#and one of them trusts that the other is behind them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tinysunshine · 2 days ago

Text

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐃𝐀𝐃’𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒! 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 & 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋

‎ ‎[ 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 ]

kinks: daddy kink, loss of virginity, threesome, brat taming, ddlg elements, daryl is a little submissive, light spanking, dirty talk, oral sex, fingering, dumbification if you squint, mentions of slapping and manhandling

warnings and triggers: age difference, reader is a little annoying but she’s just horny, some angst and fluff, mentions of violence and death, reader is romantically involved with both men, reader is very feminine and pretends to be a little ditzy

word count: 19.7k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

you need rick to fuck you. daryl too, if you’re being honest.

it’s not fair that the world went to shit before you lost your virginity, and you’re still pretty pissed that on his death bed, your father made rick promise to look out for like you were his own daughter. talk about being a major cockblock, even from beyond the grave. and it’s just your luck that rick and daryl are the only two men you’ve ever met that would turn down a beautiful woman in her twenties who’s obviously desperate for them. they’re good guys - which, you guess, is part of their appeal. it’s so annoying.

both men frustrate you to no end, and it doesn’t help that you’re living in the same house with them in alexandria. living behind the walls in this community has made life so much easier - you’re no longer in survival mode, and you’re able to focus on other things…

like getting daryl and rick to fuck your brains out. or at least, pop your cherry. you’ve never trusted anyone as much as you trust these two men, and you want them. in every single way.

you just need to convince them.

Rick has a problem - and that problem is you.

Which, okay - he feels fucking bad for even thinking that. You’re not a problem in the general sense of the word. He doesn't resent you, he doesn’t think you’re annoying, and he doesn’t dislike you. In fact, the opposite is true.

He likes you a little too much, and that’s the fucking problem.

He’s supposed to protect you. He’s supposed to keep you safe, keep you alive, make sure nothing happens to you - it’s his job to look after you. Rick swore to your father on his death bed, after a supply run gone wrong, that he’d be around to help you make the best out of life in this new, fucked up world; and he’s really fucking trying, but it’s hard.

Rick doesn’t regret taking on that responsibility. Not at all. He’s known you for long enough now, knows that you’re a smart girl, and when your father died he didn’t want his friend’s final thoughts to be worries about what would happen to his daughter now that he wouldn’t be alive to look out for her.

Gripping your father’s hand, Rick had tried to hold back tears. Your dad was a good man, strong, and more than losing a valuable member of the group - Rick was losing a friend. If your father’s death was that painful for him, after only knowing one another for a little over a year - he couldn’t imagine what you were going through. You’d always been close to your father, and the look in your eyes when you had to leave the room so someone could take care of him before he turned into a walker, well. Rick would never forget it.

Heartbreaking.

Before your father was gone, Rick promised him that he would protect you. Yeah, you’re a grown woman, smart and strong just like your dad, with a good head on your shoulders and a helpful, fighting spirit. But even though you’re an adult, you’re still young, with the kind of reckless abandon and bravery that only the youth still have; the kind that’s constantly getting them into trouble.

So Rick assured your dad, holding onto his hand as he took his final breaths, that nothing would happen to you. That he’d take care of you, look after you like you were his own daughter. It was the right thing to do, the good thing to do -

But Rick didn’t anticipate how hard you’d make it for him to fulfill that promise.

He didn’t think you’d be so, so. God, he doesn’t even fucking know. He doesn’t want to use the word to describe you, because you’re an adult, not a petulant kid -

But you’re a fucking brat.

He’s not sure if you’ve always been like this, and your dad was just able to calm you down enough so that the rest of the group didn’t notice, or if it’s a new thing you’re dealing with from the grief and the life changes that losing your father brought on.

Rick’s not a psychiatrist. He doesn’t know enough about the moods of women to even attempt to get through to you, and he doesn’t have the nerve to ask you to fix your attitude when life these last few years has been full of constant, challenging changes for everyone - and he especially doesn’t want to ask for help or guidance from anyone else regarding these problems, because that would mean admitting he can’t control or handle the responsibility of keeping a young woman in check.

He’s led a group of people through an apocalypse of the walking dead, and he’s letting a twenty something year old in pink sneakers get under his skin with an eye roll?

No. He’d never admit to that.

Even if it’s obvious to anyone who sees the two of you interacting.

Right now, Rick’s sitting in a chair on the porch of his home in Alexandria. It’s bittersweet, to have a semblance of normalcy. Had the group found this community back when your father was alive, he never would’ve died. Would’ve never had to make that risky supply run looking for something to help your fever and headache that led to him getting bit by a walker and ultimately dying.

Having to be killed just to put him out of his misery.

Rick’s trying to enjoy the feeling of normal on this porch, surrounded by his friends that are so close they’re like family - but deep down he knows that things will never be the way they were before the world went to shit. And the things he’s done, the things you all have done - they happened, and none of you can pretend that they didn’t. Life, every single one of you - will never, ever be the way it was before.

He’s drinking a beer - okay, he’s on his third, trying not to let the negative thoughts weigh him down. The last thing he wants to do is flip the switch like he did last year, the one that turned him into a raging lunatic, so bad that Daryl had to beat his ass when he started to turn into someone he didn’t know. Back when he was a danger to himself and others. That can’t happen now.

Not when he’s got a community of people to look out for. Not when he’s got you to care for. A clear head, enough mental agility to make rational decisions - Rick owes everyone that. He owes the group that. He owes you that.

But why do you have to make his life so damn difficult?

There’s a party in the community tonight, and even though Rick is more or less in charge of this place, this get-together wasn’t his idea. He would never plan something like this, even back when he was married and just a small town cop. Before walkers and danger lurked at every fucking corner.

Rick can pretend all he wants, that he fits in or that this normal shit, a sort of block party in this case, was anything he missed, but it’s a lie.

He’s hardened from all the time he’s spent outside - but he wants the rest of the group to try. To want this. This has always been the goal, the plan. Finding and living in a place like Alexandria. Right?

So he’s on the sidelines, sipping beer and watching the rest of his group learn how to be proper humans again. It’s an outdoor thing, with kids in the community running around and food made with actual ovens and stoves, alcohol that’s poured into glasses and cups instead of sipped out of a dirty bottle found in a stranger’s leftover backpack while on the road.

The street is blocked off with picnic tables and everyone’s being a touch too loud for this event to be considered safe, but Rick’s not going to ruin their fun yet.

Because he’s watching the group - but his eyes keep falling on you.

Just to make sure you’re okay, he tells himself, but in his tipsy mind he knows that’s a lie.

You look damn good in the dress you’re wearing.

To be fair, despite the filth and the starvation and the level of grime every single person in the group wore for months straight, you’ve always looked good. You’re beautiful, even when you’re covered in dirt without a trace of makeup on your face. Some women just have it, the type of body that fills out clothes like everything is made for them to wear. The kind of face, features - the raw kind of beauty that’s appealing even in the middle of the apocalypse.

That’s you, Rick thinks, and he wonders why you chose to wear such a cute little number to this party when the rest of the women are wearing long pants.

Maybe you’re doing it on purpose. Maybe you’re -

Rick wants to slap himself in the face. He’s been feeling that urge, to get himself in check, whenever he thinks about you these days.

He promised your father that he’d look out for you. Keep you safe. Protect you. Yet here he is, catching himself checking you out again, because yeah, this is definitely not the first time he’s noticed your figure.

Your father - Rick truly considered him a close friend, and he blames himself for the miscommunication that ended up with him promising to look out for you like you were his own daughter. Your father just knew that Rick cared about you, which is true. Saw the way he was always willing to protect you, to defend you, to make sure you were taken care of.

Must’ve noticed the long talks you two had, saw the way Rick so helpfully taught you how to shoot a gun without wasting all the bullets. The way he let you wear his shirt one day, because it was the only extra after getting caught in a storm and your own shirt was soaking wet, sticking to your body and -

Holy fuck, Rick thinks, finishing off his beer and slamming it down a little too harshly. He can’t think about that. Can’t think about the way your tits looked in that wet shirt, the way your body felt, warm and soft when he pressed up behind you and gripped your hand, showing you how to properly use a gun. The way you hugged him, cuddled into his side while he gave you advice and you had your long talks, because you wanted the wisdom of someone mature who wasn’t your father.

He’s not a bad man, he swears. Rick’s never been attracted to a woman as young as you at his age, and he hates himself for it. It’s wrong, but he can’t deny the magnetic attraction he feels when he looks at you, thinks about you, is around you. It’s chemical.

Plus, he reasons to himself, trying to avert his eyes when you bend down to pick up something off the ground. That dress is way too short, and although Rick really isn’t looking (lie), someone else notices, and Carol steps behind you to hide the free view of your purple, little panties that you’re giving every man at this outdoor party.

Rick doesn’t know if he should thank Carol for covering you up or tell her to move.

Your father - he must’ve misread those moments between the two of you. Thought, because of your age difference, that Rick was just being fatherly towards you - because any man his age with a conscience would never be attracted to a woman as young as you. It probably didn’t even cross your father’s mind that Rick thought of you as anything other than his friend’s daughter.

Which makes him feel even worse.

You’re not bent over anymore, and you and Carol share a laugh about the length of your dress while Rosita teases you and Maggie walks over with two glass bottles of beer in her hands. You’re quite the social butterfly.

Rick can’t hear clearly, but he thinks he makes out someone asking where he is, and you spin around looking for him, looking so cute and clueless and Rick hates himself even more because why is that confused look on your face so fucking cute?

When you spot him on his porch, you point and then grin. Like he’s your favorite person and he’s been lost for much too long and you’re so excited to finally find him - when in reality, you just haven’t spoken in maybe thirty minutes. Rick doesn’t know why you’re smiling so big looking at him, but he can’t deny the way it warms him up. His face, his neck, a good feeling that spreads down his chest and goes directly to his cock.

You wave, all happy, with a little bounce in your step when you raise on your toes to properly see him over the porch railing, and Rick is so fond it makes him sick. The wave, the pretty smile, the enthusiasm. It makes you look so young, so beautiful, and Rick can’t stand how much he likes it.

How much he likes you.

He waves back, just as Maggie comes up the porch steps and hands him another beer. She asks if he’s going to join the party soon, or if he’s playing the part of Daryl since even the lone wolf himself is sitting with a few other people at a picnic table, although his face is deadpanned and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Rick laughs.

When Maggie walks off, Rick notices that you’re still watching him. Not at all listening to whatever Carol and Rosita are talking about. It’s like you were waiting, to capture his attention again - and once you have it, that smile returns and you blow him a kiss.

And Rick? God, he’s such a fucking idiot. He feels like such a creep. But it’s not like he can ignore you, because what kind of person would do that? You’re just being sweet. That’s all. And he’s just excited because your sweetness is a nice break from how fucking bratty you’ve been all week.

Rick repeats that excuse in his mind like a mantra.

He pretends to grab the kiss, face red at how juvenile this is, and then he blows one back. He’s drunk now, he’s sure of it, and he’s embarrassed that he’s even playing this game with you.

But you look so satisfied when you grab his kiss, and you hold it in your palm and don’t open your hand, like you’re saving it. And that - goddamnit. Rick’s going crazy. You’re too fucking sweet, you’re too fucking pretty, you’re too fucking good for him and you’re too young for him and -

Rick catches Daryl’s eyes over the porch. It’s hard to read him, but it’s pretty clear he saw that. The exchange. The way he looks between the two of you, the little tilt of the corner of his mouth. He knows - he knows something.

Rick tips his new beer back and swallows, shaking his head.

Yeah. He’s got a fucking problem, alright.

────

Daryl is not this guy.

This guy, being the kind of man that thinks about a woman your age in an inappropriate way. It’s unlike him - but it’s unlike him to think about romance and sex at all, to be honest. He’s always been too busy for that shit. Too busy surviving, taking care of himself. At the end of a long day, all he can think about is going to sleep so he can do this human and living shit again the next morning.

And that was before the fucking apocalypse of walkers.

After the world was overrun with them, romance and sex were even further out of his mind. Nothing hot about sneaking off in the woods or to an abandoned building to fuck in a room that smells like decaying bodies. Daryl has no idea how Maggie and Glenn do it, can’t believe that Rosita once let Abraham fuck her on the floor of an old church they were staying in, with walker guys splattered on the wall next to them.

Which is saying a lot, because Daryl doesn’t even have a weak stomach. Doesn’t get grossed out by things most grown men would have a fit over. It’s not his style. He just can’t picture ever wanting to fuck bad enough that he’d do it while living in a world like this. He doesn’t think with his dick - fuck, the truth is? Sometimes he used to wonder if it even still worked after all the shit he’s been through.

But...things have changed since the group got to Alexandria. After a few months, with no starving and with a pillow and a mattress to sleep on, being able to close both eyes instead of just one during the night - Daryl is starting to notice that his priorities are changing. Bit by bit everyday, he’s slowly turning into someone he doesn’t recognize - and that scares him.

It terrifies him.

Alexandria is nicer than any place Daryl has ever lived before - like, way nicer. Before the apocalypse, he’d never even be allowed within fifty miles of a community like this, he thinks. There’s running water, warm water, and he’s starting to get a little scared that he, along with everyone else from his group, are getting a little too used to these luxuries.

He finds himself waking up with a hard cock whenever he sleeps in his own bed. That’s the first sign that his body is adjusting to...comfort? Every single morning, without fail, he’s hard. Except when he goes on his recruiting runs with Aaron and he’s forced back into a tent on the cold ground. But when he comes back from those runs, it doesn't matter how many days he’s been gone, the next morning in his own bed always means he’s going to have to change his boxers.

Can’t exactly go around Alexandria with his precum dried in his pants.

Daryl doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like, this, this - what does he even call this? Health? Finally feeling like he belongs somewhere, so his body can let down its guard?

He’s worried, about what that means, because as nice as this new little community is for everyone - it might not last. That’s a total possibility, and he’s getting way too soft with all this hot coffee with creamer and warm meals and electricity. Fuck this place (he thinks, somewhat fondly).

So, Daryl’s fighting back.

As of late, he’s starting to refuse getting used to this place. Will go a week without a warm meal and will head straight out to the woods to eat a raw squirrel or frog whenever he finds himself excited about spaghetti for dinner. If he finds himself jacking off under the warm water in his shower, eyes closed while he enjoys the smell of eucalyptus from his bar of soap - he’ll curse and hop right out, head straight back into the woods to rub dirt on his clothes and get mud under his nails again. What kind of fucking man notices the smell of his soap?

A man that dies when things get bad again. That’s who. No, Daryl cannot have that happen. Fucking stupid soap.

He throws it in the trash can and goes back to the almost gone, orange and white looking bar he’s used for the last year. Unscented.

But everything he’s doing - there’s just no point. No matter what Daryl does, how uncomfortable he makes his own life, his dick is still getting hard.

He got mad at Rosita during breakfast the other day for wearing those fucking tiny shorts of hers. He’s not even attracted to her - she’s not his type at all, and then when Tara joined them at the table, obviously not wearing a bra, Daryl cursed at them and stormed off. Told them to put on some fucking clothes. He doesn't think either of them are particularly hot, but his dick does. Sees a pair of long legs these days, a jiggle of breast, the round shape of a woman’s ass - fuck, the color pink, and his fucking cock is ready to go.

Daryl can’t even remember the last time he had sex. Because sex doesn’t really matter these days, and Daryl doesn’t want it to matter. He doesn’t want manners to matter either, which is why he won’t even join the rest of the house for dinner after he caught himself putting a napkin on his lap. He can hear Merle’s voice in his head when he remembers to chew with his mouth closed - goddamn, he’s supposed to be a survivalist. Not a suburban douche.

Obviously, he’s going fucking crazy. He would say he’s having a hard time adjusting - but it’s kind of the opposite. Daryl’s adjusting to life in Alexandria much easier than he expected, and that’s what’s crazy.

And you - that’s where his real problem comes in. You’re driving him fucking insane.

You’re living in the same house as him, you’re constantly around, and Daryl doesn’t know what to do with the emotions you bring out in him. He tries to avoid you as much as possible, but you’re always around the corner, usually seeking him out. When thoughts start swirling around in his head, his stomach, his dick, all of them relating back to you, he tries to drown them out with beer or something harder, tries to distract himself, tries to tire himself out so he has no room or time to think about you.

But he’s starting to realize that, unfortunately, the only way to get you out of his mind is through his dick. And that’s only a temporary solution, before he sees you do something else that’s sexy, like existing, and he’s back to where he started.

Wraps a fist around his cock in the middle of the night, jerking himself off to the thought of you, biting the inside of his cheek so nobody else in the house can hear him - cheap ass new construction with the thin ass walls. Everything pisses Daryl off these days, but maybe he just needs to get laid.

But deep down - he thinks, no, knows - that his problem is you.

When Daryl first met you, he didn’t like you. Thought you were annoying, saw your girly appearance and assumed you’d be a dead weight to the rest of the group, but your father was someone that the group would be lucky to have. Military training, big and strong and smart. Daryl loved that guy, almost as much as he cares about Rick - and he was devastated when he passed. If someone like your dad could die, it meant anyone could, but watching the way you handled yourself after his passing made Daryl really start to think of you differently.

He started to respect you. See you beyond just a pretty package that talks too much and wastes too much water and snores so fucking loud you’re like a siren alerting the walkers right to everyone, at least before the group arrived behind these walls. You’ve, in a way…grown up? Right before his eyes. You’re kind, you’re pretty helpful when you want to be, you’re smart, even if you play up the ditzy princess role for attention, and Daryl’s not actually not sure how old you are, just that you’re in your early twenties, and, well.

You’re fucking hot. Look like a woman from the posters Merle would hang up on his bedroom walls back when he was still alive. Daryl never did any shit like that, feels bad even noticing your beauty, but, hell -

He’s definitely not the only one.

He walks into the living room, because he has to if he wants to get to the front door. Daryl wants air, and you keep lighting fucking candles that some dumbass gave you as a welcome gift in the community, and they smell too sweet and they make his throat itch, and the smell fucking wafts up to his room. Daryl wants to smoke, too scared of Carol bitching at him again if she sees him from the house next door, out his window, putting his cigarette out on the freshly painted window pane. Women. Toxic fucking candles are cool, but cigarettes, a necessity that's almost as important as water, are a no go? Utter bullshit.

Daryl’s already dreading having to interact with you when he sees you on the couch. You’re sitting criss-cross, in a dress, and at this point he thinks you have to be trying to show off, but maybe not.

Why would you? Not like you’re around a bunch of young dudes or anything. Maybe you’re just that comfortable around the people in the house, and if that’s the case, well - that makes Daryl a little happy. You annoy him, sure - but he cares about you like he does everyone from his original group.

Wouldn’t hurt you to put a bra on or close your legs more often though. Better yet - close the fucking door to the bathroom when you take a shower. Daryl’s getting heated, in more ways than one, just thinking about your carelessness.

Rick’s sitting on the couch next to you, his elbow resting on the arm of the sofa, his head halfway in his hand. You - you’re chatting his ear off, as you always do. “It’s kinda keto, you know? Eating just meat. That’s partly why we’re all in such good shape, Rick. I swear with all this pasta and canned food we’ve been eating since we got here, I’m going to gain a million pounds,” you stop when you notice that Daryl walks in. Rick looks up, lifts his hand in a meek greeting at him, and attempts to say something but you cut him off.

“I was just telling Rick about the keto diet. You know, just meat, no carbs. You’re sort of keto, Daryl, before we got here at least, it’s-” Daryl cuts you off. He doesn’t want to get involved. Doesn’t want to look you in your pretty eyes and feed into whatever fucking verbal whirlwind you’re on about, because someone really shouldn’t let you drink coffee but you’re too damn grown to have someone monitor your caffeine intake, but he literally can’t stop himself.

“What the fuck ‘re you talkin’ about?” He deadpans. “I’ve never been on no fucking diet.” Rick snorts in reply, and you smack him on the arm.

“Hey,” Rick warns, voice a little too loud and too stern for the move. You’re pretty tiny - not like your violence could hurt him, but you turn your pretty pout into a neutral expression at his scolding anyway. “Enough. Stop worryin’ about gaining weight, and just be happy you’re alive,” he reprimands, shaking his head.

This time, you scoff. “It’s a joke, Rick,” you mutter, suddenly uncomfortable with your vulnerable sitting position. You shift and sit normally, but there's still way too much skin on display in a room with two men twice your age. You cross one leg over the other. Daryl’s drawn to the soft skin of your thighs, your little foot in a bright white sock, the bottom a little dirty.

He sees Rick literally shift his position to get a better view of you sulking. Arms crossed, which inadvertently pushes your tits up and makes them sit high. Where the fuck did you even get a dress like that? What suburban mother in this neighborhood had clothes for -

Nah. Daryl’s not going to go there. You look good, and he’s not the only one who thinks so.

But that’s obvious. Everyone around Rick, around you, around you two together can see it. Daryl hopes he’s not that fucking obvious. The funny thing is - Rick thinks he’s slick. That nobody else sees the way he’s all starry-eyed, like a fucking cartoon character whenever you’re around.

He pretends like he hates it, shouldering the responsibility of looking out for you. Like he can’t stand all the cute little knick knacks you’ve managed to collect from the other women in Alexandria, scattered around the house, like he’s so annoyed when you ask to sleep in his room whenever the amount of walkers at the gate gets so big the entire community can hear them while they sleep, like he’s bothered whenever you get tipsy and fit yourself right next to him, warm body pressed into his side. Ask him to open jars for you like you’re not strong enough, when everyone’s seen you bash a walker’s head in with an empty wine bottle and kill a bird with a stick for something to eat.

The best one, was when Rick made a huge commotion about having to teach you how to shoot a gun, as if you weren’t the daughter of a former military legend who managed to survive this long. Daryl actually laughed at that, wondered if you were truly playing Rick, or if he knew your incompetence was just a lie to get closer to him, and he played along because he wanted the excuse just as much as you.

You play the role well, Daryl will give you that. Whenever Rick comes around, you’re…softer. Sweeter. You play dumb. Daryl doesn’t know why, although maybe he does, just doesn’t wanna admit it because it’s wrong.

Isn’t it? Or maybe he’s just fucked up. Maybe you really do see Rick as a sort of surrogate father figure since your dad is gone, and if that’s the case, well - it makes sense that you might try to make yourself seem like you need him. Maybe you really do. What the fuck does Daryl know?

Just kind of weird, ‘s all. You’re too hot to be acting like that. And Rick - Daryl’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to play this game with you.

He clears his throat to interrupt whatever tension is going on between the two of you. Doesn’t want to see Rick groveling to get you to behave, or the opposite - because if he hears you beg, well.

Daryl's not going to chance it. Thinking with his dick lately, remember? He starts walking to the front door.

“Wait,” you say, because of course you do. Daryl thinks about pretending like he didn't hear you, but you get off of the couch and manage to get behind him, soft little hand on his bicep while you try to stop him. “Where are you going? Can I come with? I wanna see the sunset,” you explain, and shit. What a cute fucking sentence. Daryl literally hates himself.

