Thanks to you last year, I was too busy being in a compromising position.”

Josh raises an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face. “Oh really? Care to elaborate on that?”

You can feel the moment's weight hanging in the air, the tension from earlier dissipating as you lock eyes with Josh. The connection between you feels electric, and for a fleeting moment, the chaos of the lodge fades into the background.

You raise an eyebrow, a smile creeping onto your lips. “Are you trying to charm me, Josh?”

“Maybe,” he replies, leaning slightly closer, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve been known to have that effect on people. And honestly, what sane woman could resist it?”

Josh glances back to ensure no one is watching before he reaches out, gently brushing your arm with his hand. “Let’s go upstairs,” he says, his voice low and inviting.

As you both make your way toward the staircase, a voice interrupts your moment. Chris and Ashley round the corner, eyebrows raised in unison.

“Hey! Where are you two sneaking off to?” Chris calls out, a teasing grin spreading across his face.

You exchange a glance with Josh; both are caught off guard. “Uh, just... checking out the view from upstairs!” you manage to say, attempting to sound casual.

“Yeah, you know,” Josh adds quickly, “the top floor has the best spot for stargazing. I just wanted to make sure we don’t miss it.

Ashley leans in, her expression sceptical. “Right. Because you two need alone time for stargazing.” She smirks, clearly not buying it.

Josh nods, his grin still plastered on his face. “Yeah, we just want to hang out for a bit. You know how it is—sometimes you need a break from the chaos.”

Chris and Ashley exchange a knowing look, and you can’t help but feel your cheeks heat up under their scrutiny. “All right, all right,” Chris finally concedes, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply, rolling your eyes, a grin breaking through.

With one last playful eye-roll from Ashley and an exaggerated sigh from Chris, they leave you and Josh standing at the base of the stairs.

You and Josh make your way down the dimly lit hallway, the faint sound of the wind howling outside, barely breaking the heavy silence. The air feels cold against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. You instinctively lean closer to him, and he responds by wrapping his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in a little tighter to keep you warm.

“Is it just me, or does it feel like this place gets colder the further we walk?” you joke, trying to lighten the mood despite the chill.

Josh chuckles softly, glancing down at you. “Yeah but don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He squeezes you gently, his warmth radiating through his skin, making you feel more at ease.

As you approach his room, the door looks more inviting against the shadows filling the hallway. Josh stops just outside, looking down at you with a hint of nervousness in his eyes. He turns the handle and opens the door, revealing a cozy space with warm lighting, the comforting scent of wood, and something faintly sweet. As he steps inside, you follow him, and he quickly shuts the door behind you, locking it with a soft click.

Once inside, the atmosphere shifts. The hallway's darkness is replaced by the warm glow of a bedside lamp, illuminating the room and casting soft shadows on the walls. It feels intimate and safe here.

Josh’s gaze drops to your lips briefly, and everything shifts in that instant. The air between you crackles with electricity, and before you can process it, he closes the distance, cupping your face gently with his hands.

Time seems to slow as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the butterflies in your stomach flutter wildly as your heart races. And then, his lips find yours, soft and tentative at first, as if testing the waters.

You respond instinctively, leaning into him, your hands finding their way to his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, becoming more passionate as the tension and unspoken feelings from before surging to the surface. It feels natural as if this moment has been building for far longer than the few minutes you’ve been alone. The warmth of his body envelops you, and you lose yourself in the sensation, the world outside fading entirely from your mind.

When you finally pull away, breathless, you look into Josh’s eyes, searching for the same emotions you feel swirling inside you. His cheeks are flushed, and his gaze’s a look of wonder.

Your warmth intensifies as your lips meet again, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body. The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, a blend of pent-up emotions and undeniable attraction. Josh’s hands slide down to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. The world outside the door fades entirely, leaving only the sound of your heart beating in sync.

You feel excitement as he deepens the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a newfound hunger. His hands explore your back, fingers brushing against the fabric of your sweater, sending shivers down your spine. You respond by wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, the kiss growing more heated with each passing second.

"God, I've wanted this for so long," Josh murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and heavy, making your heart race even faster.

"Me too," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, the thrill of his admission sending a wave of excitement through you. As if sensing your need for more, he deepens the kiss, and you melt into him.

You feel his hands explore your sides, fingers brushing against your skin, igniting every nerve ending. The sensations swirl around you, and you lose yourself in the sweetness of his kiss, his intoxicating taste. Josh pulls you closer, the pressure of his body against yours, heightening the tension. You can feel the heat radiating off him, pulling you in like a magnet. The kiss becomes more frantic and desperate, as if you're afraid of what might happen if you stop.

When you break apart momentarily, Josh’s eyes dark with desire. "I can't believe it took us this long to do this again," he says, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch sends shivers through you, and you lean into him, craving more.