“Not going sunset watching,” he grumbles, pulling his arm away from you. Your delicate, tiny touch is burning his skin. “This ain't a vacation,” he adds, because someone around here has to be the negative one, right? This world is still fucking shitty, even in this little piece of protected suburbs. Rick calls out your name.

“Leave him be, go find something useful to do,” he orders, and Daryl doesn’t even have to look at you to know you’re rolling your sweet little eyes. Again, he has thoughts that make him berate himself. Sweet? Eyes? He’s two seconds away from going next door and asking Abraham to kick his ass just to bring him back down to reality.

“Stop telling me what to do all the time,” you bite back, and just to stop the bickering, Daryl relents. Not like he was doing anything anyway, just wanted to go for a little walk to clear his head, check the wall and make sure the new adjustments to it are still intact, still keeping this place safe.

Being able to keep his head on straight for a night would’ve been cool, but here you go, using all that feminine charm on him to get him to do what you want. No wonder people in the olden days thought sexy women were witches. Maybe they were onto something.

“Jus’ hurry up and grab a jacket, kid. Shit,” Daryl curses, and you practically squeal and run up the stairs, going to your room to put on some shoes and a little coat. To be fair, when you’re not around Rick - you’re not so fucking immature. You’re always cute, nice, smart - but Rick brings out thoughtlessness in you that’s truly insane to witness. Sometimes it’s like you’re a different person.

When you come back down with your jacket on, which isn’t a jacket but more of a little white sweater, you actually go back to Rick to say goodbye, pat his arm while Daryl watches his attempt to be cool, even when it’s obvious that your presence, anytime you touch him, sends him into a panic. Daryl knows that feeling. Rick stands and grabs a handgun from a drawer next to the couch and hands it to you, because that’s a rule around here. Every adult needs to be armed when they’re walking around.

You roll your eyes. Again. “Would’ve been safe with Daryl,” you grumble, and that’s true, but knowing you think that makes Daryl almost jump out of his skin. It’s…good. Shit, you really confuse him, and you’re only a young little thing.

He can’t imagine the power you’ll hold when you get to be his age. If, no - when. Because you’re going to make it. Rick promised your father you would. Daryl didn’t promise him anything, but it’s still important to him too.

“Bye, Rick,” you say, before following Daryl out the door. You’re halfway off the porch when Rick stands in the doorway, seeing you off. He doesn’t say anything to Daryl, doesn’t need to, but he does call out to you.

“Don’t ask for a cigarette, you hear me? Don't do anything fuckin' stupid,” he warns, and you just laugh out loud, slide the gun that he handed you into your boot. Daryl doesn’t get it, the dynamic between you two, but it’s weird and awkward and frankly, a little hot. Maybe he’s more like Merle than he thought.

You walk to an empty area of Alexandria, somewhere you can sort of see the sunset. He fishes his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. What good is being outside if he can't have a smoke?

“Want one?” Daryl grunts, and you giggle and take it, because yeah, Rick told you not to smoke, but Rick ain’t his daddy. He ain’t yours either - but as Daryl lights up, he supposes that Rick… sort of is?

He nags you, protects you, takes care of you. Made you move into the room next to his so he could keep a closer eye on you. Daryl's pretty sure he heard Rick tell you to eat your vegetables the other day, and whenever you hurt yourself he's always the first one coming to you, gently fixing up whatever little wound you might have.

Maybe you want that. The Daddy thing. Maybe you like that. Maybe -

Daryl’s a sick bastard. Must run in the Dixon DNA.

You nod, but before he can give you your own, you just grab it from his lips, almost burn your finger while you do it too. You get pink lip gloss on the cigarette, and you never end up giving it back. Such a bratty, spoiled thing to do. Would be enough to start a fight, where Daryl’s from, being greedy like that - but you're fuckin' cute and you know it. You know the power you have, and that's a turn on for Daryl.

And yeah, he could easily reach back into his pocket, get his own cigarette, but he’s content. Dick halfway hard in his pants, watching a beautiful thing like you look all pretty and pink and proper, smoking on a cancer stick.

Daryl doesn’t know what comes over him when he says, “He’s too old for you, ya know that, don’t cha?” He’s talking about Rick. Obviously. Is not at all (lie) trying to gauge your reaction to an older man. Isn't inadvertently (another lie) trying to figure out if you're purposely bending over, just so he can see your cleavage on full display while you pick a flower growing in the grass by your feet.

You smile, taking a final inhale then tossing the cigarette on the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of your sneaker. Deanna’s going to kill you for littering so shamelessly.

You shake your head, blow out the smoke. “No, he’s not,” you say, taking the flower and putting it behind your ear. You lock eyes with Daryl. “And neither are you.”

────

Living with you requires a special kind of patience that Rick doesn’t have at his age.

Honestly, he doesn’t think he’s ever had the kind of patience required to live with someone like you. Although, patience and restraint could be interchanged in this scenario.

You’re driving him crazy.

There’s four rooms in his designated house in Alexandria, but the house still doesn’t seem big enough. Your presence is suffocating to him, in the best way possible, but it’s overwhelming when he’s got so much on his plate. The safety of the entire community is a big responsibility, and his focus has to be on keeping people alive and fed and prepared, in case something happens.

Rick feels like he never gets a chance to breathe, with someone somewhere always wanting something from him. And it’s not like he can relax when he gets home, either - because you’re there, and Rick physically cannot calm down around you. It’s not your fault. It’s just his body’s natural reaction to you, and maybe in another world that would be something amazing, but in this world it’s wrecking his nervous system.

God, he really sounds like an old man these days. It’s a good reminder that, in comparison to you, he sort of is.

It’s been a long day. Rick’s walking up the stairs, ready to collapse into his bed until he’s inevitably woken up again in a few hours for something the people in the community could handle on their own. He’s literally yawning, resisting the urge to rub his eyes when you quickly round the corner and try to scamper down the stairs around him.

As if that would work. The houses in Alexandria are big, much nicer than the home Rick lived in before this whole mess started, but a staircase is still a staircase. Too narrow for the both of you to squeeze past each other without touching.

Rick grabs your wrist to stop you, not hard, but you whine like he just tried to saw your arm off. Such a dramatic brat. Instead of rubbing his eyes, Rick resists the urge to roll them now.

There’s no curfew for the residents of Alexandria, not really, but there’s no point in leaving the house after dark. Your group has spent a year wishing for a safe place to lay your head at night, and being outside this late just seems foolish and unnecessary.

And a little suspicious.

And - Rick is nosy. He hates how frail your wrist feels in his hand, so he drops it, and gets a good look at you. “Where are you goin’?” He asks, annoyed at how fond he feels when he sees your bottom lip poke out.

You’re pouting. You’re pouting and he hasn’t even nagged you about anything yet. That’s a new record, for sure.

You shrug, and the movement draws his eyes to your chest, where your tits bounce ever so slightly in your tight, little tank top. Rick can feel the wheels of brat moving in your mind, and he lets out a breath because he knows whatever is about to come out of your mouth is bullshit. It always is, whenever you speak to him.

It’s clear you love to rile him up, although he’s not sure why. Maybe you see him as a safe place to get your frustration out - he’s the closest thing you’ve got to a parent these days, so maybe giving him a hard time is coping skill or something.

At that thought, the parent one, Rick lifts his eyes from your chest. He hates that when you’re this close, he can smell the sweet scent of your perfume or shampoo or whatever it is that women use to smell delicious. He hates that when you’re this close, he can see the twinkle in your pretty eyes, the sparkle of whatever product you have on your lips that makes them look so soft. He hates -

Well, most of all, he hates himself. For noticing these things. For thinking these things. He can’t even reason that he knows every detail about your face because he’s known you for so long - because he’s known Maggie and Carol and shit, Daryl, even longer than you - and he truly can’t even recall the color of their eyes.

This attention to detail - it’s definitely a you thing.

You quirk a brow, one that’s perfectly arched. You must’ve spent three hours in the bathroom when the group arrived in Alexandria. Rick remembers that you waited for everyone else to have a turn rinsing off, just so you could take your sweet time after everyone already went to bed. You guard the scented shampoo that Deanna left for you with your life, and the bathroom care package someone dropped off the first week, that came with tweezers and razors and mouthwash. Rick knows you made nice with the other women in the community just to ‘borrow’ the perfume that they had before the start of the apocalypse.

It’s cute, and the femininity you’re showing in this community has Rick almost forgetting all the times he’s seen you smash a walkers head in or eat from a can of uncooked ravioli with your fingers - which was a luxury find a few months ago. Crazy how fast life can change.

“Just getting some water, Rick. Why do you think I’m going somewhere?”

Well. Rick didn’t think about that. The kitchen is downstairs.

But Rick knows you better than that. Apparently, he pays more attention to every single thing you do than he even realized. If you were just going to get water this late, you’d be in your pajamas - which is more often than not, a pair of boxers and a shirt that's much too big for you. You swiped them from Daryl’s room when someone from the community brought everyone a fresh change of clothes - you’ve really gotten comfortable here.

Right now you’re not wearing anything comfortable, and that’s how Rick knows you’re lying. That little tank top, no bra, the tiny pair of shorts you’ve got on - how fucking stupid do you think he is? You’re wearing shoes - he knows you’re planning on leaving.

Which is fine. You’re allowed to. But you’re also his responsibility, and he’s beyond tired, and there were more walkers by the walls today, and - you know what? Rick’s not letting you off this easy. Call it payback, after your fit yesterday in front of Deanna and Abraham, when you stomped your cute foot and called Rick a control freak since he wouldn’t let you go on a run yourself.

He can give you a hard time too. So he does. “I know you’re lying, and you’re not leaving the house tonight. It’s too dangerous,” and that’s not really true, but your bottom lip juts out again and then you cross your arms, and that just irritates Rick more because now you’re covering up his view. Fuck, he’s really sick, isn’t he? Maybe he just needs to go to bed.

He should just let you go out. Move out of your way, so you can pass him on the stairs and go where you want to go so bad, wherever that is. Carol and Sasha are patrolling, and there’s a card game at the house in the center of the community where Glenn and Abraham and Maggie, as well as others, are all together. You’d be fairly safe if you went out for a walk, and truth be told, Rick isn’t really worried about your safety right now.

If he’s honest with himself, deep down - he just doesn’t want to let you out of the house in that fucking outfit. He’s got to talk with Deanna, tell her to tell whoever’s in charge of the clothing in Alexandria to give you a bra and some shorts that fit. Christ, he thinks, running a hand down his face in pure exhaustion and frustration, because you quickly head down the stairs after he tells you no and he can clearly see the bottom of your asscheeks, round and firm and - damn. Those shorts belong in the fucking trash or on a pedestal where Rick can properly thank them.

“I’ve got plans,” you say, pretty mouth no longer pouting, but pulled into a cheeky smile. Rick realizes that you’re pleased, because you’re already getting the attention you wanted from him, without him even realizing it. He follows you down the stairs so you’re both standing in the living room now, and Rick’s too old for all this bickering, too tired, but he plays along anyway. Knows this is just a game, to terrorize him, because you’re a little menace and you enjoy pissing him off.

And shit - he can admit it. It feels good that someone like you wants his attention this bad. So he'll play along.

“Yeah? Well, tell me what they are. Don’t be shy. Where the hell are you goin' dressed like that?” Rick’s falling into the trap, because he’s fucking stupid, because you make him stupid. He could easily walk back upstairs and go to sleep just as easily as you could walk out the front door and do - whatever the fuck it is you want to do right now. But you’re both standing here, two adults arguing for no reason, and that’s when Rick realizes why he even entertains your little tantrums and ploys at getting him to argue.

Maybe he just likes that someone is brave enough to question his decisions. You make him feel human - like he’s more than just a leader.

You uncross your arms, and Rick wishes you didn’t. He wanted you to a minute ago, but now he just wants to run upstairs to his room to pull out a shirt and pair of boxers to force you to wear, to hide that figure of yours that was only made hotter from all the fucking physical activity the entire group did every day for a year.

“I’m not going anywhere, Rick. God, stop being such a freak. I’m just watching a movie with Daryl.”

Your answer knocks the wind out of Rick, because now he knows you're really up to something. Wearing that, to watch a movie with Daryl? It's shady, and yeah, Rick knows that you like Daryl. Everyone can see it.

You love to tease him and torment him, say things to make him blush, and if Rick's not around you cling him to like a teddy bear, ask to follow him around and help him with runs or whatever needs to be done. Rick always just assumed you had a little crush on him - which was sort of cute, in a weird way. Showed Rick that you like older men, and out of everyone - Daryl's harmless. He wouldn't act on any stupid thoughts, and probably doesn't even think of you in that way. He's a good guy.

Unlike Rick, apparently.

Even your father could see it. When he was still alive, when the group was constantly on the move, Daryl carried you on his back for miles, told Rick that giving in was better than hearin' your bitchin'. Rick still remembers the look on your father's face when he saw Daryl put you down that day, his posture fucked, dripping sweat - and he still handed you his water bottle before he even got a sip.

"She's somethin'," your dad said with an eye roll, although fond. You were the apple of his eye, but even your father knew you could be a goddamn handful.

Now though, with the possibility that your little crush could be more, Rick feels weird. Uncomfortable, an emotion burning in his chest that he realizes is - no, it can't be -

Jealousy? He feels weirdly possessive, he -

Hears the garage door close, then heavy footsteps, until Daryl’s standing on the other side of the room.

“What’s all the ruckus? Was just cleaning my bike,” Daryl starts, a little disturbed at the way Rick looks like he’s about to have a heart attack or crumble to the floor in frustration. He steps further into the room a little tentatively, before his eyes look to you, and suddenly Daryl is glad that he’s learned to control his emotions so they don’t ever register on his face.

Because your outfit - if it can even be called that…well, Daryl’s starting to realize why Rick looks like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown.

Daryl can’t help himself. He says it without even consciously realizing it, asking, “Where the fuck you goin’ dressed like that?” All while pretending to be casual, wiping motorcycle grease off of his hands with a dirty towel he brought in from the garage.

Daryl’s comment must send you over the edge, because you huff and groan and then run upstairs, slamming your door like a fucking teenager.

It’s silent for a second, with just the two of them in the living room, before Daryl breaks the silence. “What’s her problem?” He asks Rick, who stays silent for so long, eyes closed and a hand over his face, that Daryl wonders if Rick even heard him.

But then Rick laughs. The kind of laugh that stems from being so irritated, instead of breaking something all he can do is angrily chuckle. Now Daryl is really confused, but Rick isn’t.

You were lying about watching a movie with Daryl, as Rick expected, and he shakes his head. The outfit and the shoes to pretend you were going somewhere and the attitude were all just to rile him up. He thinks he's starting to realize why you want to get a rise out of him so bad, and it makes his stomach turn and his dick chub up in excitement.

“She said she was watchin’ a movie with you,” he explains, which only further perplexes Daryl, because he doesn’t watch movies, and you were wearing shoes - but he knows when to leave a situation alone. Whatever you and Rick having going on - that’s between you two.

Daryl turns to go back to the garage, and Rick’s about to walk up the stairs when the sound of your bedroom door opening is heard, and then a few light footsteps. Both men brace themselves because you’re sure to have something to say now.

It’s sort of cute, although neither one of them would admit that they like this attitude - that you needed to take a minute to gather your thoughts just to come up with something nasty to say back to Rick.

“Daryl,” you call from the top of the stairs, “I was just about to ask if you wanted to hang out. We could've gone for a walk, or watched a movie, or - anything! Rick’s just so mean, he doesn’t want to watch a movie with me and,” Rick stomps up the stairs and you squeal. Daryl bites back a laugh at the way you act around Rick, a smile spreading across his face that he’s glad no one else is around to see.

It’s weird, that he finds you so fucking charming. You’re annoying as shit, but it’s endearing, and the way Rick acts around you - like a human, instead of a tough robot - it's nice to see. He keeps that to himself, not going back to the garage until he hears Rick tell you to go to bed. “I just wanted to watch a movie,” you whine, and as the door shuts, Daryl hears Rick.

“Watch one? In that outfit, looks like you’re trying to make one. Quit lyin' and put some fuckin' clothes on.”

────

Just like that, everything changes.

All thanks to that little outfit. God bless Deanna for sending over those little shorts that you cut even smaller, and those tank tops you took from the community closet that were definitely meant for someone younger than you - but they did the job you needed them to do perfectly.

That outfit changed everything. It got Rick, and Daryl, to see that you were only trying to show off. That everything you’d been doing, especially since you got to Alexandria, was just to get their attention.

And yeah, maybe that makes you feel a little pathetic. It’s the end of the world, and all you’re thinking about is how to seduce your late father’s close friends, but there’s another way of looking at that too. For instance, you could literally die tomorrow. So could Rick, Daryl - anyone. Every single day that you go to bed, you know that it’s all just luck. Like winning the lottery. So why not have fun while you still can?

In your opinion, that should be everyone’s viewpoint.

The next morning, after your little lie about watching a movie with Daryl, Rick made sure everyone was out of the house so that he could talk to you. He found you in the kitchen.

“He’s too old for you,” he says, all parental and bossy in a plaid button down shirt, hand on his hip. He reminds you of your dad a little, with the disapproving tone and the stance. Back when your father used to disapprove of every fucking guy you brought home for him to meet. It’s funny, although depressing, and even though you didn’t have the best relationship with him, thinking about your dad now that he’s dead hurts. You shake the thought and the memory from your head, scooping a spoonful of oatmeal into your mouth. You shrug.

“Daryl says the same thing about you,” is your reply after you swallow. Rick lets out a big sigh, always a drama queen, but you love that you have him where you want him. Jealous, maybe. Seeing you as someone beyond just his late friend's daughter. You’re a woman that a lot of people want, and Rick should know that. Should feel lucky, that you like him so much and want his attention so badly. Sometimes you honestly think that Daryl and Rick are a little ungrateful about all the attention they get from you.

“Yeah, well, he’s right,” there’s a pause, like Rick doesn’t really want to say what he’s going to say. You look up at him, blink your eyes slowly in a way that you learned gets men get flustered, and Rick stutters as it comes out of his mouth, he sighs after he says it. “You’ve gotta stop this.”

You know exactly what he’s talking about. What Rick means to say is: You’ve gotta stop coming on to him and to Daryl. To stop being such a tease, to stop acting like a little harlot that needs to be punished and fucked so bad she’s running around one of the last standing suburbs in the United States with her panties showing and her tits out.

You get it, really - you do.

You just don’t want to stop.

“Stop what, Rick? You know I’m attracted to you. To Daryl. I literally can’t be any more obvious. Why can’t I have a little fun? Does it seriously bother you? Or is it just your morals getting in the way?” Not to sound like a selfish, immature brat - but you’re pissed at your dad for freaking Rick out. Before he passed, you really were getting closer with Rick, spending all your free time together, sort of affectionate when nobody else was looking. You’d stay awake with Rick at night to talk, you’d go for walks with him, go on runs whenever you were allowed, help him with whatever he needed.

You were getting somewhere, and your dad’s final dying wish took all your hard work and dumped it in the trash.

Now, you know how it sounds. Like you’re a total bitch that was a shitty daughter with no empathy or emotions, but that’s far from the facts. The truth is - you were never close with your dad. You happened to be visiting him during a break from college when shit hit the fan, and he was prepared. You'd have been stupid not to stay with him. And, yeah, he kept you alive and you definitely got closer after spending a year on the road together in some of the worst human conditions ever - but it wasn’t like you were daddy’s little girl or whatever else Rick likes to imagine to torture himself more.

You miss your father, sure, and you’re also sure Rick misses having another trustworthy male in the group, but treating the last words of a man who was going crazy with the walker virus as gospel is just plain crazy. Even for Rick.

And, to be clear, it’s not like you’re trying to force yourself onto Rick or Daryl. You know for a fact that if you were, if all your teasing and affection was making them uncomfortable, they’d say something about it. You’re desperate for them, yeah, but if either of them truly wanted you to fuck off, you’d respect that.

It’s just that - you know they want you. It’s clear, in the way their eyes follow you around a room, the way their touch lingers on you, how protective they are. For fuck’s sake, you’ve felt the hard outline of the bulge in their pants whenever you plop down on their laps, and you swear that Rick was using any excuse to get in the bathroom while you were taking a bath the other day. Needed his floss, yeah fucking right. It was cute though. You want them to want you.

And, anyway - you don’t understand why it’s such a big fucking deal. You’re in your twenties, and who knows how much longer you all have left? Daryl and Rick can’t be more than what, forty? Corpses learned to walk, and they’re worried about a little bit of legal age difference?

God, they’re driving you crazy.

In the kitchen, Rick curses. He doesn’t know what to say in reply to you. Does it really bother him, all your teasing?

Because the answer is - yeah, it does bother him.

It bothers him, that he can’t even fantasize about pushing you down on his bed and fucking your brains out without images of your dying dad flashing through his mind. It bothers him, that you’re so sexy and hot and sweet and soft and that you want him so bad, make him feel so needed and appreciated in ways no woman has ever made him feel before, yet you’re young enough to be his daughter. It bothers him deeply, that you’re the only thing in his mind all day long and the only thing that truly matters to him, which is why he’s always giving you such a hard time, which also makes him feel like the worst leader ever - because he’s got the safety of an entire community on his shoulders. People are counting on him, and all he can think about is you you you.

It bothers him, that he feels like a dirty old man around you, and that he doesn’t even care. Actually likes the way that people look at him when you’re on his arm. Likes to help you when you’re pretending like you can’t do shit yourself, just because you’d rather have him do it. And it really fucking bothers him that your tits are perky and that you hate wearing a bra and that your skin is clear and that you smell like a goddamn vanilla cupcake in the middle of the apocalypse.

Sometimes Rick hates you, for the way you bother him.

But right now, what bothers him the most - is that he’s not even bothered that you want his best friend to fuck you. The only thing that bothers him about you wanting Daryl so bad is that he wants to see just how badly you do, and that makes him feel like a fucking pervert. A bad, bad man.

What the actual fuck is wrong with him? He’s supposed to be the good guy.

“You’re just too damn young,” is all he says, and then he starts to walk away. It’s shitty, yeah, to leave you hanging like that - but Rick doesn’t want to be this guy. The one who takes advantage of a young, beautiful thing like yourself. It’s wrong.

He used to be a cop. Married. Looked down upon men who’d hook up with the first young thing that wanted them. He used to hate on his friend, Shane, gave him so much shit about going after younger women who wanted an older man. Told him that young women who looked for older men had daddy issues, and what kind of decent person would take advantage of that?

Is that a real thing, Rick wonders, daddy issues? Do you have that? Is it because your father died? Because Rick’s pretty sure you’ve been coming onto him and Daryl even back when you first joined the group. Do you think you have to…act the way you do so he’ll take care of you? Look out for you, now that all your family is dead?

“You don’t need to…cater to what you think I want,” Rick starts, unsure of how else to phrase it. He knows that no matter how he puts it, you’re going to be pissed. “I’ll still be here for you, always, to protect you, take care of you, even if you’re not,” he regrets it the minute it comes out of his mouth, “sexually appealing to me.”

You stand up so fast your spoon clatters out of your oatmeal from the force of your hands on the counter, pushing your chair out and standing up. “Are you kidding me?” You’ve had it now. No more bratty little girl, no - now you’re a pissed off woman.

“I’m not some fucking kid, Rick. I’m not trying to seduce you because I’m worried you’ll kick me out of the group. I can pull my weight as much as the next person and you know that.” It’s insulting, what he’s saying. You literally want to punch him for saying that shit.

“I’m trying to seduce you so you’ll fuck me. What’s so hard to understand? Do you want me Rick? Because I think you do. You’re just too chicken shit to,” but you don’t get to finish because he rushes forward, pushes you against the kitchen counter and turns you around. Manhandles you.

You bite your lip to stop from grinning. This is what you wanted. Maybe not the fight, but the feeling of him holding you tight, locking you in place against his strong body. You feel his hard stomach, strong arms, and you’re shameless when you lean down on the counter so you’re completely bent over it, pushing your ass towards the bulge in his jeans.

“You don’t wanna finish that sentence,” he warns, but maybe you do - because you feel him, hard against you. He likes this. Rick wants you, just as bad as you want him. You say a silent prayer, thanking the angels above that nobody else is home right now. “‘M not chicken shit about anything.”

You scoff. “Yeah, you are. Got me bent against the counter and you’re still talking. God, Rick, maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you can't handle this, maybe,” you go on and on, trying to stand up while he holds you down. He’s got a hand literally pressing into your back to keep you from getting up, and you’re so aroused you feel the dampness in your panties. You try to squeeze your legs together, but you can’t get any relief in this position.

Then you realize that this must’ve been the position Rick put people in when he’d arrest them. Officer Grimes. Holy shit, that’s hot to think about. Such a force of power, so strong, so smart, so trustworthy. Rick, who takes care of you and comforts you and bends to every stupid whim you make up to test his loyalty towards you. Rick, who puts on a pair of sunglasses before he oggles your tits because he wants to seem like a gentleman so bad. Rick -

Who’s pulling your pants down over your ass, panties too, until they’re down to your knees and he can see your bare ass. That fast, huh? You wiggle your ass with no remorse for being so greedy.

“You’re really somethin’, you know that?” He murmurs, running his hand over the smooth skin of your ass. Then he smacks a hand down on it so hard that you’d jump if you weren’t being held down. It’s unexpected, but so fucking hot, and you’ve definitely fantasized about Rick spanking you before. Been begging for it, actually, with all your bad attitude these last few months.

“You think you’re so grown. Pick and choose when you wanna be a grown lady or a bratty kid, whatever you think might get my attention. ‘M not stupid, I see it, just let you think you’re pulling the strings, ‘cause you know what? ‘S cute that you think you’re in charge,” Rick’s just letting the degrading so fucking sexy dirty talk flow, all the while he drops hits onto your ass.

Part of the appeal, the desire growing in your belly and making all your limbs feel tight and hot, is that anyone could walk in at any time. Sure, right now the house is empty, but at any point someone could walk in and see what Rick is doing to you. What you’re letting him do. You whine at the thought.

“You’re right, Rick,” you say, because come on. You haven’t been this desperate just to play hard to get now that you’re underneath him. You’ve been begging to see this side of Rick, to be on the receiving side of all this testosterone, to see if the most powerful man you’ve ever met is like that in every aspect of his life. He’s controlling, and sometimes mean, has a cold streak that’ll ice you out but also carries a warmth to thaw it -

And, you’re realizing, he’s turned on punishing you. Kinkier than you thought, honestly. But you're thrilled that he is.

“Didn’t think I’d ever hear those words out of your mouth,” he replies, and then he stops holding you down to the table. Instead, he lifts you up so your back is to his chest, and you lean against him, very aware that as he holds you to him his hand trails lower and lower, until his fingers are prodding between your legs, and you let out a gasp.

Who knew Mr. Grimes had all this dirtiness in him? You always hoped, but. It’s better than you expected. You’re literally grinning when he rubs down your slit, so wet, back and forth while barely grazing your clit. He knows you want it bad, but he’s not going to give it to you just yet.

Payback, maybe? You’ve never been so excited.

“Fuckin’ drippin’,” he murmurs, voice in your ear. His breath smells like spearmint and you’re such a romantic that it makes you almost moan. It’s the same toothpaste you use. How domestic. How fun, how kinky - that it kind of feels like you’re his little wife letting him fuck you in the kitchen.

Because yeah, that’s a fantasy of yours. You’ve got a lot of them, and Rick and Daryl are at the center of each one. “Rick,” you whine, and you feel him shake his head against you.

“Not my name, is it? Rick wouldn’t spank your ass, but I know someone who would. What’d you call me the other day, huh? When you were teasin’ me because I said you couldn’t patrol by yourself?” He sticks a finger inside of you, a little too rough to be pleasurable, but that kind of dominance makes you moan. His thumb rubs over your clit, presses down hard, and the feeling is so much that you try to pull away.

“Daddy,” you answer, and then he gives you some relief. Turns the hard touch on your little button to something pleasurable with a few soft strokes, adding another finger inside of you.

He hums. “‘Atta girl. Just feelin’ you. Been imagining what this sweet little cunt feels like since I’ve known you. Figured it had to be as pretty as the rest of you. Tell me,” he lifts his fingers from your pussy, shiny under the kitchen lights from how aroused you are, “It as sweet as I imagined?” He shoves the digits in your mouth and you suck, hard. You moan against his fingers.

“Look at you,” he utters, even though he’s literally craning his face to see you at this angle. “You’re a dirty, dirty girl. This what you wanted? Wanted to show me how dirty you could be? Guess the only time you’re gonna listen is if Daddy’s got a finger in your mouth or in one of your,”

The sound of footsteps make the both of you freeze. Rick takes his fingers out of your mouth, but he makes no move to pull away from behind you or help you pull your pants up. He’s frozen.

The steps enter the kitchen, and when you realize who it is, your stomach sinks. Fucking Daryl.

“The fuck?” He asks, looking around like he does when there’s a new location the group is checking out that he’s skeptical of. It’s impossible to read his expression, and in typical Daryl fashion, you think he’s just going to walk away. Slam the door to the garage, hole up and work on his bike, avoid you like the plague until the end of time because you’re such a little slut. That last part really isn’t his character, fine - but it makes you sick, thinking about Daryl thinking differently about you.

But he doesn’t walk away. Instead, when Rick steps out from behind you and you quickly pull your pants up, Daryl walks up to him and literally punches him in the face. You gasp, and Rick curses, damn near falling on the ground.

“Fuckin’,” but Rick doesn’t finish, because Daryl drops whatever he’s holding and shoves at him again, until he really does almost topple down.

You don’t know what to do. “Daryl,” you say, trying to make your voice sound loud, not whiny. “What the hell are you doing? Rick, he’s. God, leave him alone!”

Daryl does as you say, but he’s fucking pissed. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this fucking mad. Rick holds his nose, because blood is dripping from it and ruining his shirt that you just bleached for him.

“What the fuck ‘re you thinkin,’ man? She’s just a kid,” but you cut Daryl off, stomp your foot very maturely and let out a loud, irritated groan. Very attractive, you’re sure.

“I’m not a fucking kid! You’re both always acting like I don’t know what I want, that I can’t handle it and it’s just. You’re wrong, okay? How much more obvious do I need to be? I want Rick. I want you, Daryl. Stop making a big deal out of nothing,” as you rant, they’re both looking at you like you’re crazy, and it honestly feels like Daryl’s looking at you in disgust.

“We’re twice you’re fuckin’ age. You can’t handle it. ‘Less you’ve got experience that I don’t know about, you need’a be with someone your own fucking age,” apparently this is a hill Daryl will die on. You’re so fucking irritated. Why would you chose the two most morally gold men the entire fucking community, you have no idea. You guess that it sort of is part of their appeal, but -

Now Rick’s cutting you off, using a towel to stop the blood coming out of his nose. He looks ridiculous, towel pressed to his face, blood all over him, still trying to establish himself as leader in this kitchen with a hand on his hip.

You think he’s going to defend you. He did just have you bent over the counter and was playing with your pussy. But Daryl’s guilt is spilling onto him now, and he nods, letting out a sigh like he’s just given up.

There’s a lag in conversation, until Rick finally says, “Yeah. Man, I know, I just got caught up. ‘S easy to get carried away, and,” you make a noise that's like a whine and a groan and brat all at the same time - and both men look at you like you’re proving their point - you’re acting immature.

“You both suck, you know that? Any man here would want me, and you’re acting like I’m ugly and,” you don’t finish because Daryl cuts you off. He’s still pissed, and your eyes widen as he walks towards you and backs you up against the refrigerator.

“You know goddamn well you ain’t ugly. Stop playin’ dumb and stop with the bullshit. You’re actin’ like a fuckin’ cat in heat around here and I’m sick of it. What do you need, huh? You wanna get fucked, is that it?” Daryl’s trying to be mean, scare you off, get you to leave him alone - which tells you two things. One: He’s probably so good with dirty talk. Two: He must feel something for you if he’s trying this hard to keep you away.

“Daryl,” you hear Rick warn from behind him, because he is pretty much yelling at you in the kitchen.

Daryl waves him off. “No. Shit, girl, you’re drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy. When’s the last time you had it? Had a man on top of ya given’ you what you want?” You blush bright red, and you reach out to loop your finger into the belt hook of Daryl’s pants. You think for a second he’s going to push you away, but instead he leans closer and barricades you between his arms against the fridge, rolls his hips and grinds himself, dick hard, against you. You moan, even though there’s no friction for you. It’s just hot, you just like it, and you want more and -

“You like that? So desperate for attention that you’ll take anything, won’t ya? People dying left and right, world overrun by fucking corpses and all you can think about is a pair of old men getting in your panties. This what you want, isn’t it? Would make your daddy real fuckin’ proud,” he takes your hand and sets it on his bulge, and you feel it, squeeze it, know that he must be packin’ some fucking heat to be acting the way he is right now.

Rick grabs Daryl by the shoulder to move him out of the way, telling him, “Man, calm down, she’s -” but he doesn’t finish. Looks at you and sees your eyes so big, cheeks so red, looking at Daryl in utter adoration, and that’s when he realizes how fucked they both really are. Daryl would’ve just scared the shit out of another woman - a big man, looming over you like that, talking a bunch of shit - yet you’re looking at him like he’s the sun or something.

You’re really something. Same woman that cries when insects and animals die is the same one that could probably kill a walker with her bare hands. Same woman that sleeps with a stuffed animal she found in a drawer of the house, is the same one begging two old men to fuck her. Pink and bratty and pretty and full of fucking bite, Rick will never understand you. He’s never met another woman like you, didn't know one existed. He’s -

“When’s the last time?” He asks, loving the absent minded look on your face when you turn your head to him. Rick knows you're smart - has seen you problem solve and debate with everyone, knows you were pretty educated before all this shit went down, and you definitely have street smarts. Maybe that’s why it’s so cute, to be the one to make you lose your mind. That you trust him enough to care for you.

Or maybe he’s just a sick bastard.

You take too long to reply and Daryl gently nudges you, takes your fingers out of the loop of his pants and holds your hand instead. He must have the same reaction to seeing you like this, because he’s calmed down considerably.

“Last time you had sex,” he says gently. Back to the big, soft, fuzzy teddy bear version of Daryl - your description of him, when you saw him in his new brown poncho. Rick doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t need to. You’re cute, and the things you say are sweet, period.

You lick over your bottom lip, tongue cute and pink, just like the little shirt you’ve got on. You let out a tiny breath. “Mm, well,” another pause, when you look down and then back up, from Daryl to Rick.

“I’m a virgin.”

────

“It could work, you know,” Carol says, voice a little smug. She’s teasing, but Daryl’s got no idea what the fuck she’s on about. Carol sees his expression and huffs out a laugh, nudging him in the shoulder with a strength he’s not even sure she knows she carries. He grunts.

“It’s a differently world now. Age, our lives before this crap. Doesn’t mean anything. If you,” Daryl cuts her off right there. He shakes his head, downs the rest of the beer that he’s been nursing all night.

“Don’t know what the hell yer talkin’ about,” he grumbles, but that’s a lie. Daryl knows exactly what Carol is referring to, because it’s right in front of him.

It being you.

Carol nudges him again, this time with her shoulder. They’re sitting on the couch together, drinking beer after one of those community meetings Rick loves to have so much, and Daryl feels uncomfortable. Not because of the people he’s around - no, the group he made at the start of all this shit is the reason he feels good. They’re his family.

It just feels weird, to sit around and drink and hang out when there’s a crowd of walkers that could be lurking anywhere, at any time. Daryl will never get used to it, this false sense of normalcy, but maybe that’s just because he’s never had it before.

Fucked up as it is to say, he’s never had a quality of life quite this good. His life was made better during the apocalypse, and he’s pretty sure he’s the only one that can say that. Once again, Daryl feels lonely. Misunderstood. Which makes him feel like a fucking loser and a jerk at the same time. He grabs another beer, straight out of Glenn’s hand who’s standing next to him, and downs it before slamming it down on the coffee table. Glenn shakes his head and walks off, and Carol barks out a laugh.

She’s right. Maybe not about what she said, but Daryl was looking at you when she said it. Maybe he’s just as oblivious as Rick when it comes to you, heart eyes popping out of his head whenever he sees you, all the lust and protectiveness spilling out of his body in the form of annoyance and irritation.

You’re sitting on the kitchen counter, which Daryl can see from the couch. Cute feet dangling while you sip on a glass of something clear. Could be vodka, could be water - hard to fucking tell with you. Are you acting like a grown woman, smart and strong and capable, with skills that came from being raised by a father with military training? That’d mean you’re drinking vodka.

Or are you the girl who’s all pink and frills, needing help with the smallest tasks, starting arguments just for attention, showing off too much skin for the end of the fucking world? That’d mean you’re drinking water. The easiest way to tell what version of you you’re going to be is to check if Rick is around, and tonight, of course he is.

Looks like you’re all pink and frills tonight.

Daryl watches you throw your head back and laugh, so pretty, so free - and it makes Daryl happy that you’re happy, despite it all. Your hair is a little messy and Daryl likes it, loves the way your sweater falls off your shoulder and that your sock is slipping off your foot. He’s never liked a woman so much, never met another person who was able to dig themselves so deep under his skin that they’re impossible to remove, even with all the warm showers he’s been taking.

So much for refusing to get used to this place. It’s getting harder and harder to go without these luxuries as time goes on. But that’s a worry for another time.

Rick, coming from out of fucking nowhere, since you were just talking to Maggie, stands next to you. Daryl watches him, the way he places a hand on your leg and bends to slip the sock so gently back onto your foot. He asks you, because it’s a pretty small house so Daryl can hear, if you’re doing alright. Must be vodka you’re drinking then. You nod, looking up at Rick with something like sparkles in your own eyes, and that’s when Carol clears her throat.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” she says, finishing her beer off. Daryl blushes bright red, because that means she saw him stare. What a fool he is.

Carol stands to walk away. “‘S how she looks at you too. Just so you know. You deserve what you want, Daryl.” And then she walks off. Fuckin’ Carol, he thinks, shaking his head to himself. She’s his closest friend, probably knows him better than Rick, and she’s got wisdom Daryl can’t even comprehend. He hates that maybe she’s right. It’s too much to think about.

Daryl knows you like him. Shit, he’d be stupid not to see it. He just doesn’t know what to do with that information. Can’t stop thinking about you, what you looked like against that fridge. Like he could do anything to you, and you’d thank him and ask for more. The way you looked at him, like you were seeing a rainbow or an open bar for the first time or some shit - why do you see him that way? What are you seeing when you look at him that he can’t see in himself?

Makes him fucking uncomfortable, but he can’t deny that it does sort of feel good.

Daryl can’t keep his eyes off of you the entire night. Watches you lose your ass to Eugene on the chess set in the living room, bites back a laugh when you ask to see Abraham flex his bicep as a joke, and Rosita nearly pushes you away. When you ask Tara if she thinks you’re hot, all teasing until she blushes - and as everyone trickles out to go to bed, you end up sitting next to Rick on your regular spot on the couch.

You’re such a tease. Such a flirt. Daryl wonders how you grew up, that you’re just so used to getting your way. So used to having people see you the way that you want, know that nobody would ever tell you no. Nobody can ever stay mad at you, or annoyed with you. You’re just…magic. Beyond the new feminine clothes that you picked up in Alexandria, even back when the group was on the road - there was something about you that was unlike any other woman Daryl had met.

Maybe it’s because of your father. Daryl can’t imagine growing up with a man like that. Especially as a woman as girly as you. Your father was cool - tough, strong, smart. Told war stories that made Daryl’s head almost explode, and he loved listening to that shit. Loved being able to trust another man, take some of the load off his and Rick’s back. But he was strict.

Always giving you a hard time. Telling you what to do. In a way, since he passed, it’s like Rick turned into him - took some parts of his personality at least, when it comes to you.

You’re a virgin, probably thanks to your strict father, because girls that look like you should not be virgins still. Daryl can imagine high school and college boys showing up at your door, pictures a nice suburban house, you all dressed up, waiting to be wined and dined and screwed on a Friday night. You deserve a life like that, normal, but you’re never going to get it. There’s no men your age even around now, which is maybe why you’re looking for something in him and Rick -

Or maybe you’re just looking for a daddy. Since yours is gone. Maybe you’re so used to it, being taken care of, that you want it again.

Daryl drinks and drinks and drinks until everyone is out of the house. It’s just you and Rick and him, the usual, and he never realized it until now, that people might be purposely keeping their distance from all of you. One thing, to see a girl like you with an older man, but two of them? Hell, Daryl would wanna keep his distance too.

Just the three of you. In the living room. You drape your legs over Rick’s lap and lean back against the arm of the couch, and Daryl just watches. Your legs are cute. The little bit of skin that sticks out between your shirt and your jeans where the button digs in is cute too. Sexy. Seeing your body fill out ever since you got to Alexandria is a turn on that Daryl didn’t know he had.

You’d look good at any size, any weight, in any outfit. Just that kind of woman. But seeing you gain some weight now that there’s proper access to food is nice to see. Makes Daryl happy, in a weird way, knowing you’re taken care of and -

“Daddy.”

Daryl and Rick both freeze, make eye contact across the coffee table and then both turn to you. With both eyes on you, you shyly giggle, and Daryl truly can’t tell if it’s a role you’re playing or if this is you.

“Come on now,” Rick says lightly, pushing your feet off of his lap. Gently, of course, but you plop them right back down. He sighs, but relents. You’ve really got Rick wrapped around your little finger.

“What? Just seems right to call you that,” you explain, and Daryl laughs. Can’t help but talk shit about Rick too, because honestly, he’s drunk enough for it.

“Yeah, man. She ain’t wrong. Got you doting on ‘er and adorin’ her. Takin’ care of her too. You sure you ain’t her daddy?” The playful mood of Daryl’s doesn’t come out much, but he and Rick have been through a lot together. They’re like brothers. Besides, it’s funny.

Daryl has to laugh so he doesn’t get hard.

Rick is embarrassed, but he laughs anyway. Shakes his head. “You’re one to talk, man,” he says, running a hand over his face. “Two words: Piggyback. Ride. You do a lot for this girl, Dixon,” he looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. Daryl smirks, shrugs, and you furrow both eyebrows and tilt your head to the side.

“Piggyback ride sounds like three words. Piggy,” you hold up your fingers, attempting to count. “Back. Ride. Yeah, three.” Daryl and Rick are silent as they look at each other, and then they burst out laughing. You grin, which is how they both know you’re fucking with them. Playing that role you love so much.

It’s cozy in the house, and Daryl is suddenly hit with the itch he has to run somewhere less warm. Candles are lit, the heat is on, the wall is secure and everything feels pretty good right now. You’re all like family, have been through so much, and as much as Daryl wants to sink into this moment, he also wants to run away. You must catch the look on his face.

You sit up, drawing your knees to your chest. Like you’re protecting yourself. You change the subject, before anyone can interrupt you.

“Have you put any thought into it?” You ask, looking at Daryl, then Rick. They’ve both got no idea what you’re talking about. You sigh, annoyed, then continue. “Taking my virginity. Will you do it?”

Shit.

You really were serious about that shit? Daryl doesn’t know what to say to that.

He thinks about what to say, but Rick cuts him off. “Still can’t believe that you’re a virgin,” he says, shaking his head. “You’ve done nothing?” You blush so pink, Daryl wonders if you have superhuman speed and you snuck into the bathroom without him noticing to put on some of that weird pink makeup shit women love to wear.

“I’ve done…other stuff,” you say, as if to prove yourself. “Oral sex, and sometimes ana,” Rick will not let you finish that sentence, thank god. Daryl breathes a sigh of relief as he says, “Don’t. Don’t wanna hear about you letting boys touch you. You gotta lot bravery, kid, acting like a little tease when you’ve never even had a man inside of you. That Daddy shit too. You crazy or something?”

You’re still embarrassed, but you roll your eyes. Rick turns his body more towards you, likes the way you blink at him, lashes long and eyes wide, like you’re waiting for what he’s going to say.

“Maybe I just know what I like. I’m a modern woman and I -” you start going on and on, as you do. And it’s cute, really. Rick likes it, how much you talk, can pretend to be annoyed by it but he really doesn’t want to ever miss a word. But this time he zones out, and all he can focus on is the way your lips look, open and talking and nagging, and he doesn’t want to hear it anymore. Thinks that maybe, since you want it so fucking much - he should help you out.

Should put that pretty mouth to good use, shouldn’t he? Sounds like a good idea to him.

He stands up, liking the way you look up at him. Like you’re waiting for him to give you directions. He feels his dick swelling up - but then again, he’s been half hard ever since you said daddy. He nods his head to you, motions for you to stand up too -

And because he’s daddy, yeah yeah, he puts a hand out for you to grab it. He helps you up, while you and Daryl look at him like he’s a crazy person. Rick nods to Daryl too.

“You comin?’” He asks, nodding toward the stairs. He squeezes your hand. “Think we oughta give her what she wants now. Been patient, ain’t that right?” He looks to you, and you nod, so over eager you almost trip over your own feet. Rick looks back to Daryl.

“‘Bout time we give her what she wants.”

────

“Is it going to hurt?” You ask, because after all this talk, all this teasing, now that you’re really in Rick’s bed - you’re so scared of what’s to come. You’re not scared of Rick and Daryl, because you literally trust them with your life. You’re scared of what it’s going to feel like, having something inside of you that’s bigger than a few fingers.