Without breaking eye contact, he leans in again, capturing your lips in a soft and demanding kiss. You feel the fire between you intensify, and you sigh softly as you return the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and you can feel his warmth against you, making it hard to think. The world outside ceases to exist; the two of you are wrapped up in this moment.

"Y/N," he murmurs, pulling back slightly to look into your eyes, desires flickering in his gaze. He gestures towards your top, tugging at the bottom of it. “Can I?"

Your heart races at the question, but the answer feels instinctual. "Yes," you reply, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions.

With a spark of determination, Josh slides your t-shirt over your head. His hands slide down your back, gripping your hips as he pulls you closer, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He pulls you down with him, guiding you onto his lap.

As you settle onto his lap, the heat between you grows palpable. Josh's hands remain firm on your hips, grounding you in the moment—his gaze flickers between your eyes and lips, filled with hunger and tenderness.

With a swift movement, he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing toned muscles that glisten softly in the dim light. The sight sends a rush of excitement through you, and your breath catches in your throat.

He leans closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "I want to see you." The request ignites a thrill of anticipation within you.

Josh's fingers trace the delicate curve of your spine as he gently removes your bra, letting it fall to the floor unnoticed. His gaze is intense, almost predatory, as he takes in the sight of you. The room is quiet except for your joint breaths, each heavier than the last.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers, his voice a low, husky rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

He doesn't wait for a response. Instead, his hands slide around to cup your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You gasp, arching into his touch, your head tilting back instinctively.

"So responsive," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your jawline as he moves closer to your ear. "I love how you react to my touch."

His words tingle your skin, and you can feel the heat pooling between your legs. You want more of his hands, mouth, and more of him. You nod, unable to form words through the haze of desire clouding your mind.

With a wicked grin, Josh shifts his grip, one hand still playing with your nipple while the other slides down to your waistband. He tugs at your leggings, pulling it down your hips until it crumples at your thighs. Your panties are now exposed, and he wastes no time reaching under them, his fingers brushing against the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs.

"Spread your legs for me," he commands softly, his voice firm but not unkind.

You obey, parting your legs slightly, allowing him better access. His fingers continue their journey upward, dipping just inside the edge of your panties before finding their target. You feel the pad of his index finger glide over your clit, a slow, teasing stroke that makes you bite your lip to stifle a moan.

"That’s it," he encourages, adding another finger to circle your clit faster. "Let me hear you."

The combination of his dirty talk and touch pushes you closer to the edge. You try to maintain some semblance of control, but his fingers on your clit have reduced you to a quivering mess. Your breath comes in short gasps, and you can feel the tension building rapidly inside you.

“Josh…” you manage to whisper, your voice cracking as waves of pleasure begin to crest.

He responds by pressing harder, his thumb circling your nipple while his fingers work magic between your legs. The sensations are too intense, and you know you won't last much longer. Your body stiffens, muscles tightening as you feel the familiar rush of an impending orgasm.

"Cum for me," he orders, his voice laced with authority. "Show me how much you like my fingers."

Those words tip you over the edge. A cry escapes your lips as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you, your body trembling with the force of your release. Josh doesn't let up, continuing to stroke you through the aftershocks, ensuring every ounce of pleasure is wrung from your body.

When the tremors finally subside, you collapse against him, weak and breathless. Josh pulls his fingers away, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. The look in his eyes tells you this is far from over.

"Now," he says, his voice rough with unspent desire, "it's my turn."

He stands up, lifting you effortlessly and laying you back onto the bed. You watch as he quickly sheds the rest of his clothes, revealing his hard, eager cock. He positions himself between your legs, his hands resting on either side of your head as he hovers above you, maintaining that intense eye contact.

"Tell me what you want," he demands, his tone brooking no refusal.

You bite your lip, considering your answer. The power dynamic has shifted, and you feel thrilled at being under his command. But you also know what you want—what you need.

"I want you inside me," you confess, your voice soft but clear. "Please, Josh."

A smile curves his lips, triumphant and possessive. "Good girl," he murmurs, lowering himself until his cock brushes against your entrance. "This might hurt a little at first. I want you to take every inch."

You nod, understanding the challenge. He slowly pushes forward, stretching you, filling you. The initial sting gives way to a deep, throbbing pleasure as he sinks deeper, inch by agonisingly delicious inch. You clutch at the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as he continues his relentless advance.

"All of it," he growls, his muscles straining as he reaches the hilt. "Take all of me."

You whimper, overwhelmed by the fullness but also by the primal rush of having him entirely inside you. He pauses, giving you a moment to adjust, his hands moving to cradle your face as he gazes down at you.

"Are you ready?" he asks, though it sounds more like a statement.