You look at Daryl and Rick at the side of the bed. Daryl looks a little more hesitant than Rick, keeps watching you like he’s sure you’re going to say you don’t want to do this anymore, but you’d never, no matter how scared you are. Rick looks at you as he takes his belt off, leans down and rubs a hand comfortingly on your head, scratches at your scalp.

“Won’t hurt too bad,” he says a moment later, in just his boxers. “Gonna have Daryl lick you out, get you nice and wet so it’s easy for me to slip in. ‘Be easy to stretch you out after you’ve cum a few times, ain’t that right, Daryl? You cool with that?” Something about Rick ordering Daryl around is doing it for you. You’re scared, but you’re pleasantly tipsy, limbs loose and brain sharp, focused on the feeling of arousal pooling in your panties, stomach warm with the possibility of what’s to come.

“Sure have thought about this, man,” Daryl says in reply, and he walks to the edge of the bed to get on his knees. It’s funny, because he’s right - Rick’s been all, you’re too young for me, kid and I’d never go against your father’s wishes, he was my friend, but here he is, ordering the two of you around like he’s had this scenario planned out in his head for months. Maybe he’s just drunk, or maybe he’s just a born leader. Whatever it is, both you and Daryl obey, and your cunt drips at the thought. You make a whiny noise.

“You gonna get her clothes off or what, man? Think that’s a job for her daddy, ain’t it?” Daryl says, one hand looping around your ankle, wanting to pull you down to the edge of the bed to go down on you. You whimper, voice leaving your throat, because Daryl using that nickname in regards to Rick is making your head spin.

How many times have you had a finger on your clit with your legs tightened, trying to squeeze an orgasm out, with the only thought in your head daddy daddy daddy while you thought about Rick or Daryl playing with your pussy, ordering you around, fucking you so hard it hurt to talk? Too many fucking times. In your fantasies, you imagined your father finding out, wanting to get back at him for every horrible thing he ever did to you by fucking both of his friends.

Look at me now, dad, you think, warmth spreading throughout your body because you’re a sicko. It’s so hot, being bad, being grown enough to do this but young enough to know that it’s naughty and wrong.

Not that you only want to fuck Rick and Daryl to get back at your dad. No, they'd still be hot as hell even if you didn't have issues.

Rick sits you up. Maneuvers you like you're a fragile doll, all while you try to commit the look of him shirtless, skin slightly tanned, the scruff on his face, to memory. The look of Daryl at the edge of the bed, wanting to pleasure you. Rick’s calloused hands, fingers taking off your shirt and then your pants, handing them to Daryl to put off to the side. You can take your own clothes off, but Rick wants to, and for some reason that sends your brain blank.

This is what you’ve been waiting for.

“Lay back down,” Rick says gently, pulling his own boxers off. His cock is hard, and he jerks it for a second, holds the head of it loosely and rubs his thumb over the tip, spreads the precum around and lets out a soft breath. “You’re alright, sweetheart. Let Daryl get you nice and wet so I can fill you up. Can you do that? Know you want it,” and since you’re naked now, Daryl pulls you all the way to the edge of the bed, where he spreads your legs and keeps your knees under his big hands to keep them apart, licks a stripe from your hole up to your clit. “Know you’ve been thinking about it,” Rick says watching.

Rick has a nice cock, just like you expected. It’s big, pink and veiny, and under the dim lights in the bedroom the look of the head all covered in precum makes you lick your lips. Rick must see that, because he moves to sit by your head, chuckling like he can read you that easily even when you're spread open for his friend to lick your pussy.

You shiver.

Daryl pulls away, the warm feeling of his mouth gone, and it makes you ache. “Ain’t that something,” Daryl murmurs, head leaned against your thigh for a second. “Pussy just as pretty as the rest of ya’.”

Holy fuck. You lean back, gripping at the sheets of the bed, until Rick grabs your hand. He alternates between squeezing your hand and brushing your hair away from your face. You’ve had oral sex before, sure, but those times were all with preppy suburban boys who didn’t want to get dirty. You’ve seen the way Daryl eats. Slurps, fucking goes all in. He’s doing the same on your pussy, and his tongue is so warm, so wet, you try to close your thighs around his head because the stimulation is just too much but it’s impossible with the way he’s holding you down. Your back arches, and you squeeze Rick’s hand so tight you worry you’re going to break it.

“Not done yet,” Daryl scolds, pulling away from your cunt with a glossy chin. Rick tsks you as well, tells you to relax and take it, to cum all over Daryl’s tongue so he can fit his dick inside of you.

It only takes a minute more, of Daryl sucking on your clit while slipping a finger inside of you, prodding around like he’s curious, and for Rick to say, “Dirty girl, you are. Letting a man twice your age stick his tongue inside you. Daddy’s gotta keep an eye on you,” because woah. Just. Fucking hell. You cum with a cry, moaning Daryl’s name like a prayer while bucking your hips up, pussy squeezing his fingers that are prepping you for Rick’s cock.

Daryl keeps licking, sucking, until you thrash and cum again and Rick tells him to stop. Not because you can’t handle it, no, it’s probably because Rick is so ready to fuck you, his dick is literally leaking onto his fingers. Both of his hands are going to ache, from the way you’re squeezing one and the way he’s jacking himself off with the other. He grabs some of his own mess, sticky, and uses his pointer finger to spread it over your lips like lip gloss. He grins, all sexy and cocky - and you’re not even thinking, body so trembly and hot from Daryl eating you like you're his last meal.

Daryl Dixon eats pussy like it’s going to make him cum. You wonder if maybe it could, file that fantasy away for another time.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you murmur in regards to the lipgloss, and you lick your lips to taste it. Tongue pink and wet, expression fucked out and he hasn’t even got his cock in you yet.

Rick - he’s gotta fuck you. Like, now.

When Daryl stands up, gets off his knees, you look up at him and ask him to take his clothes off. “Wanna see you, Daryl, please?” You beg, wanting him to get naked. You know he’s sensitive, about his scars and just his body in general. Doesn’t realize how fucking sexy he is, all strong and big and tough and perfect. But he shakes his head.

“Nah,” he replies, although his voice isn’t scolding. You can tell that he hates disappointing you. He helps Rick pull you up so you’re laying on the pillows, pushes your knees up so your feet are resting flat against the bed, giving easy access to your sopping wet cunt. “Tonight’s about you, girly. Don’t worry ‘bout me.” You pout, but you’re not going to pressure him. He sits beside you on the bed, right next to the pillows, and grabs your hand, looks down at you and for the first time ever:

Asks if he can kiss you. You nod, You’ve never kissed Daryl before, or Rick for that matter. Have been so focused on cock, you’ve never really thought about it, which is kind of embarrassing. Skipping some steps. You’ve always gotten ahead of yourself.

When Daryl leans down to kiss you, cupping your face with one big hand, you feel Rick grabbing at your tits. He’s such a gentleman, so traditional outside of everything that has to do with you, that his…freakiness is kind of unexpected. But you like the feeling, of him admiring your body, touching your waist and the little plush part of your stomach, rubbing his hands up and down before cupping your breasts, thumb playing with your sensitive nipples.

Your back arches off the bed, and Daryl’s lips, slow and soft as he dominates your mouth is such a stark contrast to the way Rick is touching you like you’re an object for his amusement, tip of his cock poking into your leg. “Fuckin’ beautiful, just like I imagined. Little body just made to be admired and touched,” he murmurs, and you moan into Daryl’s mouth, which makes more room for his tongue. “Almost feels like a shame to get you all dirty. Break your little pussy in until it craves my cock.”

You’re clinging to Daryl while Rick talks about you, feeling like you’re in heaven with the two men you trust most in the world on top of you. “Bet you want me to though, silly girl. Tell me you want me to ruin you. Want me and Daryl ruin you for anyone else.”

You pull away from Daryl’s lips as best as you can to whine, reach a hand out to Rick to get his attention, as if you need to do that. You always imagined you’d be a seductress in bed, know exactly what to say and do and be confident about it. But right now you can hardly form words, so overwhelmed with having Rick and Daryl hovering over you, it’s hard to even form thoughts - your pussy clenches though.

“Nobody else. Ever,” you say, voice soft and a little spaced out. You’ve always gotten like this after an orgasm, clingy and spacey and very, very pliable. You whine again. “Cock, Daddy. Please. Now.”

This time, Daryl pulls away, takes a good look at your body and palms himself through his pants. Perfect tits and a perfect body, cute hips and a bellybutton with a scar, must’ve had a piercing at some point, which fits just how sexy and cute you are. Your sweet little socks are still on and you’ve got a shiny anklet on during the middle of the apocalypse. You’re a perfect woman, and what you see in him, Daryl will never understand - but he’s not going to take it for granted. Isn’t going to overstay his welcome either. He makes eye contact with Rick, and yeah, this is uncomfortable. Slightly.

Because Rick has his dick out. But it’s not like Daryl’s looking at him, no, it’s all about you. He can’t wait to see the way you take Rick’s cock. Can’t believe that he gets to be part of this - because it’s always been Rick, you know? That’s who you wanted first. You want Rick, might even love him, if Daryl is reading the light in your eyes correctly. He wants that for you. Love. He wants whatever you want.

“Go gentle,” he tells Rick, to which the other man snorts, a noise kind of unsexy given the moment, but you still make grabby hands at him, grip at his biceps so hard and dig your nails in. Rick hisses. “Fuck, alright, alright, ‘m going,” he murmurs, then shoots Daryl a look. “Should tell her to be gentle,” he grumbles.

Rick positions himself at your entrance, looking at you closely. There’s something Daryl sees there, a spark, so magnetic it’s like a physical thing, the energy between you two. Feels like he’s intruding on something, but he leaves it, just squeezes your hand when you let go of Rick’s arms.

“You’re good, sweetheart. Gonna feel real good in a second. Hold onto Daryl’s hand, alright? Your Daryl’s got you. Trust him so much. don’t you? Daddy’s got you, gonna be, shit,” Rick pushes himself all the way inside of you, and holy fuck, he’s never felt anything like this before. Didn’t know a pussy could grip this tight while still being so wet. You’re fucking made for him, Rick’s sure of that now, because every thrust and every noise out of your mouth makes his head feel cloudy and his body heat up with nothing but love for you.

Goddamn, Rick loves you so much.

He looks down at you and sees a beautiful woman who’s been given the short end of the stick in this life. Deserves so much more than this world, deserves so much more than Rick, and maybe that’s why the idea of Rick and Daryl is okay to him. You deserve it, really, you do - such a pretty young thing with a cunt and a body sculpted by a perverted old god somewhere, and dammit if Rick doesn’t want to protect you and give you anything and everything you could ever want.

When he cums, spills his seed inside of you and presses his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, he swallows your little noises and without even thinking, reaches for Daryl's hand.

All for you.

────

Daryl tenses up when Rick enters the kitchen, frozen like there’s an animal he’s not trying to spook. Only this time, instead of a deer he wants to make his dinner, his hand is frozen around the handle of a jug of water that’s in the fridge. Purified, because every house in Alexandria has one of these. Spoiled brat suburban people, Daryl thinks, even though he’s technically one of them now.

He waits for Rick to do whatever he’s going to do in the kitchen, but when he does nothing, just sits there and waits for Daryl to turn around, he knows the reason Rick is even in here right now is to talk to him. Daryl grumbles under his breath.

“Yeah, man?” He asks, putting the jug of water on the counter and closing the fridge. Rick looks frazzled as fuck. Face red, the buttons on his shirt not lining up, because it looks like he got ready in a rush. He rubs under his nose in a quick gesture he does whenever he’s stressed out. Daryl knows this man well now. Really well. Even knows what he looks like when he cums, and for that - he’s fucking glad Merle’s not alive to see the situation he’s got himself in.

After that night together, when good ‘ol Rick popped your cherry and Daryl watched on, comforted you - things changed. Without any further conversation, you must’ve taken it as all you needed to go forth and publicly claim Rick. And for that matter, Daryl too. It’s been weeks now, and everyone in the group stays clear whenever you’re all in the room together. You’re always kissing Rick on the cheek, sticking your hand in his jacket pocket to stay close, standing behind Daryl whenever he’s sitting with his back exposed, looping your arms around his neck just to get close or sitting yourself down on his lap at the most inconvenient times.

He likes it, deep down. ‘Course he does. Daryl fucking loves you, everything about you, even when you’re greedy and spoiled and just plain annoying. Too perfect to be real, and he’d do anything for you. It’s annoying as fuck, but it is what it is.

Just weird, wondering what people think of all of it. If anyone wonders what happens behind closed doors. When you wake up in Rick’s bed between them, after someone from the group has to literally seek Rick out because he’s been so distracted. Daryl will never forget the look on Eugene’s face, when he saw you in bed between them. Daryl could laugh just thinking about it.

But it’s not good, Rick being distracted. He’s gotta get his shit together, he’s -

Oh, Daryl can’t talk shit and he knows it. You’re distracting him too. Once you got a taste of cock, of sex, you’ve been insatiable. Daryl hears Merle’s voice calling him a fool in his head whenever Rick watch you go down on him, sucking his cock and cupping his balls while he sits on the edge of the bed. Rick stands behind you, egging you on, pressing the bottom of his shoe against your back to make you take his cock deeper, tells you in a raspy voice, “Atta girl, fuck, mouth made for sucking cock, is that right? Look at you. Making Daryl feel all good. Prettiest little thing in the world, baby. Can’t wait for my turn after.”

Rick’s a filthy bastard, even to Daryl’s surprise. But - it’s working. All of you. Together. Daryl doesn’t wanna see Rick’s cock any more than he has to, but he’s just happy to be part of something that makes you happy. Like he said, he’d do anything for you.

And deep down, he knows he’d do anything for Rick too. Man has got him through some of the hardest, toughest shit of his life. Is probably the reason Daryl’s still even alive. People always joke, calling Daryl his guard dog. It pisses him off, because he ain’t no dog, but - they’re not wrong.

After Daryl’s done pouring a cup of water, Rick answers. He’s fidgety, and Daryl doesn’t like it. What the fuck is his problem? Did something happen? Rick’s supposed to be the cool, calm, collected one. But lately he’s been losing his shit. Daryl wonders if it has anything to do with you.

Truthfully, Rick’s moods usually do have something to do with you.

Daryl’s stomach sinks thinking something happened to you.

“You seen ‘er?” Rick asks, looking guilt, like he lost a class pet he was supposed to be caring for or something. “She was supposed to meet me at Deanna’s for a meeting. She’s always runnin’ off, but something feels. I dunno,” Rick runs a hand through his hair, trying to remain calm. “Left Deanna’s and came to bed, thinking she’d show up, but I still haven’t seen her. I told her no more patrolling or guarding the gate, so I doubt she’s doing that. God, man, please tell me you’ve seen her,” Rick really sounds pathetic, Daryl thinks.

Which scares the shit out of him. Where the hell are you? You’re always running off and doing stupid shit, which is annoying as hell because you’re smart. You know better. It’s almost like you’ve got something to prove to everyone else, especially now that everyone’s been so weird about you with Rick and Daryl. Maybe you left, went on a run without telling anyone? Took a shift patrolling even when you’re not supposed to, just to show you’re tough?

Daryl nods at Rick, like he understands, and then motions towards the door. “You wanna,” he’s about to ask if they should go look for you, but Rick nods, doesn’t even need Daryl to finish.

They start walking, but it’s dark and Daryl doesn’t know where to find you. He asks, “You check with Maggie and Carol next door?” But he feels like a dick for even asking that. Of course Rick did, he’s not a fucking idiot.

Rick nods, looks like he’s thinking the same thing, and then it’s silent except for the scuffing sound of them walking along the dirty streets. Rick makes a mental note to talk to Deanna about cleaning them up, figure out how to do so without taking too much energy out of everyone when there’s other important labor that needs to be done.

“She’s drivin’ me crazy, man,” Rick says, shaking his head when Daryl looks over. He obviously knows Rick is talking about you. “So much shit going on, and she chooses right now to go missing? To not listen. It’s cute an’ all, sometimes. Gotta admit. That stubborn little streak, but hell,” they stop walking for a minute, turn to each other. “She’s fuckin’ killing me.”

Daryl gets it. Rick knows he does. But there’s nothing he can say that will make the situation better. Besides, as much as they get along, learning to properly share you and not get all up in their feelings about it - the boundaries are still a little blurred. Need to be discussed. Is Daryl allowed to tell Rick what to do when it comes to you? He’s got some thoughts, wants to tell Rick to stop spanking you for fun and instead use it to properly teach you a lesson.

But he thinks that’d be overstepping his boundary. It already happened once, when Daryl walked in on Rick fucking you one morning. He was spooning you, dick buried deep inside of you, gripping your jaw while he told you filthy things that turned Daryl red. He didn’t mean to watch, but shit was going down with Deanna and Rick was nowhere to be found so of course Daryl went looking, and then he saw Rick hit you lightly in the face and Daryl couldn’t just stand by and watch that.

Not you, so sweet that you spent last night massaging Daryl’s back even when he tried to scare you off of touching him like that multiple times. You kissed his scars, made up fake stories about where each of them came from - shark bite, alien surgery, some other bullshit that made him laugh. You said the truth about their origin made you sad. You cuddled him and kissed him and told him you love him, and he still feels like a dick for not replying. Not saying it back.

Daryl’s just not good at that shit. Hates himself for it, but he’s just not. ‘S why he doesn’t deserve you.

But you and Rick are fucking weird. Sexually, Daryl is still learning. Rick made him look under the covers that day he smacked you, made you tell him how wet you were, how much you liked it a little rough just so Daryl wouldn’t beat his ass for putting his hands on you. And don’t get Daryl started, when you start sucking on his fingers, trying to have a normal conversation with Rick over a beer while you lick and suck his digits until one of them gives you the real thing - dick.

You’re a force, that’s for sure. And when Daryl and Rick hear your laugh by the opening gate of Alexandria, they both know that, once again - you went against their wishes. If you’re putting yourself in danger just to get punished, they need to have a talk with you. Because it’s not that you’re not qualified to stand watch - there’s just no need.

Daryl would happily take any shift of anything if it meant you were safe. But you just don’t fucking listen, and every step closer to you is making Daryl, and Rick, for that matter - more and more pissed.

“You’re a pretty little thing, you know that? Tell me, who’s in charge here? Certainly can’t be you. No offense, you’re just,” a pause, and when Daryl finally sees who it is you’re talking to, the voice finishes, “Too fuckin’ pretty.”

Rick and Daryl find you, weapon in hand, but you’re relaxed and casual and talking to someone on the other side of the gate. You wouldn’t be able to defend yourself while you’re all loose and giggly, when this is probably the most serious job in the fucking community. Daryl wants to haul you over his shoulder, take you home and smack your ass blue. He’s never been so pissed, and who the fuck is in the watchtower letting this shit happen?

The voice talking to you belongs to a man, tapping a baseball bat against the fence with a smile on his face. But it’s not just him. There’s at least three trailers behind him, spread out, and Daryl doesn’t even have to look at Rick to know he’s about to go psycho.

Good, Daryl thinks, he’ll join him. What the fuck were you thinking, not calling for backup?

“Not exactly taking in new people right now. Supplies are…tight,” Rick lies, but you jump in, and it’s the first time Daryl has really seen how naive you are. Realizes that he and Rick have been putting you at a disadvantage - first you had your father, making all the choices for you, protecting you. And you got lucky with Rick and Daryl. Have never actually met a bad man in your life.

Just because someone is smiling, doesn’t mean they’re a good person. Are you - no, because Daryl doesn’t want to think anything mean about you, but surely you don’t think because the man standing behind the opening to the community is handsome, that he’s safe? Maybe you heard Rick talking about the community needing more men? But this is - goddamn, you have to understand that it didn’t mean letting random men into the community? At night? While you’re all alone?

They’ve got to teach you better. Daryl is kicking himself right now.

“Rick, he’s friendly. They just need a place to stay and,” Rick cuts you off, grabs you by the shoulder and pushes you behind him. Sort of rough, but in this case? Daryl is glad.

“No,” Rick says firmly, standing tall and firm. His hand is clenched into a fist so tight, Daryl worries he’s about to shatter the bones in his hand. His other hand is on his gun, and Daryl wonders where this is going to go. “C’mon,” he tells you, grabbing at your hand, but you slap it away.

Oh, you’re going to fucking get it when you’re back home. You’re going to wish Rick was the one spanking your little ass, because Daryl has never been so pissed at you.

The man at the gate laughs, tip of his bat digging into the dirt. Daryl’s pretty good about picking up vibes of people, and this person is making his stomach sink and his skin crawl. Especially when some other men from the trailers walk up.

“We don’t mean any harm,” the man says, and that’s sarcasm Daryl detects. He’s about to just start shooting, has a loaded gun on him for a reason, but then the man starts talking again. Directed at you.

“Tell your daddy what we talked about. He is your daddy, ain’t he?” He asks, another joke that you don’t understand, nodding towards Rick. You shrug, biting on your bottom lip. “No. Well, yeah. Something like that,” you reply, and before anyone can stop you, you reach around Rick to open the gate.

thoughts on a part two? 💓

437 notes · View notes

wosospacegirl · 2 days ago

Text

And they were roommates - part 10

Summary: Y/n gets injured and has to stay in recovery for 8 months. It's a good thing her friend and teammate, Kyra, is more than willing to move in with her. wink wink

Warnings: (+18) SMUT. FINALLY SOME SMUT FOR THOSE TWO!! Plus, of course, Y/n getting her cast off, Kyra coming home, and Y/n finding out about Alessia and Leah.

Word count: 9.2k

Masterlist

You can read part 1 here

“How does it feel?” Mary asked, finishing up the last of the cast removal.

Beth and Lotte sat quietly across from Y/n. Their arms crossed as they watched her carefully from the seats in the rehabilitation room.

Y/n stared down at her leg–the bad one–as she had been calling it since it broke in half almost 3 and a half months ago. The cast had been a part of her for so long, and now, with it gone, the skin underneath it felt different…foreign.

It just didn’t look like she expected. The healing process through those three months hasn’t been easy or gentle; the damage of the injury was left behind, marked on her shin.

The skin on her leg was very dry and red, a mix of scars imprinted on it– some of them from when the injury itself occurred, others from the injury.

“So, sweetheart?” Mary asked again, more gently. This time.

Y/n hesitated, almost reluctant to speak her thoughts. “It looks–” She bit her lower lip. “Ugly.”

The room was silent as the word hung in the air.

“I’m sorry?” Mary asked again, confusion evident on her face.

Lotte and Beth looked at each other, not really sure of what to say.

“I don’t like it,” Y/n said again, more firmly. “I thought… I thought it would look like my other leg.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she hated herself for it. She looked down, avoiding Mary’s gaze.

Mary didn’t say anything, slowly turning to Lotte and Beth, and silently asking for some help. Y/n needed friendly words at the moment, not medical advice.

“I have to go to the infirmary to get some cream for your skin, but I’ll be right back,” Mary said as she headed to the door, leaving the three girls alone.