Before you can answer, he pulls out slightly and then thrusts back in, which is more challenging this time. The impact makes your breath hitch, and you can't help but cry out at its intensity. He repeats the motion, each thrust more vigorous than the last, pushing you higher and higher.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he mutters, his voice strained. "So tight."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you meet his thrusts, your hips rising to greet him. The rhythm builds, becoming more frantic, more desperate. The world narrows down to just the two of you, locked in this primal dance of lust and need.

Suddenly, he changes pace, slowing down just enough to tilt his hips differently. The angle hits a spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur with pleasure. You can feel your second climax approaching, and you cling to him for dear life.

"Josh... I'm close," you gasp, your voice barely audible.

He smiles darkly, taking that as his cue. "Then cum all over me," he says, speeding up again. "Let go."

His words trigger something within you, and you feel the dam break as another powerful orgasm rips through you. Your body convulses beneath him, and you moan his name as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

Josh doesn’t stop his thrusts, making them harder and rougher with each stroke. You begin to feel the slick between your legs turn into a gush, tiny droplets of your heat squirting on his pelvis. He slides out and pushes back in, going deeper each time. You feel his hands on your hips as he thrusts into you harder and harder, your slick still flying onto his abdomen. He looks into your eyes with a wicked smirk, his cock never slowing.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you mumble, barely coherent.

You feel like you’re on fire, your muscles are so tense they feel like they’re about to snap, your body is clenching down on him so hard it hurts, and you feel yourself pouring like a waterfall.

Josh suddenly stops and flips you on your side, his body following suit as he lays behind you. You feel his arms wrap around your waist, his chin nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

“You know I’m not kidding when I say you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers into your neck.

You feel him stiffen behind you and realise he’s still inside you. You moan quietly, and he slowly starts to move again. His hands grip your hips, and he picks up the pace, fucking you harder this time. You push back into him, your body desperate for his cock.

“I knew…” he grunts, his movements getting faster and faster. “I knew it the first night we met.”

You gasp at his words and start to feel another orgasm build. His cock hits a different spot inside you this time, and you feel it fill you. You begin to shake and moan as your muscles clench down on him. He lets out a loud groan, and his movements become more erratic.

“I’m gonna cum,” he moans. You feel him pick up the pace and drive himself into you repeatedly. His cock swells inside you, and you feel his hot release cover your walls. His cum floods your pussy as he fucks you through his orgasm. He collapses behind you and pulls out. You feel his cum dripping out of you and look over your shoulder at him. He’s watching your pussy with a look of satisfaction on his face.

Josh wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer into his embrace. “I shouldn’t have left you for so long. I’ve been so caught up with Hannah and Beth disappearing… but seeing you tonight reminded me of everything I’ve always felt for you.”

You stay silent, waiting to hear his following words. A short while later, you feel him getting up. You roll over onto your back and watch as he walks away, naked and utterly comfortable in his own body. He disappears out the door and returns a minute later, holding a box of tissues and a damp washcloth.

He climbs into bed, pressing the washcloth to your pussy. “I want to take care of you. I want to make sure you feel good.”

“I want to take care of you too, Josh,” You whisper, voice barely above a whisper. You’re exhausted but relaxed beyond any relaxation you’ve ever experienced.

“I love that you’re all fucked out for me,” he says. You smile at him and watch as he tosses the washcloth away and opens the box of tissues.

He pulls out a few and gently wipes his cock clean. He looks up at you as he does it, watching your reaction to him cleaning himself. You feel your body start to get warm, and your nipples perk up at the sight. He smiles as he realises what’s happening.

“I’m tempted to go for round 2, but I think it would be kind of rude for the house host to disappear for long periods… even if it’s to spend time with a super gorgeous woman,” Josh says, throwing the used tissues onto the floor and crawling back into bed with you.

“Let’s lay here for a little while,” You tell him, grabbing his hand and pulling him closer to you. He pulls the blankets over both of your naked bodies and comfortably wraps his arms around your body.

“We can lay here, but not for too long; the others will come busting in here and find us naked,” Josh laughs, playing with the hair strands dangling over your chest.

“Fine,” You yawn, feeling yourself slip into a deep slumber, “We’ll only stay for… a little… while.”

Yawn after yawn, your physical tiredness overtook your awakened state. Slowly, your eyes closed, and your muscles relaxed into the comfort of Josh’s mattress.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Josh whispers into your ear, unaware of your sleeping state. He hears a slight, feminine-sounding snore and peers over your body, observing your half-open mouth and closed eyes.

Kissing you on the forehead, Josh slowly gets out of bed and gets dressed. He has big plans for tonight, sadistic, messed-up plans… and he wanted you to have no part in it.

#until dawn #until dawn fanfiction #josh until dawn #josh washington x reader #josh washington #until dawn x reader #josh washington x you #until dawn josh

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