Lotte, noticing Y/n’s frustration, carefully slid onto the bed next to her, wrapping her arms around Y/n’s shoulder.

“Your leg’s been through a lot, baby,” Lotte said softly. “It broke in half, it tore your skin, your muscles–”

“It was a very traumatic injury to your body,” Beth finished Lotte’s sentence. “Scars are good, it means your body was able to heal properly.”

“You’re gonna get used to it,” Lotte smiled.

Y/n blinked a few times at the two girls, feeling grateful that they were trying to make her feel better, but unfortunately, the overwhelming wave of disappointment and frustration was stronger.

She imagined the day she was going to get her cats off was going to be different.

She thought the skin underneath the cast would be completely healed, but she didn’t expect the stiffness that came when she tried to move her leg; she didn’t expect the big scar that began on her ankle and grew all the way to her knee.

She’d also thought Kyra would be here with her. She’d imagined sharing this milestone with her, Leah and Alessia. Y/n loved Beth and Lotte to pieces, and she appreciated all the things they had done for her, but it still felt like important people were missing from this moment in her life.

Beth, sensing Y/n’s discontented attitude, placed a hand on her thigh and got down on her knees in front of her, looking closer at her leg.

“I get it, she said softly.” She touched the side of Y/n’s knee on two spots, right to the left side of the patella, on the anterior cruciate ligament– ACL. “It’s not easy seeing yourself change like this.”

“But trust me, you aren’t alone–me, Viv, Leah, and Vic, we all went through it,” Beth explained in a tender voice. “The side of our knee is all patched up, the skin around it’s all rough, just like your shin.”

Y/n’s eyes flicked up to Beth, grateful but still feeling the sting of the reality set in. She looked down at her leg, tracing her fingers gently over the scar that ran from her ankle all the way up to her knee.

“Leah got the worst of our scars because her surgery was more complicated and took longer,” Beth noticed the way Y/n’s gaze lingered on the scar, her voice softening as she continued. “But we didn’t have to wear any casts, so we just watched our scar and our legs heal little by little.

“You, on the other hand,” Beth said, gently touching the skin of Y/n’s healed scar. “Had your leg hide from your view, so you didn’t get to see it getting better day by day. You only just took the cats off.”

Lotte, sensing Y/n’s unease, added with a gentle smile, “You’re not used to it yet. It’s a lot all at once. The cast is off, and now you can move more freely, but you’ve got these new scars to accompany you. It’s a lot of change in a short time.”

“I’m scared that–” Y/n had a hard time processing her words. “If the outside looks like that, then maybe I’m not completely healed on the inside too.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, sweetheart,” Mary said while walking into the room.

Y/n squinted her eyes at her, she was a hundred percent sure Mary was listening to their conversation all along.

“Your scar is a bit rough given the nature of your injury, but it doesn’t look swollen or have any indication that you won’t heal properly.” Mary got closer to Y/n, and Beth and Lotte went back to their previous seats.

Mary touched Y/n’s shin, pressing it and lifting it off the ground. “Does it hurt when I do that?”

“No,” Y/n shook her head. “It just feels very stiff, and it's kind of uncomfortable, but it doesn't hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s expected,” Mary said, tapping Y/m’s tights. “You’ll be back on the pitch in no time. Don’t let a little scar get in the middle of that, okay? I’ve treated a lot of athletes with broken bones, and most of them had a really good recovery.”

That gave Y/n a little hope. She smiled at Mary, watching her leg as she slowly moved it. Taking the cast off was one more step into her recovery; it might not be the scenery Y/n expected, but she was grateful for it overall.

Mary went to the cupboard on the other side of the room and came back with a grey shin brace. “You’re free from the cats, but this,” she pointed at the brace. “It’s going to be your new friend.”

Y/n groaned. “Bloody hell, I really thought I was a free woman now.”

Both Leah and Beth laughed at Y/n’s joke, feeling at ease that the girl didn’t seem so sad now.

“You can take it off to shower and bathe only, ok?” Mary got on her knees and put the shin brace on Y/n. “It is way more flexible and light than the cast, so you can move around and walk with your crutch all you want.”

“But I can’t have you bending your knee or putting pressure on it, alright?” Mary thighed the shin brace around Y/n’s leg, making sure it wouldn’t be loose. “And, for the love of God, don’t walk on your own, we’re keeping your crutches for a reason.”

“Do I have to wear both crutches, though?” Y/n asked. “And can I stand on my own? Or do I have to use my crutches for that too? I just–I really miss cooking,” she confessed, a slight blush on her cheeks.

“You can just wear one,” Mary said, getting up and taking a final look at Y/n. “You can stand, just try not to be up for long periods of time, we don’t want too much pressure on your leg just yet.”

“Alright,” Y/n said, looking down at her leg, now with the shin brace on, she moved it side to side, tasting the water. “Yeah, it's way better than the cast.”

Mary gave her the last bits of instructions and medical advice before telling her to come back the next day for her first session of physiotherapy without the cast.

Beth was a sweetheart as always and dropped Y/n off at her place. Y/n promised to bake a cake for her as a ‘thank you’.

Y/n waved at Mrs Petunia from her front door before heading inside her house, Footy was meowing exasperatedly as soon as he heard Y/n’s keychain.

Y/n couldn't pet him down because of the crutches, but made sure to fill his bowl with food before laying her down on the sofa and stretching her leg into a pillow.

She took her phone and quickly zoomed in on Footy before taking the picture and sending it to Kyra. ‘Son if fed’ she wrote. Kyra wouldn't reply to her until later, because, if Y/n remembered her schedule correctly, she was in a tactical meeting with her manager.

Y/n looked around the room, thinking of what she should do next. Watching TV? Too boring; reading a book? She already read all the ones she had in the house; cooking? Hmm, maybe later.

She watched her leg, moving it to the side again, making sure she still had the ability. Y/n wanted to share this moment with Kyra, but she also wanted it to be a surprise for her when she came back. Y/n still needed to tell someone about it, though… who was the chosen one?

Leah.

Y/n looked at the clock. Leah was definitely out of training by now, most likely in her room getting ready for bed–that meant playing Sudoku.

She clicked on the FaceTime app before and stared at her face, waiting for Leah to pick up. In less than a few seconds, Leah1s face was on the screen, but she looked…anxious?

“What happened?” Leah asked, Y/n could barely see her face or where she was, the lighting was horrible, and Leah was holding the camera weirdly close to her face; Y/n couldn’t see the background. “Why are you calling?”

Okay, that was too harsh even for Leah. Something was going on.

"Uh... hi to you too," Y/n muttered. "Are you busy or something?"

"No," Leah said quickly–too quickly. "Just... What's going on? Why are you calling?"

"Wow, okay." Y/n huffed. "Nice to know you care."

Leah sighed heavily. "I'm just–” she cut herself off, glancing to the side for a second before snapping her eyes back to the screen. "–sorry, never mind. What's up?"

"I got my cast off today." Y/n frowned and said hesitantly.

"That's good," Leah said, her voice clipped.

"Yeah," Y/n agreed, feeling a little deflated. "It... doesn’t look great, though."

"What do you mean?" Leah asked, still sounding rushed.

"It’s all red and stiff, and the scar is huge. I don’t know, I just thought it would look... better." Y/n paused, noticing Leah glance to the side again. "Hm, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, I’m listening," Leah snapped, her frustration bubbling over. "I just–look, your leg is fine. That’s what happens when you get injured. It’s not gonna look pretty, but you’ll be back on the pitch soon enough."

"Yeah, thanks for the heartfelt support," Y/n shot back, sarcasm heavy in her voice. "I knew I could count on you for comfort."

"I’m just being realistic," Leah said sharply. Her eyes flicked away from the screen again, and Y/n caught the shadow of movement behind her.

"Okay, what’s going on?" Y/n asked suspiciously. "You’re acting weird."

"I’m not acting weird."

"You’re literally refusing to look at me and snapping like I just insulted your mum, or something.” Y/n shot back. “You can talk to me, you know?”

"I’m just– " Leah cut herself off with an irritated groan. "Look, I'm sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to be short with you. I'm just... distracted."

"Distracted by what?" Y/n pressed.

Leah’s eyes flicked sideways again. "Nothing."

"You're a terrible liar," Y/n muttered.

"I am not!" Leah protested, her face reddening.

"You are," Y/n said smugly. "And whatever’s going on over there–it’s weird."

"It's not weird," Leah insisted.

"You're holding your phone like it's a security camera, Leah. I can’t even see half your face, mate,” Y/n said. “Look, I can call later if you want? Or maybe tomorrow?”

Just then, Y/n caught a muffled voice from behind Leah’s screen– “Tell her I have the perfect cream for the scar, baby, it’ll work wonders…”

Leah stiffened, her eyes flicking nervously to the side.

"Oh fuck…" Leah turned the camera to the side quickly, just as Y/n leaned in closer to the screen, her brow furrowed in complete confusion.

"Wait a second," Y/n said, squinting. "Is that... Alessia?"

Leah's gaze darted to the side again, her face turning an unattractive shade of pink. "What? No! You didn’t hear anything." Her voice was quick and defensive.

"Oh, I definitely heard Lessie," Y/n said, crossing her arms. "She even mentioned my scar, which–" Y/n paused, her eyes narrowing.

"–wait a minute. I did see that story Alessia posted the other day,” Y/n said, mouth open as she had an eureka moment.

“I thought you guys were on a date, but then I thought I was going crazy because…how the hell would you two be dating?” Y/n continued, everything finally making sense in her head: The story, Leah’s weird attitude, the way Less and Leah were always together and bickering like an old couple.

Leah’s eyes widened, and she quickly cleared her throat, her voice low.

"You’re imagining things, Y/n. It’s just—" She cut herself off, her frustration bubbling over, and then, she gave up, one hand coming to hold the bridge of her nose as the other one held her phone.

"I didn’t want to tell you yet, alright?” Leah continued, cranky. “Happy now?"

Y/n raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. "So you are dating." She leaned closer to the screen, amusement in her eyes. "And you're being all weird about it because Alessia’s there…look at you, Williamson, all cute and nervous.”

Leah’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, and she bit her lip, eyes flicking away, clearly embarrassed. "It’s... not what you think," she mumbled, looking guilty.

“I think it’s exactly what I think, actually.” Y/n leaned back into the sofa, grinning now that she was fully enjoying the moment.

Leah didn’t say anything, but Y/n could see her jaw tighten, like she was already regretting answering the call.

“Don’t worry, I totally get it,” Y/n continued, tapping a thoughtful finger against her chin. “If Kyra and I were on the same national team, we’d definitely be roomies. One hundred percent. No doubt.”

“In fact,” she added, voice dripping with faux innocence, “I’m just waiting until I get better so we can have a proper sleepover—me, Kyra, you, and Less! Oh, it’ll be adorable.”

Leah rolled her eyes, but Y/n wasn’t done.

“Shut up,” Leah grumbled, but instead of arguing, she tilted the camera away from her face…revealing Alessia sitting beside her.

Alessia, who was already smiling.

Leah, who had an arm casually slung around her.

“Oh, that’s so cute!” Y/n beamed, waving at the screen. “Hi, Lessie!”

Alessia laughed, leaning into Leah like this whole thing was hilarious. “Hey, Y/n,” she said brightly.

Leah huffed, clearly defeated, as Y/n grinned at them both.

Oh yeah. This was definitely exactly what she thought.

Y/n saw the screen shaking before, only Alessia's face was on the screen, the happiness on her face a clear contrast to Leah’s crumpy one. “I heard you got your cast taken off! I’m so happy for you!”

“Yeah, baby. Thank you,” Y/n said, picking up a pillow that had fallen on the floor and putting it behind her back. “I’m just with a shin brace now, but it’s way better than the cast.”

"You’re already looking way better! The brace is nothing compared to that cast. You’re gonna be back on the pitch in no time, baby,” Alessia smiled.

“Yeah, Mary told me–”

Alessia’s face was replaced by Leah, who had a clear frown on her face.

“Give me Lessie back,” Y/n said flatly. “Don't want you.”

Leah rolled her eyes. “You literally called me to talk about the cast removal.”

“And now I know to never call again!” Y/n shot back, half-teasing. “You’re grumpy, I’m not even as cranky as you are. Don’t know how you pulled such a sweetheart like Alessia.

“The same way you, the disciplined one, pulled the prankster of the team,” Leah smirked.

Y/n grinned, resting her head on the pillow, eyes glinting with mischief. "I guess we all have our types."

“But seriously,” Leah said, her tone softening. “I’m very happy that you got that thing taken off. Just a few more months until we have you running again.”

Y/n nodded, a playful glint in her eyes. “Yeah, enjoy while you can. When I get back, you won’t be the fastest on the team anymore.”

Leah chuckled. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

When Y/n woke up on the last day, she followed her routine, but this time, she realised her life from now on was going to be way easier because as soon as she stepped on the floor, she didn’t have to carry the weight of the cast all the way to the bathroom.

Instead, she grabbed her crutches, moving slowly but much faster than when she had been in the cast.

As she stepped into the shower, she took off her shin brace with a sigh of relief. No more fussing with that annoying plastic wrap to keep the cast dry!

If yesterday she had been disappointed by how her leg looked, today she felt like kissing her calf for how much better–and easy–it was to do life without the cast.

For the first time in weeks, Y/n was actually able to cook herself a full recipe–she chose pancakes! It wasn’t as difficult as before; she could easily balance herself while flipping the batter, feeling happy by the accomplishment.

She had to hide all of her excitement from Kyra- she still didn’t want the girl to know about it– when she facetimed her hours later.

“You look weird…” Kyra said, squinting her eyes and getting comically close to the camera. “What's wrong? Did something happen to Footy?”

Y/n rolled her eyes and turned the camera to the little black cat who was still sleeping curled on the loveseat by the window. “He’s fine, come on!”

“Then what is it?” Kyra pressed, raising an eyebrow as she brought a mug to her lips, drinking what Y/n thought to be coffee.

“Nothing!” Y/n said defensively, “What makes you think there’s something wrong?”

Kyra narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it. “I don't know, you just keep… showing your teeth for no reason–”

“That's called a smile, bro,” Y/n shot back, looking at Kyra emotionless.

“Yeah, but you never smiled this casually.” Kyra tilted her head, clearly intrigued.

Kyra’s gaze softened, but did not lose its suspicion. “Yeah…why?”

“I’m just happy!”

Y/n hesitated for a second before shrugging. “Can’t I just be happy?”

“Not when you’re hiding something,” Kyra leaned back into her chair, folding her arms. “Which you clearly are.”

“Ky! Please,” Y/n said, trying to think about some dumb reason to lie about, something that would actually make her happy. Something Kyra would totally believe.

“I just–” Y/n looked to her side, eyes lighting as she saw the perfect reason right in front of her. “I found a really good brand of peanut butter when I went grocery shopping with Lotte yesterday…down that little corner store I told you about.”

Kyra blinked, her expression deadpan. “Peanut butter?”

“Yeah! It’s life-changing, I swear!” Y/n said, her excitement growing, as she made up the biggest lie ever. “It’s smooth, creamy–not chunky. You know I hate when they’re chunky.”

Kyra stared at her before, brows still furrowed, “Really? That’s what’s making you so happy? Peanut butter”

Honestly, both girls had said peanut butter so many times that it was losing its meaning.

“Yes,” Y/n said, confident in her voice. “And…It’s also organic!” She added dramatically.

“Organic?” Kyra raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t all peanut butter organic?”

“No, Ky,” Y/n said, shaking her head as if she was ready to lecture a class. “Not all of them! This one doesn't have all those weird additives–it's pure peanut butter–just peanuts and palm oil. The label says the oil is ‘ethically sourced’, too.

“Ethically sourced peanut butter? What does that even mean?”

“It’s like peanut butter that is made with conscience,” Y/ns said seriously, without missing a beat. “They are processed while following rigorous environmental laws.”

“And since when did peanuts–” Kyra started, but then paused before shaking her head, “You know what? I’m just happy you‘re happy.”

They chatted a bit before Kyra had to go to training. They had only one more game to play before Kyra would go home.

If they lost to the USA, they would be placed second, and of course, the Matildas didn’t want that.

After a few more days, the SheBelieve cup had come to an end. The Matildas had beaten Colombia and Japan throughout the last two weeks, but they ended up losing to the United States team, which made them runners-up.

Kyra videochatted Y/n after the loss, clearly upset, but after a few hours talking with Y/n and her teammates, she calmed down and was able to smile a bit.

After two whole weeks without Kyra, she was finally coming home in less than an hour.

If Y/n could bounce on her feet, she would be doing that now, her eyes glued to the clock in the kitchen. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t nervous–but she was, and Y/n didn’t understand the reason why.

She was happy that Kyra was coming back home, thrilled even, but that feeling was mixed with something heavier–anxiety, maybe? Fear that Kyra would look at the missing cast on her legs and…not like her anymore.

Why would Kyra not like Y/n now that she didn’t have the cast on? No clue, Y/n couldn’t even think of a good reason, but that didn’t ease her nervousness. It’s been two weeks, and Y/n was scared that something was going to change between her and Kyra.

She and Kyra had only been together for the period Y/n had the cast on. Would things in her relationship change much? Would they change at all? Would their routine change?

There were a lot of questions running through her mind at the same time, and the noise of the clock’s hand moving was making her even more anxious.

Y/n sat on the table, smoothing down her shirt for what felt like the ninth time, her gaze flicking from the clock, to the door, to the table set in front of her.

Y/n had tried to do something different. She wasn’t very good at expressing how she felt with words, so she tried to do it with actions.

She had set the table hours ago–impatient much? Lit candles were sitting right in the middle of the table; all the lights in the dining room were turned off, and the only source of lighting came from the candles.

She had made pasta, it was easy, she didn't have to stand up for long, and it was one of Kyra's favorite dishes, so it just felt right.

Y/n had also bought wine. She actually didn’t drink alcohol–scared that the alcohol could lower her performance in the long run somehow–but today she would allow herself that.

She stared at the bottle of ‘Priorat’ sitting right beside the candle. It was a type of red wine made out of black cherries. She had bought it from a vintner, and he had said it had a tannic flavour to it.

Y/n wasn't sure what tannic was or what it tasted like.

She just hoped Kyra liked it.

Kyras was coming home. After two whole weeks without her, she was coming home.

She texted Y/n 5 minutes ago letting her know she had just got into a taxi at the airport and was on her way home. It would probably take 20 minutes before Kyra arrived.

Y/n looked down at her leg and tried to flex her ankle, like she had been doing every day since she removed the cast, just to feel the freedom of movement. It didn’t hurt–not really, but the lingering stiffness was still there.

Mary had told her it would feel like that for a good whole month, even with physiotherapy. It was just the natural healing processes of the bones and muscle fiber, but still, she wanted to be able to walk around without her crutch soon.

The notification on her phone brought Y/n out of her thoughts. It was Kyra saying she was close.

Y/n quickly went to the mirror on the far side of the dining room, checking herself one last time. Her hair was in check and her outfit too: a green shirt and white t-shirt; something easy to take off–she had to think about after dinner too.

And just like that, Y/n heard the key on the door turning.

Y/n turned around, quickly getting her crutch. She adjusted her grip. Tucking it snugly under her arms before moving toward the front door.

Kyra’s back was to her, her suitcase parked by the door as she fiddled with the lock.

Y/n didn't waste anything before she shifted her weight onto her good leg, planting her crutch firmly against the floor for balance. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Kyra from behind, pressing her face into the fabric of her hoodie.

Y/n breathed in and out, feeling Kyra’s shampoo fill her nose. Suddenly, relief washed over her.

She missed Kyra, she missed her scent, her laugh, her smile, her hugs.

Everything. But now she was here.

“Hey, pretty,” Kyra said, trying to turn around, but y/n held her tight. “I leave for a fortnight and you’re giving bear hugs now, what else? Let me guess, did your leg heal or–”

As if this was the cue Y/n was waiting for, she let loose of her hold on Kyra, letting the girl turn around. She watched Kyras' soft eyes, the way they squinted when she smiled.

Kyra didn’t notice her leg, not yet, being too occupied looking at her eyes and well, at her mouth.

Y/n quickly cupped Kyra's face and brought her to a kiss, her crush long forgotten on the floor somewhere, her only source of balance was Kyra. Y/n clutched one hand on Kyra's hoodie while the other was placed on the back of Kyra’s neck.

Kyra deepened the kiss, savouring Y/n. She noticed how Y/n was a bit unbalanced, so she held her hips and gently brought her closer.

“Hi,” Y/n said, breaking the kiss just to meet Kyra’s lips again.

She felt Kyra smiling against her mouth, that's how they should always be, together, kissing, just the two of them.

“Miss me much?” Kyra asked, kissing Y/n’s cheek, and then travelling to the girl's jaw, where she sucked the skins softly.

Y/n couldn’t help but think about how much had changed in her world since Kyra came into it–the little things, like how there were no weird jokes to laugh at when Kyra wasn’t around, or how her nails looked far less neat because Kyra wasn’t there to paint them.

“Not much, no,” Y/n teased as she lifted her neck so Kyra could have more room, her lips warm and wet as they kissed Y/n’s skin.

“That’s not what you told me the numerous times we called,” Kyra murmured, placing a hand under Y/n’s shirt on her back, scratching the spot.

“Just kiss me, please,” Y/n murmured, looking up to Kyra.

“Just because you said please,” Kyra said, smiling, kissing her back, more slowly this time, trying to show through the kiss how much she hated being away from Y/n.

Playing for Australia was always an amazing experience, being on the field wearing her country's colour was a feeling Kyra could not put into words, especially when she was doing it with players she had known since she was basically a teen.

It felt good to play again after such a long time without an international break, but man, did she miss Y/n all the time she was in the US.

Kyra missed her grumpy remarks, missed having someone telling her she should eat more salad, missed having someone to brush and dry her wet hair for her, missed the massages Y/n used to do on her feet after a long day of training.

She was just happy to be home now.

After being away for two weeks, that’s what Kyra realised Y/n’s house was: her home, especially because Y/n and Footy were in it, waiting for her.

“I always knew you had a short attention span,” Y/n said, chuckling, taking her crutch back with one hand as she took a step back to better look at Kyra. “But this is getting ridiculous.”

“Ugh?” Kyra tilted her head, like a puppy who was still learning a new trick.

“Don’t you notice… anything different?” Y/n asked, lifting her eyebrows.

Kyra’s gaze drifted down her body, scanning her up and down, observing every inch of the girl. Her eyes lingered, brow furring, like she was piecing together a puzzle. Nothing caught her eye.

Y/n facepalmed herself.

“Hmm,” Kyra said slowly, hesitating in her voice. “Your hair looks so nice… I love the new…cut?”

“Kyra, baby,” Y/n said, pointing to her leg. “Cast it off! I didn’t get a hair–”

Before Y/n could finish her sentence, Kyra had already wrapped her arms around her, lifting her off the ground and spinning her in a dizzying circle.

“What the fuck?” Kyra exclaimed against her shoulder, while still twirling her around. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Wanted it to be a surprise,” Y/n said cheekily.

“Wow–Okay,” Kyra said at a loss for words. “It worked, I’m very surprised… When did you take it off?”

“Lika last week–”

“Last week?! You took your cast off last week and you didn’t tell me!”

“Yes! That’s how you plan a surprise.”

“Your cast is off,” Kyra said once again, in disbelief.

“Yep” Y/n smirked. “and if im not misteken you said we’ll have sex once my cast was off so pretty plese can we fuck?”

“You’re so romantic, oh my god!” Kyra said sarcastically, but swiftly cupped Y/n's cheek in a deep kiss.

“But–we, hm,” Y/n tried to say between the kisses, but Kyra wasn’t letting go of her mouth, so she gently pulled her body so she could speak.

Kyra looked at her, sad, with a pout.

“As I was trying to say, first we need to eat,” Y/n said.

“I do want to eat,” Kyra said, a grin on her face, “Let me? Please?”

Y/n felt her heart skip a beat. Kyra wasn’t normally the one to say dirty things, but she always got along when Y/n did it.

So she flushed at the sudden boldness.

“I-I mean it like real food,” Y/n said.

Great, she stammered, guess that was her new personality right now.

“I made spaghetti–”

“spaghetti!?” Kyra said, losing all the devilish expression on her face, changing it to pure happiness. “I love spaghetti, baby!”

Kyra hugged her again, but more softly this time.

“I know you do,” Y/n laughed as Kyra kissed her in the ticklish spot on her neck. “Now let’s go before it’s cold.”

Kyra and Y/n stepped into the dining room. Kyra stopped, and her eyes flickered around the room. The warm light of the candles made the atmosphere of the room seem cozy.

The faint scent of something garlicky lingered in the air, it was coming from the plates already set out on the table.

“Baby!” Kyra said softly, turning to Y/n. “You did all of this?”

Y/n glanced at the table–the candles flickering gently, the wine glasses way too fancy for a casual dinner. Her face heated up; maybe she had overdone it, it really looked like a lot for just a ‘welcome home diner’.

Y/n shrugged one shoulder, suddenly finding the rug on the floor very interesting. “Just didn’t want you coming home to, like, cold pizza and soda or something.”

“It looks lovely,” Kyra said, cupping Y/n’s cheeks. “You are lovely.”

Y/n felt Kyra’s lips on her forehead, and for some reason, she felt embarrassed…exposed–like Kyra was seeing something she wasn’t ready to show–a part of her that was private, intimate.

Kyra grinned. “You know I would love some pizza. But this.” She pointed at the table, “This is amazing.”

“It’s just dinner,” Y/n said quickly, adjusting a candle that didn’t need adjusting,

“Sure, just dinner?” Kyra’s grin widening, leaning over Y/n, her breath warm against Y/n’s ear. “But a romantic one, maybe?”

“Stop it,” Y/n groaned, her cheeks on fire. “It’s just pasta and…wine.” Her eyes flickered back to the table, focusing on the stupid candle. Why had she lit them? It looked like a rom-com set up right in her dining room.

“I love it,” Kyra tugged Y/n closer, holding her by her waist. “And I love how you’re blushing right now–should've got that on camera.”

“I would never let you,” Y/n warned, but her voice lacked any real threat. She was too flustered, too warm and too aware of Kyras's smile pressing against her skin.

Y/n blushed as Kyra held out a chair for her. She almost refused–hating how formal Kyra was making it–but she didn’t want to ruin things with her grumpiness right when Kyra had just gotten home. She could handle thirty minutes.

Dinner passes in a blur of teasing smiles and that old, comforting and easy conversation Y/n and Kyra were used to.

They talked about everything that they had already talked over the phone because Kyra insisted on telling the same stories all over again, although Y/n didn’t mind hearing them, not when Kyra had that soft smile on her face the whole time.

Y/n shared about her routines, about the coffee dates with Lotte and Beth, and the video chats with Leah. How well behaved Footy was and how he had definitely not taken his well-behaved nature from Kyra.

Kyra begged Y/n to recreate that Lady and the Tramp movie scene, where both characters share one noodle, but Y/n said no grumpily, murmuring something about how each of them had a plate for a reason, all while putting hers closer to her chest.

Afterward, they ended up curled on the couch, Kyra’s arm lazily wrapped over Y/n’s waist while they shared a glass of wine.

“You don’t share food, but you share drinks?” Kyra asked as Y/n held out her glass to Kyra.

“Yes,” Y/n said stoically, feeling the warmth of the wine settling in.

“Hmm, good to know,” Kyra smiled, taking a sip. “I like it. It tastes good.”

Kyra passed the glass back to Y/n’s hands, as she took another sip, savoring it but feeling a slight tension building between them, as unspoken energy in the space.

The moment Y/n was waiting for so long was finally here.

With a confident smile, Y/n put the glass down on the coffee table and turned to Kyra, her movements slow and deliberate. She placed her hand on Kyra’s thigh as she wrapped her finger in the back of Kyra's neck, bringing her closer until their lips met.

The kiss was slow at first, Y/n was the one dictating it, turning Kyra’s face just the way she wanted while playing roughly with her tongue in a slow, but intense manner.

Her tongue brushed against Kyra’s. Tasting the lingering acidity of the wine of both of their tongues as Kyra let out a soft, almost imperceptible moan as their kiss deepened.

Y/n’s hand shifted, boldly pulling Kyra’s even closer as she pressed her body against hers. Every inch of space between them vanished in the moment.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” Y/n murmured, placing her hand under Kyra’s shirt, feeling the softness of her skin.

“Me too,” Kyra whispered, tilting her head to the side, and Y/n kissed the side of her face slowly. “So much.”

“Did you think about me?” Y/n asked, caressing her fingers through Kyra’s back, watching as the girl shivered.

Kyra hesitated, but nodded, a blush on her face.

“I’m asking you, baby,” Y/n said, her tone sternly, but the soft touches of her hands against Kyra remained the same. “Talk to me, come on.”

“I did, a lot,” Kyra purred, the fabric of her shirt bothering her; she wanted to take it off, be free of everything standing in hers and Y/n’s way.

Y/n grinned, happy with Kyra’s response.

“I touched myself every night after I took the cast off,” Y/n confessed, tugging at the hem of Kyra’s shirt, but not taking it off. “Came a hundred times on my finger thinking about you.”

Kyra’s cheek went flush, and her eyes closed. “Y/n–fuck, the things you say–”

Y/n smiled as she watched Kyra, her mouth slightly open, her hips moving in very slow and almost imperceptible movements.

“Are you horny, Ky?” Y/n asked, taking her own shirt off and throwing it somewhere in the living room.

Kyra opened her eyes at Y/n’s voice, her eyes trailing Y/n’s torso, the red bra she was wearing, how they filled it perfectly. The girl placed her hands on Y/n’s ribcage, enjoying the view in front of her.

“I-I want you,” Kyra said in a low voice, too busy watching Y/n’s tits. Kyra’s thumb softly brushing on the center of the bra, feeling Y/n’s erect nipples. “Please?”

Y/n watched Kyra up and down, Kyra’s big brown eyes watching her as if she held the world in her hands.

“Here’s what we're gonna do, baby,” Y/n said as she held Kyra’s wrists and took them off her body, ignoring the way Kyra pouted. “I’m gonna take care of you now–”

“–And then we’re going to our room,” Y/n unclipped her bra, letting it fall to the sofa before she put it to the side, just like she did with her shirt. “And you’re going to fullfill your promise of fucking me as many times as I want, alright?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kyra said eagerly, her eyes glued on Y/n’s breasts. They were soft and hung just the way Kyra liked them.

Y/n leaned forward and turned her body to Kyra, her good leg was crossed on the sofa while her bad leg was still, hanging over the sofa.

She had way more mobility since she had taken the cast off, but she still needed to be careful not to get carried away. The cast always reminded her of what movements she could or couldn't do, but now, without it–with only a shin brace on–it was easy to forget about her limitations.

“Good,” Y/n said hungrily before holding her one breast in her hand. “Now suck it.”

Kyra didn’t waste any time before wrapping her lips around Y/n's nipple, twirling her tongue around it and sucking dutifully, just like Y/n asked her too.

Kyra wasn’t expecting sex when she walked through the front door, still pretty much jetlagged. She had no clue Y/n had taken her cast off; she knew she was going to take it off sometime this month, but she didn’t know when.

As soon as Y/n showed her leg, now bare of cast, with only the grey brace on her shin, she felt a mix of emotions. The most overwhelming one was happiness.

Kyra was so proud and happy for Y/n, she was slowly going back to being who she was before the injury. She hoped that taking the cast off would get Y/n more excited. She tried to sound casual about it, but Kyra knew how much it bothered her being on the sidelines.

Although Kyra’s happiness quickly turned into something else as Y/n and she shared the bottle of wine.

She knew the moment was coming, the moment where they would finally have sex

Kyra just didn’t expect Y/n to be so intense and, well, bossy about it. She pictured their first time having sex as something sweet and slow, with Y/n and her being a bit awkward about the whole thing.

But it was far from the truth.

What they were sharing was intense, Y/n stern voice made Kyra want to drop to her knees at any time, but the slow breathing coming in and out of her nose while she sucked Y/n’s tit grounded Kyra, it made her relax, it was also…comforting, in some strange way.

Y/n caressed her thumb on Kyra’s cheek, watching Kyra's working on her tit while Kyra’s hand came to her other breast, massaging it and pinching the nipple.

Kyra had, so thoughtfully, put a pillow underneath Y/n so she could grind against it. The angle was a bit awkward since she could move both her legs the same, but the friction of the pillow was good enough to have her moaning,

Y/n took Kyra’s hand and placed them on her hips. Kyra understood right away what Y/n wanted, she kept on sucking on her tit while playing with the hem of Y/n’s shorts and so gently, helped rock the girl against the pillow.

Y/n pushed Kyra’s face even closer to her chest, holding her there by the back of her neck as Kyra’s grip on her hips became sharper. Y/n could feel her finger digging into the fabric of the shorts Y/n was still wearing.

She wanted to take her fucking shorts off, it felt so good against her clit, she coulnd’t stop now.

Y/n knew she had told Kyra she was going to take care of her, but she was going to allow herself one little orgasm, just one before they could really start.

“More, Ky,” purred, eyes closed as she felt it coming.

Kyra took her mouth off Y/n’s nipple, kissing all over her chest before pressing her chin on Y/n’s sternum and looking up to her face.

“More of what, Baby?” She asked, her grip firm on Y/n’s body, moving the girl so she could rub more against the pillow. “Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“Everything,” Y/n mumbled, starting to feel the usual warm sensation on her lower body growing. “Fuck, I-I, hmm–”

Kyra, again, obeyed Y/n. She wrapped her tongue on Y/n’s nipples again and sucked on it more intensely than before, noticing how much Y/n liked it. Her right hand was on Y/n’s back as her left hand helped Y/n ride the pillow beneath her.

Kyra felt a drop of sweet falling for Y/n’s neck and dropping slowly against Y/n’s skin. Kyra licked it, feeling the salty taste of it.

Right now, all she wanted was to watch Y/n come undone.

Kyra continued helping her move with her hands, but she placed her mouth near Y/ns ear.

“Let me take it off?” Kyra asked, tugging at the shorts.

“No,” Y/n mumbled in her usual bossy tone. “I’m almost there, ple–”

Kyra kissed Y/n deeply, twirling her tongue around, but as she got closer to being the one in control, Y/n’s hands found themself once again on Kyras face, cupping her cheeks and dictating the direction and pace of the kiss.

Y/n’s movements on the pillows got faster, and her breathing hitched as she arched her back and moaned in Kyras' mouth sweetly. They shared the same breath as Y/n came down for her orgasms, her hips still buckling.

“Ky,” she whispered against Kyra’s mouth, eyes still closed, mouth hanging slightly open. “Fuck–so good,”

Kyra kissed Y/n on the lips softly, before trailing small pecks on her forehead and then nose. Y/n had stopped moving her hips, so Kyra’s grip on her body loosened; instead of hard, her grip became comforting.

“Felt good?” Kyra whispered against Y/n’s neck, her lips leaving a heated trail down toward her collarbone, the warmth of her breath sending a wave of desire through Y/n.

Y/n didn’t respond immediately, her breath catching at the feel of Kyra's lips on her skin. Instead, she nodded, her eyes darkening with a mix of need and confidence.

Without wasting another moment, Y/n's hands slid down to Kyra's waist, pulling at her pants, a clear sign that she wasn’t going to wait for permission.

Kyra moved her hips so Y/n could fully take pants off, her underwear making its way to the floor alongside the other piece of clothing. Y/n didn’t waste any second before also taking her shorts and underwear too.

Now the only fabric between them was Kyra’s shirt. But Y/n decided to leave it on for now, wanting to focus on something else.

Y/n leaned over and kissed Kyra, biting Kyra’s lower lip gently, not sure if Kyra would like it if she drew blood, which was like Y/n wanted to do, so she chose the safe option.

“I’m gonna touch you,” Y/n whispered against Kyra’s mouth. “And I’m gonna fuck you until you’re whimpering.”

“I want that, please,” Kyra begged, feeling as Y/n cupped her cunt, already wet in need.

“I didn’t ask if you want it or not, love,” Y/n said, almost in a taunting tone. “I can feel how much you need me already.”

Y/n first circle her thumb around Kyra’s clit, rubbing it slowly and gently, tatsing the water to see how much Kyra could handle.

“Did you use your finger while you were away?” Y/n asked, pressinger her clit a little harder than before. “Did you play with your cunt?”

“Yes,” Kyra breathed, closing her arms and slowly moving her hips against Y/n’s thumb. “I-I touched myself in the shower.”

“Yeah?” Y/n teased while she lowered her fingers and gathered some wetness from Kyra’s hole before putting her attention back on Kyra’s clit. “What were you thinking?”

“Y-you,” Kyra mumbled, hesitant of her words. “You and me fucking and– touching each o–oh fuck.”

“Keep going,” Y/n said as she played with Kyra’s nipples, brushing them under the shorts while also making circles with her thumb against Kyra’s clit. “Where did we touch each other?”

“I don’t–it’s embarrassing.” Kyra blushed and shook her head.

“You can say it,” Y/n took her hand off of Kyra’s cunt. “Or I’ll stop, baby, what do you want?”

“No! Please!” Kyra begged, opening her eyes and looking at Y/n. “I want you.”

Y/n pitched Kyra’s nipple harder, her hand back on her clit, now making eight figures on it. “Then go on, tell me about what you thought while you were making yourself cum.”

“You, I was thinking about you and–” Kyra moaned as Y/n fastened her pace. “We were rubbing against each other while we, hm, fuck, touched eath other’s tit.”

“Would you like that, baby?” Y/n purred against Kyra’s ears as she lifted Kyra's shirt just enough for her to put her head under it.

She latched on one of Kyra’s nipples, sucking it hard, her thumb giving Kyra’s clit all the attention.

“Can-can i cum?” Kyra asked while biting at her lower lip, almost out of breath. “I-I need it baby, hmm, please?”

Y/n gave a kiss on Kyra’s nipple before taking Kyra’s neck, suckling on the skin until it was red, until it marked.

Kyra was so compliant that she did just that, cumming on the exact moment Y/n allowed her too.

“Yes, baby,” Y/n whispered against her skin. “Do it, let go, yeah?”

Her sweet noise filled the room as Y/n helped her ride her orgasm, still moving her thumb against the girl’s clit, trying to make her savor it for as much as she could.

“Too much,” Kyra mumbled, letting her body fall to the couch, hand on her face as she tried to get her breathing in order.

Y/n quickly cleaned her hands in one of the clothes that were on the floor before lying down by Kyr’s side, right on top of her other arm.

Y/n kissed Kyra’s arm, her shoulders and collarbone. She gently took off the hand that was covering her face, putting it to the side and watching Kyra’s face.

She looked like she just has been fucked, just the way Y/n intended.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Kyra mumbled, slight redness in her cheeks.

“But you’re so pretty,” Y/n smiled, kissing the tip of her nose. “Especially after you cum.”

Y/n very slowly made her way to Kyra’s cunt again, it was all wet and messy, still.

Kyra held her hand before she could reach further down. “Sensitive,” she said in a whisper.

“Thought you might want more.” Y/n kissed her lips sweetly. “I’ll be gentle, yeah?”

Kyra hesitated, but nodded, and when her body relaxed, Y/n let one finger slide inside Kyra’s wall. It went in so easily, she didn’t even have to work Kyra up to it. That’s how wet and ready she was.

She felt the warmth of Kyra’s walls snuggling her finger, and she couldn't help herself but add a second. This time it didn't slide in like the first, but Kyra’s body still welcomed it overall.

Y/n put her head down on Kyra’s arm, which was still stretched down by her side. In that position, Y/n could see Kyra reacting to each of her movements.

The way her eyes rolled when Y/n took her fingers out just to thrust them again, and again and again, in a slow, but deep rhythm.

“You’re so wet,” Y/n murmured, turning her head just to kiss Kyra’s shoulder. “Wish you could feel yourself right now, such a wet cunt you have.”

Y/n felt Kyra clutch around her. “Oh, you like when I talk to you?” Y/n asked, moving her finger faster.

“Y-yes,” Kyra said, moving her hips to meet Y/n’s finger at the same time. “I’m close again.”

“Already, baby?” Y/n said teasing. “But I’ve barely touched you.”

Her warm walls were clutching even more now, as if ready to cum soon. Who would know her girl was so easy to cum, huh?”

“You’re just very needy, right?” Y/n asked as she added yet another finger, moving the three of them as she heard Kyra moaning.

“I-I know, I just–”

Kyra nodded while making an indecipherable sound, Y/n could only guess it was a ‘yes’. She kissed Kyra again, hand on her cheek, turning the girl’s head more to the side so she could deepen the kiss.

She was very close, her hips moved swiftly on Y/n’s finger, her hands were lying on fists by Kyra’s side.

“I wanna see you cum again, Ky,” Y/n purred, licking Kyra’s lips as the girl moaned. “Soak my fingers, go on.”

Kyra did just that, taking her hand to her own mouth and biting it hard to muffle the sounds of her orgasms, but Y/n wasn’t having it.

She took Kyra’s hand off her face and fastened the thrust of her fingers inside Kyra’s cunt, all while sucking Kyra’s bottom lip into her mouth.

Kyra came fast, feeling her skin prick with pleasure, her hips still rutting on Y/n’s finger, trying to make her orgasm last as long as possible.

Y/n kissed her sloppy, slowly taking her fingers off of Kyra, focusing on just kissing her mouth.

“You felt so good,” Y/n whispered, her voice low and smug, pride curling at the edges of her words. She shifted closer, pressing her body against Kyra’s side, and kissed her sweetly on the cheek, before leaving a heated trail down towards her collarbone. “I wanna do it all over again.”

Kyra turned her head to the side, still breathless and lightheaded from the two orgasms Y/n had just pulled from her– both in a ridiculously quick succession. Her limbs were still heavy and her head foggy, but she still managed to reach for Y/n, fingers slipping lazily into her hair.

“Hmm,” Kyra hummed, her eyes falling shut as she felt Y/n’s breath warm against her skin. “Of course you do…you’re like…a menace.”

“No, I’m not,” Y/n murmured, her lips curving against Kyra’s neck. “I’m just efficient.”

Kyra chuckled as her hands traced a lazy circle along Y/n’s waist.

“You know,” Y/n said, her voice low and teasing. “You promised me all sex in the world when I got my cast off.”

Kyra let out a breathy laugh. “I didn’t promise all sex in the world in one night.”

“Hmm,” Y/n kissed her way back to Kyra’s neck, pausing at her jawline. “Yes, you did.” Y/n made her way to Kyra’s warm, nipping at Kyra’s earlobe gently.

Kyra shifted beneath her, and a groan slipped out — but not the kind Y/n was aiming for.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Kyra murmured.

“How?” Y/n said teasingly. “We’ve barely done anything–you are a few years younger than me, I thought your sex drive would be better.”

“My sex drive is great”, Kyra grumbled. “When I don’t have to spend nine hours crammed in a plane seat next to Steph.”

"Yeah..." Y/n said, her fingers softening against Kyra's arm. "You must be wrecked."

“I’m fine,” Kyra said through a yawn. “Just need to close my eyes for, like, two minutes.”

“So we can have more sex after?” Y/n asked smugly, “That’s still not a no.”

“It's a ‘please, let me take a nap’.”

“Fine,” Y/n muttered, flopping dramatically onto her back. “I guess I’ll just lie here…cold…unloved…”

“Bloody hell,” Kyra laughed, pulling Y/n closer and tucking her head under her chin. “You’ve gotten so dramatic while I was away.”

“You’ll learn to love it,” Y/n grinned, pressing a kiss to Kyar’s collarbone.

“Yeah,” Kyra murmured, her voice heavy with sleep. “I already do.”

Notes: 10 chapters!! 52k words for this series <3 Thanks to everybody who stuck around haha I think we have like... two/three more parts until this series is over! I know the smut wasn't very long, but there will be more in the next chapter <3

Notes 2//: Please let me know what you guys think!!!

Tag list in the comments

Masterlist

#woso x reader #woso fanfic #kyra cooney cross #woso community #kyra cooney cross smut #kyra cooney cross x reader

292 notes · View notes

cloudyluun · 21 hours ago

Text

Perfectly Imperfect

Summary: Y/N and Harry share a quiet, intimate evening, wrapped up in each other’s warmth. When Y/N tells him she’s ready, Harry treats her with endless patience and love, making sure she feels safe every step of the way. Though the moment isn’t perfect, it’s theirs.

A/N: My loves!! 🥹💗 This one is so soft and intimate, and Harry is just the sweetest, most patient angel!! I wanted this to feel real, full of love, trust, and tenderness. As said in this request. I hope it makes your heart all warm and fuzzy!! Thank you for reading, and sending you all the biggest hugs!!

Word Count: 3,8k

Warnings:

Explicit sexual content

Loss of virginity

Pain/discomfort during sex – Mention of initial discomfort, burning sensation, and difficulty adjusting.

Tears/emotional intensity

Blood mention – Small amount of blood described.

Consent-focused interaction – Constant verbal check-ins and reassurance.

Aftercare – Detailed care and comfort post-intimacy.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The evening was slow, unhurried in the best way. The kind of night where the outside world melted away, leaving just the two of them wrapped in the golden glow of soft lamplight and the warmth of each other's presence.

Harry’s apartment felt impossibly cozy, plush cushions, blankets piled on the couch, the distant hum of a carefully curated playlist filling the quiet spaces between their words. The scent of something faintly sweet lingered in the air, remnants of the dessert they had shared after dinner. A movie played on the television, the volume low, but neither of them were really paying attention.

Y/N was curled up against Harry’s side, her legs tangled with his, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns over his forearm. It was such a simple touch, but it meant everything. She could feel his steady breathing, the occasional squeeze of his fingers against her thigh, the way his thumb ghosted back and forth over her skin in a rhythm that felt instinctual. She felt safe. And that was what mattered most.

The thought had been lingering in her mind for days, maybe weeks—long enough for it to take root, for it to grow into something more than just a fleeting idea. At first, it had been just that: a thought, a possibility that she had entertained but wasn’t quite ready to act on. But things had changed. Harry made her feel different.

It wasn’t just the way he touched her, though that was part of it—the way his hands never wandered without purpose, how he always seemed to ask permission without words. It was the way he looked at her, like she was something to be cherished, something precious. It was the way he spoke to her, soft and patient, never pushing, never demanding.

And that’s how she knew she was ready.

The words formed in her throat before she could second-guess them. Soft, hesitant, but certain.

“I think I’m ready.”

She felt the way Harry stilled beneath her. Not tense, not alarmed, just still. He processed her words in real time, a slow blink, a small inhale, before shifting to look at her fully. The flickering light from the television cast delicate shadows over his face, but she could still see everything—the concern in his eyes, the way his brows twitched like he was about to ask a million questions at once but held himself back.

His fingers found her cheek, brushing along the curve of her jaw, tilting her chin just enough that she couldn’t look away. “Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper, a careful thing.

Y/N swallowed, nodding. “Yeah.”

Harry’s thumb ghosted over her bottom lip. “You’re sure?”

She could hear the weight behind his words. He wasn’t asking for reassurance for himself—he was giving her an out. An opportunity to change her mind, to take a step back if she needed to. There was no rush, no expectation. She didn’t hesitate. “I want this. With you.”

A slow breath left Harry’s lips, his shoulders deflating, like he had been bracing for something else. His fingers curled around her cheek, his palm warm and grounding. He studied her for a moment longer, searching for any flicker of doubt, anything that would make him pause. But all he found was certainty. He nodded, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her skin. “Okay, love.”

There was a pause, a shift, like something in the air had changed between them. The unspoken tension from earlier—the one that had settled between their bodies, lingering just out of reach—was now tangible.

But this time, it wasn’t uncertainty. It was anticipation.

Harry let the silence stretch between them. His fingers traced along her jaw, slow and reverent, his gaze never wavering. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and it wasn’t just about the way she looked. It was everything—her trust, her vulnerability, the way she was giving this part of herself to him without hesitation.

Y/N’s breath hitched as his lips brushed over hers, soft at first, just the ghost of a kiss. A question. A promise.

Then he kissed her again, deeper this time, as his hands found her waist, pulling her just a little closer. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing. Every movement was measured, deliberate, designed to make her feel safe, cherished. His fingers traced the hem of her shirt, a silent request, and when she nodded, he lifted it over her head, discarding it somewhere behind them.

His lips barely left hers, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat. “So perfect,” he whispered against her skin. “So good for me.” His words sent a shiver through her, warmth pooling low in her belly.

She felt the roughness of his calloused fingers against the soft skin of her waist, sliding up, teasing along the underside of her breast before finally—finally—brushing over her nipple. She sucked in a breath, her body arching instinctively into his touch.

Harry groaned, low and deep. “Love the way you react to me.” He rolled the sensitive peak between his fingers, watching the way her lips parted, her lashes fluttering.

He leaned down, taking her nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking over it just to feel her shudder beneath him. His free hand splayed across her back, grounding her, keeping her close.

Y/N let out a soft whimper, her fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against her skin. The sound went straight through her, making her thighs clench around his waist.

But Harry wasn’t done taking his time.

He eased her down onto the couch, kissing a slow path down her stomach, his fingers working on the waistband of her leggings. “Lift your hips for me, baby,” he murmured, and she did, letting him pull them down along with her underwear in one smooth motion.

A flush spread across her chest, warmth crawling up her neck as she laid bare beneath him. But she wasn’t nervous. Not with him.

Harry settled between her thighs, pressing a kiss just above her knee, then another, trailing higher and higher. “Been thinking about this,” he admitted, voice husky. “Been wanting to taste you.”

The words sent a fresh wave of arousal through her, and Harry must have noticed because he groaned, his fingers gripping her thighs just a little tighter.

Then he kissed her there—soft at first, just a teasing press of his lips against her.

Y/N gasped, her back arching as his tongue traced along her folds, slow and deliberate. He was savoring her, taking his time, learning what made her sigh, what made her whimper.

He flicked his tongue over her clit, drawing a sharp inhale from her lips. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his breath hot against her. “Let me hear you.”

She had no control over the sounds slipping from her mouth as he worked her, his tongue alternating between soft, teasing licks and firm, focused strokes. Her thighs trembled, her fingers twisting in his curls, pulling him impossibly closer.

Harry moaned against her, the vibration making her hips jerk. “Fuck,” she whimpered, and he hummed in approval, gripping her thighs tighter as he devoured her.

The pressure built quickly, heat coiling in her stomach, her body tensing with the impending release. “Harry”

“I’ve got you, love,” he soothed, pressing his tongue flat against her clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles until she shattered beneath him.

Her thighs clenched around his head as pleasure flooded through her, her entire body trembling as he guided her through it, his hands firm on her hips, keeping her grounded.But he didn’t stop.

She barely had a moment to catch her breath before he was kissing his way back up her body, dragging her onto his lap. “Again, baby,” he murmured, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her to straddle his thigh.

Y/N’s head was spinning, but the need in his voice, the sheer adoration in his eyes, made her move. She pressed herself against him, gasping at the pressure, at the way his hands steadied her, encouraged her. He guided her movements, slow and steady, letting her find her rhythm, his lips brushing against her ear. “Take what you need, sweetheart.”

And she did. She rocked against him, chasing the friction, feeling the heat build all over again. Harry’s hands never stopped moving—trailing up her back, gripping her waist, tilting her hips just right. His lips were everywhere—her neck, her shoulder, her jaw—whispering sweet praises against her skin.

“That’s my girl.”

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.”

“Let go for me, baby.”

She tumbled into her second release with a soft cry, her body shuddering against his. Harry held her through it, his arms wrapped tightly around her, pressing soft kisses to her hair as she came down.

Breathless but still sure.

The weight of the moment settled between them—heavy in the best way, filling the space with warmth and something almost sacred. Y/N’s body was still trembling, her mind hazy from pleasure, but even through the overwhelming sensation, she knew this wasn’t the end.

Harry knew it too.

He was still holding her, his hands gentle as they traced slow, soothing patterns across her back, grounding her. His lips ghosted over her temple, murmuring soft praises that made her chest tighten with something unspoken. “So perfect,” he whispered. “So good for me.”

She melted into him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him—clean and warm, mixed with the faintest hint of cologne and something entirely him.

His hands skimmed down her sides, resting on her waist as he shifted beneath her. She could feel him—hard and heavy, pressed between them, the evidence of just how much he wanted her. And she wanted him, too.

She swallowed, her heart pounding as she lifted her head to meet his gaze. There was something unguarded in his eyes, something raw and devastatingly tender.

“I want you,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening on her hips. “Are you really sure?”

She nodded, her hands coming up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”

His eyes searched hers, looking for even the slightest hesitation. But there wasn’t any.

Still, he didn’t rush. He never rushed with her.

Instead, he shifted, gently guiding her onto her back, settling between her thighs with deliberate slowness. His lips found hers again, softer this time, reverent. Like he was memorizing her, mapping out every part of her he hadn’t already claimed.

His fingers trailed down her body, brushing over her stomach before dipping lower. He slipped two fingers inside her, moving slow, preparing her all over again, making sure she was ready.

Y/N whimpered, her hips rolling instinctively toward his touch. “Harry,” she gasped, fingers clutching at his biceps.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “Just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“I am,” she breathed. “I promise.”

He hesitated for only a moment longer before finally reaching between them, lining himself up. The tip of his cock brushed against her entrance, already slick and glistening from how worked up she was.

But even with all the preparation, she still felt tight, still felt that flicker of nervousness.

Harry noticed instantly.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. He nudged in just a little, barely entering her, letting her body adjust at her own pace.

The stretch was more intense than she had expected. A sharp, insistent pressure that made her body go rigid beneath him, her fingers gripping onto the sheets as she tried to will herself to relax. The initial burn spread through her like a slow-moving flame, and instinctively, her thighs clamped tighter around him.

Harry felt it immediately—the way she tensed, the way her breath hitched, her entire body instinctively fighting against the intrusion. He froze, one hand coming up to cup her cheek, thumb stroking softly over her heated skin. “Hey, baby,” he whispered, voice drenched in tenderness. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then another to the tip of her nose, his lips featherlight. “You’re doing so good for me, so good. But we can stop. Anytime, okay? Just say the word.”

She shook her head, a small, shaky breath escaping her lips. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted this—with him. She had thought about this for days, weeks even, and she had never felt safer with anyone than she did now. Even through the discomfort, the unfamiliarity, there was nowhere else she would rather be than right here, wrapped up in him, giving him this piece of herself.

“I want this,” she murmured, voice soft but resolute. “I trust you.”

Something shifted in his gaze then, something warm and reverent, like he was seeing her in a way he never had before. He nodded slowly, dipping down to capture her lips in a kiss so sweet it nearly made her melt.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against hers. “We’ll go slow. You just tell me what you need.”

And he did go slow, agonizingly so. He rocked forward just an inch, letting her adjust, then another, always watching her face for any sign of hesitation or discomfort. His hands never stopped moving, fingers tracing idle patterns along her hips, massaging gently at her sides, keeping her grounded in him, in this moment.

But it still hurt. Even with all the patience in the world, even with how careful he was, the stretch was relentless. Her nails dug into his shoulders, holding onto him like an anchor, her breath uneven.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes before she even realized they were there. Not because it was unbearable, not because she regretted it, but because it was overwhelming—the weight of it, the intimacy of it. The sheer vulnerability of it all.

Harry noticed instantly. He always did. His expression crumbled, something pained flashing across his features before he dipped his head down, brushing his lips over her damp cheeks, kissing away the evidence of her struggle.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered against her skin. “I know, I know. ‘M so sorry. Just breathe, baby. Breathe for me.”

A sudden sting bloomed deep inside her, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers tightening their grip on him as her body fought to adjust.

Harry froze. “Fuck,” he breathed, his voice tight with restraint. “Sweetheart, I—shit, I know. I know. ‘M so sorry, baby.”

A flicker of red smeared where they were joined, a tangible mark of this moment, of what she had given him, something so fragile and precious. His jaw clenched at the sight, guilt flashing across his features even though she had reassured him over and over that she wanted this. That she had chosen this.

He tried to move, to ease some of the pressure, but the second he did, she let out the softest wince, her body recoiling slightly. His forehead dropped to hers, breath shuddering.

“We don’t have to make this perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “We can stop, baby. Right now. It doesn’t have to be anything more than this.”

She blinked up at him, her vision still slightly blurred with unshed tears, but she shook her head. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to push through, to move past the discomfort and settle into this feeling of being so wholly his.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Just... give me a second.”

He did. Of course he did. He stayed still, his body barely moving, his weight supported by his forearms so he wouldn’t press down on her too much. He let her adjust, let her breathing steady, let her decide when she was ready. His lips never left her skin, pressing slow, reverent kisses along her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Soft praises spilled from his lips, each one more patient than the last.

And when she finally felt ready, when the sting dulled into something more manageable, she gave him a small nod.

“You can move,” she whispered.

Harry exhaled slowly, as if he had been holding his breath this entire time. His hips rolled forward, just the tiniest bit, testing. His touch was delicate, his movements careful, like he was afraid of breaking her. And maybe, in some way, he was.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t some earth-shattering moment of pleasure, some blissful crescendo of passion. She didn’t come this time, and that was okay. He didn’t make her feel like she had to. He just held her. He kissed her. He told her how proud he was of her, how much he loved her, how beautiful she was like this, bare and vulnerable in his arms.

And when it was over, when he finally pulled away, his first instinct wasn’t to take care of himself, but to take care of her. He kissed her forehead, brushed the damp strands of hair from her face, whispered, “You did so good for me, sweetheart.”

And she believed him.

Her body felt different, tender, a little sore, but wrapped in a warmth that had nothing to do with the sheets tangled around them and everything to do with him. She barely noticed the way her breath still came unevenly, her muscles weak and trembling, until Harry was shifting beside her, brushing the back of his fingers down her cheek.

“Let me take care of you, love.”

She didn’t protest when he pressed another kiss to her forehead and slid out of bed, moving with quiet purpose toward the bathroom. The distant sound of water running filled the air, accompanied by soft rustling—cabinets opening, bottles clinking together. The warm, floral scent of rose and vanilla drifted into the room, and her lips curled into the faintest smile.

He was drawing her a bath.

The realization sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing over her, something deep and overwhelming settling in her chest. She’d always known Harry was thoughtful, always so gentle and attuned to her, but this—this was something else entirely. This was devotion.

By the time he returned, she was blinking sleepily at him, her body too heavy with exhaustion to move. He chuckled softly, crouching beside her, brushing a few damp strands of hair away from her face.

“Come on, sweetheart. Bath’s ready for you.”

She let him lift her, his hands strong but careful as he carried her to the bathroom. The air was warm, steam curling through the soft candlelight, and the sight that greeted her nearly took her breath away.

The bathtub was full, the surface of the water dotted with delicate rose petals, their deep crimson and soft pink hues floating amidst the gentle foam of bubbles. A few flickering candles lined the counter, casting a golden glow over the space, the light catching on the deep amber bottle of bath oil he’d added to the water. The scent of roses was richer here, blending with the faint traces of lavender.

She turned to him, her heart swelling. “Harry…”

“I wanted to make it special for you, baby.” He ran a soothing hand down her back. “You deserve it.”

Carefully, he helped her into the warm water, easing her down as her sore muscles sighed in relief. The heat wrapped around her like a cocoon, soothing the ache between her thighs, and a soft moan of contentment slipped from her lips.

Harry smiled, his dimples peeking through as he knelt beside the tub, rolling up the sleeves of his t-shirt. “Feels good, yeah?”

She nodded, already sinking deeper, letting the petals drift lazily around her arms as she closed her eyes for a moment.

Harry didn’t just leave her there. He stayed, always so present, his fingers tracing along her arm before he reached for a soft washcloth. He dipped it into the warm water, then ran it over her skin, slow and reverent, as if cleansing her was an act of worship. He worked gently, wiping away the lingering remnants of sweat and love, murmuring sweet praises all the while.

“So beautiful.”

“M’so proud of you, angel.”

“Love you more than anything.”

His voice was a balm, each whispered word soothing her more than the water ever could.

At one point, he reached for the bottle of shampoo, pouring some into his palm before working it through her hair with practiced ease. His fingers massaged her scalp, and she sighed, tipping her head back slightly as he washed away the remnants of the night with the same patience and tenderness he had shown her in bed.

When he was done, he kissed her temple and whispered, “Stay as long as you want, sweetheart. I’ll be right here.”

But she didn’t want to stay in the water forever—not when Harry was waiting for her.

When she finally let him help her out, he wrapped her in a thick, fluffy towel, pressing a kiss to her damp hair as he whispered, “Let’s get you comfy, yeah?”

Back in the bedroom, he dressed her in one of his oversized shirts, the hem brushing just above her knees, the fabric swallowing her up in a way that made her feel impossibly small and safe. He tucked her into bed, then climbed in beside her, pulling her against his chest.

His arms curled around her, holding her close, his fingers drawing slow, soothing patterns on her back.

“D’you need anything, baby? Water? Something to eat?”

She shook her head, sighing against him. “Just you.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly, his lips pressing to her forehead. “Always, love.”

As her eyelids grew heavier, she heard him whisper one last thing against her skin, a quiet promise she knew he would always keep. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles

182 notes · View notes

matt-murdockk · 20 hours ago

Text

Sweet Nothing

pairing: matt murdock x reader

words: 5.1k

warnings: cussing, slow-burn, angst if you really squint but it's just fluff mostly, lack of proofreading (rip), pretty descriptive making out

summary: This is the story of how Matt Murdock met the love of his life one fateful day at the NYPD precinct.

a/n: guess who finally learned out how to make emdashes on Mac— hehehehe. some fluffy slow-burn for you <3 (i tried not to use pronouns for the reader but I'm so sorry if i accidentally used she/her anywhere)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While Matt was charming, romantic, and thoughtful, historically— he hasn't been the best at relationships. Flings were okay, short-term was fine, but a proper relationship? Matt didn't think he deserved to be in one until he met you.

To him, you were a breath of fresh air from all his previous exploits. Elektra was a rush of adrenaline, a thrill, certainly an experience, but he knew he didn't like the side of him that she brought out. Karen was too close a friend to lose over a relationship and Claire, well, he had way too much respect for her, he wouldn't do that to her.

You, on the other hand, were what he swore was the right person at the right time. The right amount of calm and the right amount of chaos. He didn’t go looking for you. But you found each other anyway— almost by accident, almost like it was fate.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A regular phone call from Brett Mahoney about a possible case for Nelson & Murdock brought Foggy and Matt to the precinct one day. From outside, Matt quietly observed you before going in. You were in the holding cell, handcuffed, busted lip, and bruised knuckles. For all that you looked like you'd been through, Matt noticed that you were oddly calm.

Brett opened the door to let Matt and Foggy inside, the confusion in your face did not go unnoticed by the people in the room. "10 minutes, Foggy." The door shut behind him as he left, giving them a knowing look.

"You know it, Brett." Foggy helped Matt into his seat and took the empty seat beside him.

"Miss (Y/l/n), my name is Matt Murdock, this is my associate Foggy Nelson." Foggy gave you a half wave and smiled.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Before we begin, have you been assaulted while in custody?"

"No, I have not. Listen, I didn't ask for a lawyer."

"We understand that you have been accused of assaulting a police officer. You have opted not to seek legal representation, is that right?"

"First of all, there has been a huge misunderstanding. Secondly, I still don't know why you're here, Mr..."

"Murdock," he reminded you.

"Right. Murdock. Sorry."

"We run a practice at Hell's Kitchen. Our firm is interested in representing you. And please, call me Matt," he clarified, presenting a warm, genuine smile.

"Well, Matt, while I am certainly thankful for your interest in representing me, I'm sorry to disappoint you, I don't need a lawyer."

"Trust me, you're going to," he said, amused at your confidence that you'll be fine.

"Oh, I know, I just already have one."

"Well, our job here's done. No cigars for Bess next time," Foggy retorted, as he got up, ready to leave.

"Foggy, sit down. Miss (Y/l/n)—"

"(Y/n), please."

"Very well. (Y/n), I understand that you already have representation. Probably from a big-time firm with 5 times the number of defense attorneys than we do. But here’s the thing. Those firms? They see cases. Numbers. Profiles. Headlines. They’re already calculating how your situation fits into their win column. I don’t work like that. My firm doesn’t work like that. We don’t take every case. We don’t chase the press. What we do is show up— completely. We sit down, we listen, and we fight like hell for the people who trust us. No fluff. No posturing. Just the work, and the truth, and someone in your corner who actually gives a damn about what happens to you next. So if you want the machine— fine. But if you want someone who’s going to look past the charges, past the headlines, and actually see you? Then you want Nelson and Murdock."

"Wow, okay, so, great sales pitch, love the energy, I really do. There's just one problem."

"What is it?"

"My boss is already on his way to represent me."

"I'm sorry— Boss?" " Yeah, what is it you do, exactly?" enquired Foggy.

"I'm a senior associate at Pearson Hardman."

"Well, that crashed and burned splendidly. Happy now, Matthew? We're poaching clients now. Oh and not just from any firm. No, sir. From Pearson fucking Hardman, Unbelievable."

"Foggy, it's okay. So, (Y/n), is your boss any good? Or..."

"I work for Harvey Specter."

"And that's our cue to leave."

Matt finally admitted defeat and got up to leave, following Foggy who was already at the door. While he was certainly ambitious, he knew he couldn't compete with that.

"Thank you for your time, (Y/n)."

As Matt turned toward the door, he caught the subtle quickening of your heartbeat— hesitant, uncertain, like you were rethinking your decision. His hand was just about on the doorknob, ready to leave but not quite gone, when your voice stopped him.

“Wait.”

Out of your line of sight, he let the faintest smirk curl at his lips. He just loved being right.

“What is it?” Matt asked, turning back to face you.

You hesitated for a beat, eyes flicking between him and Foggy, then down to your bruised hands in your lap. “I... I want you guys to represent me.”

Foggy blinked, taken off guard. “Really? Just like that?”

You exhaled slowly, the edge of defiance in your tone softening into something a little more tired. “Let’s just say… I’ve worked long enough at firms that care more about damage control than people. I don’t want a firm that’s already prepping their PR statement. I want someone who’ll actually give a shit.”

Matt nodded once, quietly. His expression didn’t change, but there was something solid behind it. Something settled.

Foggy let out a low whistle, then grinned. “Well… welcome to Nelson & Murdock.”

Cut to a little while later— Nelson & Murdock office. You, Matt, and Foggy sat around the table, the arrest report open in front of you. The air buzzed faintly from the overhead light, the hum of late-night tension settling over the room.

Foggy skimmed through the statement again, frowning. “Okay. Walk us through it. From the top.”

You leaned forward, elbows on the table, tone clipped but calm. “I was on the subway platform. Late. Waiting on the C train. There were maybe three other people around, none of them close.”

Matt tilted his head slightly, tuning in. Not just to what you were saying, but how you said it— measured, unflinching. No panic. No dramatics. Just facts.

“This guy comes over, starts making small talk. I make it clear I’m not interested. He doesn’t take the hint. Gets closer. I step back, tell him to stop. He grabs my wrist.”

“Forcefully?” Matt asked.

“Firm enough that I couldn’t just shake him off,” you replied. “So I pulled away. He grabbed me again. That time, I reacted. Hit him once, hard, in the face.”

The rhythm of your pulse didn’t spike when you said it. No guilt. Just certainty.

Foggy nodded slowly. “And then?”

“He goes down, pulls out a badge. Says he’s NYPD. I get cuffed.”

“He never identified himself before that?” Matt asked.

“No. Not verbally, not visually. No badge, no warning. He was in plainclothes, no backup, no indication he was on duty.”

Matt exchanged a look with Foggy, then turned his attention back to her. That steady confidence. The way you answered questions like you were already anticipating the next three.

“That’s a serious problem for their case,” Matt said, flipping through the paperwork. “Use of force in response to a perceived threat is protected— especially when there’s no identification of authority.”

You shrugged. “It won’t stop the department from backing him, though.”

Matt’s brows lifted just slightly. YOu knew exactly how this would play out— too many steps ahead for someone just hoping to walk out clean. You were smart. He liked that. Maybe more than he should.

“No,” Foggy agreed. “But it gives us a strong narrative, especially if we can get security footage or eyewitness statements from the other people on the platform.”

There was a beat as Matt closed the folder and set it aside.

“You’re sharp,” he said, more thoughtful now. “You know the statute, you know your rights, and you’re quoting case law off the top of your head.”

You looked at him, just a little amused. “That’s because I’ve spent years doing the same thing you do.”

A flicker of something moved across Matt’s face. He leaned forward just slightly.

“Why exactly are you not representing yourself?”

You smirked. “Because representing yourself while you’re the one in custody is a logistical nightmare. And because even good lawyers know when to bring in reinforcements.”

Foggy shook his head, amused. “Okay. That was... a good answer.”

You smiled, leaning back in your chair. “Now let’s go win my case.”

Matt smiled slightly. “Glad you picked us.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They won.

Not easily, and not without a few uphill battles, but the charges didn’t stick. Between the platform security footage, two credible eyewitness statements, and some rather unflattering internal complaints about the arresting officer, the case quietly unravelled in court. Matt made his arguments clean and precise. Foggy handled the media brushback with that classic Nelson charm. You? You sat through the whole trial stone-faced and unshakable— until the verdict came in, and Matt swore he could hear the way your shoulders finally loosened.

You kept in touch after that.

Not constantly, no regular meetings or phone calls— just the occasional email. A few sarcastic text exchanges. One time, you sent Matt a voicemail of you laughing because Foggy had apparently called you "the one that got away." Matt saved it. He never said that part out loud.

It was about six months later when Foggy floated the idea.

“We could use another good lawyer,” he told Matt, over a plate of lukewarm takeout. “She’s smart, she’s sharp, and she gets us.”

Matt didn’t disagree. He didn’t say much at all, really. But the next morning, you got a call from him— short, polite, a little too formal— inviting you to "grab a coffee and talk opportunities."

You left Pearson Hardman three weeks later.

Karen was the first to greet you when you walked through the door on your first official day. She had already cleared space on the shared bookshelf, left a fresh legal pad on your desk, and warned you not to get caught in any of Foggy’s snack traps. You settled in like you were always meant to be there.

The four of you fell into rhythm faster than expected— late nights, tight wins, inside jokes. Karen became one of your closest friends before your second week was out. Matt had a habit of lingering in your doorway on the days he claimed he "wasn’t eavesdropping," but his smile always gave him away. You pretended not to notice. He pretended not to care."

The firm did better that year than anyone had predicted.

And you? You’d finally stopped feeling like just another cog in someone else’s machine. You felt like you were home.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late.

Most of the lights in the office were off except for the one at Matt’s desk, and the faint glow of your screen across from him. Karen had bailed with a yawn and a pointed “Don’t stay too long, you two.” Foggy left not long after with a granola bar and a salute.

Now, just you and Matt.

A few open case files, cold takeout, empty coffee cups.

“Your typing slows down when you’re annoyed,” Matt said, breaking the silence without looking up.

You didn’t even pause. “Your voice gets smug when you’re fishing for attention.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Because it’s not flattering?”

“Because I don’t need to fish for attention,” he said. “Not when you give it up so easily.”

You looked up, unimpressed. “Oh no. You have caught me.”

“Seriously, that's how you respond to my flirting?”

You closed your file and leaned your elbows on the desk. “I didn’t realize ‘mild workplace bullying’ counted as flirting now.”

Matt tilted his head, listening closely. “That wasn’t a no.”

You smiled. “Murdock, if I were flirting, you’d know.”

“Oh?” he leaned forward, just slightly. “Go on, then.”

You mirrored the movement. “You sure you want to start something you can’t finish?”

His smile flickered into something smaller, quieter. “I’m not worried.”

“You should be.”

The banter fizzled for a second into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Just... full. Like both of you were waiting to see who would blink first. Then you reached for the leftover fries between you.

“See, this is where you should’ve swooped in and offered to share,” you said, picking one up.

“I was being polite.”

“You’re full of it.”

Matt chuckled, leaning back in his chair again. “You make work a lot harder than it should be.”

You smirked. “If you’re blaming me for your lack of focus, I feel like that’s a you problem.”

He tapped a knuckle against the folder in front of him. “Pretty sure you’re a walking conflict of interest.”

“Oh, I am,” you said, popping a fry into your mouth. “But you already knew that.”

Matt bit back a smile, quiet again. Listening. After a moment, he said, “You know you could’ve gone back to a hundred bigger firms. Why stay?”

You glanced at him, surprised by the shift in tone. “Because this place feels like... me. Like it's mine, you know?”

Matt nodded slowly. “Feels like mine, too.”

There was something honest in his voice when he said it. Something unguarded. And for a beat— just a beat— you weren’t just two coworkers trading late-night barbs. You were something else. Something that lived in the space between laughter and hesitation. He broke the silence first.

“If you keep looking at me like that, Karen’s going to start planning our engagement party.”

“She already has,” you said. “She’s terrifying.”

He laughed, bright and real. You laughed too, leaning forward again, close without touching. And that was it. Just a moment. Not a confession. Not a move. But later, walking home, you’d think about it again— about how easy it felt, how his voice softened just for you, how neither of you pulled away.

Matt sat at his desk long after you left.

The city hummed outside the windows, faint and familiar— footsteps, traffic, a distant siren splitting the air somewhere on the west side. The kind of night New York never ran out of. But his attention was still in the office. Still in that moment.

You’d laughed. That real kind of laugh that started in the chest and softened everything around it. And for a second, he wasn’t Daredevil or Matt Murdock, the guy with a double life and a thousand reasons to keep people at arm’s length. He was just a man sitting across from someone who made him forget about all of it.

He hadn’t expected you. Not just the sharpness, or the way you fit in so seamlessly, or how you never once treated him like he needed to be handled. It was the way you challenged him. Matched him. Made the air feel lighter, even when the work was heavy.

And tonight— he’d heard it in your heartbeat. That shift. That hesitation. The quiet hope. It mirrored something in his chest he didn’t want to name. Because if he named it, it would be real. And real things could break.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. He’d been careful. Always careful. With you, maybe too careful. Always toeing the line between professional and personal, between harmless teasing and something far messier.

But tonight? Tonight, the line blurred. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way you said this place felt like yours. Like you’d claimed it. Like you belonged here— next to Karen, Foggy... and him.

Matt had spent most of his life believing that the things he loved either left or got hurt. And yet, here you were. And he was terrified. Because the thought of you staying scared him more than the thought of you leaving.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wanted something he couldn’t fight for in court. Couldn’t earn by bleeding for it.

He just... wanted you.

And wanting had never ended well.

He leaned back in his chair and turned his head toward where you’d been sitting hours ago, the ghost of your laughter still echoing softly in the corners of the room.

He didn’t know what came next. But for the first time in a very long time, he hoped. And that was dangerous.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Matt had been trained to keep things close to the chest. To be quiet. Composed. Measured. He’d made a whole life out of it— knowing exactly how much to say, how much to feel, and how much to hide. But lately? He was starting to slip.

It started with small things. Lingering a second too long outside your office. Finding reasons to walk the long way around the building just so he wouldn’t pass you in the hallway. Not looking up when you said his name. Not teasing you like he used to. It was subtle. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But Foggy? Foggy clocked it immediately.

“Are you avoiding (Y/n),” he asked one day, without even looking up from his sandwich, “or just trying to die alone with dignity?”

Matt didn’t dignify that with a response. Which, of course, was the response.

He tried to get a handle on it. He really did. But every time you walked into the room, something short-circuited in his chest. It wasn’t just the way your laugh stuck with him hours later, or the way you challenged him in court, or how you always saved the last of the coffee for him without saying a word. It was everything.

It was the way being near you made him feel like maybe he was allowed to want more. And that terrified him. So he did what Matt Murdock always did when he felt too much— he shut down. Smiled less. Talked less. Pulled back.

From your side, it made no sense. One minute, Matt was your closest friend at the firm— bantering with you over contracts and flirting shamelessly during late nights at the office. And then suddenly, he was stiff. Cautious. Civil, but distant. Like someone had flipped a switch and now you were radioactive.

You asked Karen once if you’d done something. She blinked, confused, then immediately said no. Foggy just smirked and shook his head like he knew something he wasn’t telling.

It wasn’t until the case came in that everything started to unravel.

A mugging gone wrong. Client said Daredevil saved her. That wasn’t unusual, not in Hell’s Kitchen. But Matt had disappeared halfway through the intake. No explanation, no warning.

When he came back, he looked… off.

There was a stiffness in his step. His jacket was damp. You noticed a bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw, half-hidden beneath his collar. And the excuse he gave? It was nothing. Too easy. Too rehearsed.

That was the first moment you really looked at him. And from that moment on, it didn’t stop. You started noticing everything.

It started small. A scrape on Matt’s knuckles one morning when he swore he just "bumped into a railing." A bruise along his jaw two days later that hadn’t been there the night before. The fact that he always knew when sirens were about to pass. That he sometimes winced at conversations happening across the street and flinched when someone behind him opened a soda can too loud.

The way his hands sometimes trembled when he thought no one was watching. The bruises that never quite added up. The way his hearing— his attention— seemed to stretch too far, too focused. His absences. His silences.

You weren’t stupid. You were a lawyer, after all-- your entire job revolved around reading people, noticing what others missed. So you paid attention. Not obsessively. Not yet. But enough. Enough to clock that he disappeared some nights without explanation, always coming back the next day with a carefully worded excuse and that same “don’t ask” look in his eye.

And then came the clincher.

A client— a woman being threatened by her landlord— was suddenly protected. Completely. No restraining order had gone through. No legal intervention. But the man stopped showing up. Cold turkey. When you asked, she just said, “That guy in the mask. The Devil. He said I’d be okay.”

You stared at her.

Later that night, while Matt was in his office pretending not to eavesdrop, you walked in and dropped the case file on his desk.

“She said ‘the Devil.’ Not a devil. The one. Hell’s Kitchen’s own.”

Matt didn’t look up. “Lot of people throw that name around.”

“She also said he was calm. Polite. Knew her name. Said she had nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

He was quiet.

You folded your arms. “She said he didn’t sound scary. Said his voice was warm.”

That made him pause.

“You’re not even going to deny it?”

Matt finally leaned back in his chair and sighed. “...hi?”

You blinked. “Hi?”

He shrugged. “It’s concise.”

You just stared at him.

“Matthew,” you said flatly. “What the fuck.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“When? When I saw you parkour off a fire escape in a three-piece suit?”

“I— look, I didn’t want this to change anything. I didn’t want you to change how you looked at me.”

“Look, I’ve been working beside you for over a year. And you didn’t think, at any point, to maybe mention that you moonlight as a one-man SWAT team?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Well, good job, Matt. Really nailed it.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then leaned forward slightly, voice lower. “Listen, I know you're upset. I would be too. I didn’t tell you only because I care about you. Because this thing, what I do— it’s brutal. And if anyone ever found out how much you mean to me...”

You blinked. That shut you up. For a second.

“Oh, so I mean something to you now?”

“I think that’s been fairly obvious.”

Matt noticed the way your heartbeat changed when he said you meant something to him. He figured this was a bad time to bring it up, although he smiled to himself at what that meant.

“I’m not mad that you’re Daredevil.”

That made him pause.

You went on. “I’m mad that you didn’t tell me. That you didn’t trust me enough to know. But... I get it. I really do.”

Matt didn’t say anything. Just listened. Really listened.

“You protect people. That’s who you are. And I don’t mean the mask or the fists or any of that— I mean you. The guy who goes to court for tenants getting pushed out of rent-stabilized apartments. The guy who sits through paperwork and trials and still somehow finds time to help people when the system doesn’t. So yeah, I get why you kept it quiet. I would’ve done the same.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this.

You stepped a little closer. “Would it have been easier to hear it from you directly? Sure. But I also understand why you didn’t. You’re trying to keep people safe. That’s kind of your whole thing.”

“I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

You gave him a look. “Matt. I’m a defence attorney in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m already in danger.”

He huffed a laugh, tension slipping just slightly.

“And besides,” you added, “it’s not like you told everybody.”

Matt winced. “Karen and Foggy know.”

“Splendid,” you muttered. “I’m last to know. That feels great.”

He opened his mouth to explain, but you waved him off.

“It’s okay. Really. I get it. You didn’t think I could handle it, or maybe you were just scared of what it would mean. Either way, I want you to know I still look at you the same way. Hell, I think I respect you more now."

His expression softened— like something in him untangled all at once.

“And Matt?” you said, quieter now. “I'm still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

That undid him more than any kiss could have. Matt Murdock was already in love with you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks passed. Then months.

You slipped into the parts of his life he never thought he'd share with you— quiet nights on the couch with cold tea and warmer glances, half-finished cases strewn between your desks, your voice low and steady on the phone as you helped him stitch up a gash at 2AM because Claire was out of town. You didn’t flinch at the bruises anymore. You stopped asking where they came from. Not because you didn’t care— because you knew he’d tell you if he could.

You joked that you were his unofficial dispatcher. He joked that you were the only one keeping him alive. It was good. Better than good, most nights. You were steady, sharp, present in a way that grounded him even on the worst days. You kept him tethered.

But even the strongest anchor can’t keep something from drifting if the pull is strong enough. It had been building.

After a particularly brutal stretch— three back-to-back nights of Daredevil coming home bleeding and bruised, a botched sting, a kid who didn’t make it— Matt changed.

He got quieter. Tense. He stopped calling when he was out late. Stopped dropping by your place after patrols. Stopped letting you patch him up. When you showed up with food one night and found his apartment dark, he didn’t even text to say thanks. You let it go. Once. Twice. Then you stopped letting it go.

It was almost midnight. The city was soft and silver around you, the streetlamps humming like old secrets. You’d waited for him— on the pavement outside the office, case files abandoned inside, takeout cold and forgotten. When he finally turned the corner, hoodie up, bruised along the cheekbone, your blood was already simmering.

You stood before he could say anything.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Matt paused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit,” you said. “You’ve been dodging me for weeks. You come back barely stitched together, and suddenly I’m a stranger? What, I only exist when you need to be sewn back together?”

“You knew what you were getting into.”

That hit harder than it should’ve.

You crossed your arms. “I told you I could handle this. That I was here because I wanted to be. You don’t get to push me out every time things get hard.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “I never asked for your help.”

You stared at him. “Wow.”

“I didn’t,” he said, voice lower now. “You inserted yourself. You wanted this. You stayed.”

“Because I care about you, you idiot,” you said incredulously.

He looked away. “If this isn’t working for you—”

“Don’t,” you warned. “Don’t turn this around on me.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

You flinched. “So that’s it? You’re just giving me an out?”

“I’m saying,” he said, sharp now, “if you don’t want to keep doing this, you can stop. I’m not going to hold you here.”

Your chest burned. “Right. Got it. Loud and clear, Murdock.”

“Good. Glad we're on the same page.”

"Fine."

“Fine.”

You turned. He turned. The silence between your retreating footsteps felt louder than anything either of you had said.

You made it maybe ten steps before you turned on your heel. At the same time, Matt doubled back from the other end of the block. You both stopped mid-step.

“This is stupid,” you said.

“I know,” he echoed.

You walked back to each other like it hurt to be apart even for that long. Stopped just a few feet shy of touching.

Matt ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. Then, after a second— calmer now, but still visibly unraveling— he said, “You do realize what’s going on, right?”

You tilted your head. “You mean us shouting at each other in the middle of the street like deranged theatre kids?”

He gave you that small, crooked smile, the one he only let slip when it was just you. “I mean this,” he said, gesturing to the space in between you.

A beat. Then you laughed, soft and breathless. “Oh yeah. For two Ivy-educated lawyers, we are extremely oblivious people.”

“Painfully,” Matt said, taking one slow step closer. “Embarrassingly.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding. “Do we keep pretending? Or...”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh, thank god,” you whispered.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t hesitant. Wasn’t cautious. It was months of built-up tension, late nights, shared space, quiet devotion, and almosts finally snapping into something real. His hands cupped your face. Yours gripped the front of his jacket. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for permission— and now that he had it, he wasn’t wasting time.

Before you could breathe, your back hit the wall. The brick was cool, sharp against your spine— nothing compared to the heat of him. His mouth crashed into yours, rough and hungry, all the restraint he’d held onto suddenly gone.

You gasped, and that was all he needed. His body pressed flush against yours, arm braced beside your head. One hand slid down, catching your waist and holding you there like he wasn’t letting go anytime soon. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging. That made him groan— low and quiet and right against your lips.

The kiss deepened— messier, more desperate. He was everywhere. Warm mouth, steady grip, chest rising hard against yours. You barely registered the moment your hand slipped beneath his jacket, over the fabric of his shirt, just needing to feel something more. When you finally pulled back— barely— your forehead rested against his.

“That was…” you started, still catching your breath.

Matt laughed, voice rough and low. “Yeah. That was.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “We are going to be so annoying now.”

He grinned, thumb brushing along your jaw. “We already were.”

158 notes · View notes

noperopesaredope · 2 days ago

Text

I already wrote a similar posts on how fics of this nature annoy me, but I would like to push it further by saying that while I am fine reading it, I feel kind of weird about fics where the clones like Cody are constantly taking care of and basically babysitting their Jedi General or acting as a major emotional pillar for them.

I think the reason it makes me so uncomfortable is that not only are the clones already going through their own extremely horrific shit, but the Jedi are their superior officers and have a lot more systemic power over them. I will never stop saying that the clones are slaves, and while I don't see the Jedi as being their enslavers, I do think that they are essentially in a "master" position of power whether they like it or not. So it feels weird when the Jedi are more dependent on the clones and the clones need to basically take care of them and are always needing to look after them.

I'm a half-black American who is very passionate about African American history and anti-black systemic issues. And I can't help but be reminded of the tropes involving black characters whose are constantly forced into what is basically a caretaker role for white characters. Think of the Mammy, or the Black Best Friend, or the Magical Negro. The clones are already oppressed, already marginalized, and already forced to constantly back up and support the Jedi in charge of them. And then they are forced to be their Jedi's babysitter on top of all that.

Helping their Jedi out and generally caring about their wellbeing on places like the battlefield? Yes, that can be very sweet and often involves a lot of emotional care and trust.

Needing to force their Jedi to take care of themselves even off the battlefield and having a whole system/thing about how the Jedi "never take care of themselves and simply need the clones in order to do basic self care and not overwork themselves all the time while being oh so self-sacrificial"? Slightly weird and honestly seems to be the other way around based on both canon scenes and their respective circumstances.

I feel like perhaps part of this is just a general desire for angst and classic whump tropes, and sometimes it seems to be used as a way to showcase, "see! The Jedi do care about their troopers!" It seems like an example of the Jedi taking on the caretaker position and being the ones to protect the clones. But it almost always ends up resulting in the clones being forced into a support/caretaker role even when it seems like the Jedi is playing the role of caretaker.

Now, I don't think fics that follow this overall concept are super problematic or whatever. I also think some dynamics like this can work, such as with the Padawans and the clones (though that is for very specific reasons). I really don't want to spread too much negativity or say that anyone who writes this stuff is automatically racist or whatever. It's more of a personal discomfort/distaste than anything and people can write whatever they want, especially since I know the intent behind these tropes are often sweet in nature.

But I do think it's good for us to reflect on the parallels the clones have to real life issues and the way certain harmful tropes and mindsets can be perpetuated through metaphorical allegories (whether intentional or unintentional), and discuss the way we as a fandom treat the power dynamics between the clones and Jedi, especially in regards to things like shipping.

I don't know if I'm making any sense, but please tell me what you think, especially since I think it would be a good thing to talk about.

#star wars #star wars clones #star wars the clone wars #sw tcw #sw the clone wars #clone troopers #tcw #star wars tcw #the clone wars #commander cody #clone commander cody #obi wan kenobi #codywan #power dynamics #tropes #fandom tropes #yeah this is mainly about codywan but is also tied to my other post that is a bit similar in nature

153 notes · View notes

knight-of-the-graces · 3 days ago

Text

The two of them stare at Jimmy, who opens and closes his moth like a, well... like a fish.

"N- no."

"No?" Pix challenged. "But-"

“No I’m not, right?" He shrinks in on himself, no longer meeting their eyes. "The Codlands doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t steward the land, I've lost my connection to it. So no, I'm not an Emperor.”

The air goes quiet. Even without knowing what kingdoms made up the old empire, she of course knows how they fell. She knows about The Rapture. A miles-wide nuclear explosion at the heart of the continent, the kingdom it was detonated in leveled to the ground in seconds. Outwards the shock wave spread, shattering the earth in all directions. The ground gave way to chasms, molten rock erupted from the core, and the rivers and ocean receded. Crops burnt, buildings toppled, the sky was blotted in ash, and the Kingdoms of the Old Continent, only having started to recover from blight, fell one by one to pestilence and ruin.

She knows about The Rapture, everyone does. Even those who didn't pay attention in history class usually tuned in for this chapter. If not for the destruction, then for how it started. Following the imprisonment of a demonic threat to all the land, a ceasefire between two warring nations is cautiously left instated. One nation is a center of industry, powered by smoke and redstone and led by a genius inventor. The other a small seaside kingdom, their leader a punching bag with little power over the fate of his nation. The underdog leader meets in his enemy's capital, hoping to establish peace after decades of war. The inventor agrees, enthusiastic to stop the fighting. After much discussion and debate, the two are seemingly ready to finalize the decision. In an act of trust, the inventor leads the underdog into the heart of his city, where an impossible reactor pulses with the energy to power the whole of the nation. The doors close behind the two and... only minutes pass before it all ends.

She knows about The Rapture. Twelve whole nations brought to ruin, all because of the cowardly Seaside King who wanted just once to be the sole arbiter of fate.

Wait a minute.

Shelby takes a step back, the tension making it feel like she's walking on a wire. There's no way, right? She didn't just have tea with the man who caused the apocalypse? Pix watches her connect the dots in her head and follows her suit, stepping away from the fish man.

"No, you're not an emperor anymore. None of your fellow emperors were in power for long after that day. The Rapture ended your era in minutes. The Old Continent was devastated. And before us, Shelby, is the very man who pushed the button."

She watches Pix take another step back, eyes focused on The Codfather. His left hand slowly reaches behind his back, hiding a splash potion being pulled from his inventory. His right hand at his side, but readied to reach for the sword in his inventory. Oh no. She turns back to Jimmy. He's bristling, shoulders heaving with heavy breaths. Oh no.

This just got very dangerous, didn't it. Pix is speaking to her in a low voice now, and she can hear the fear he'd been suppressing.

"Get ready to cast something or run."

Shelby tries to think of what she could do, what she should do. Things were moving too fast. Her stomach starts to go sour. Pix has quickly raises his voice again, shouting now. "Why did you do it? Why did you destroy all you had, just for the chance to feel power beyond your fellow rulers?”

In a split second, a lot of things happen. The Codfather, now shaking, makes a sudden move towards them. Pix launches the fizzing potion and jumps back, preparing for the worst. And Shelby, in a moment of pure stress, pulls out her wand and casts the first spell she can think of. Two bubbles, shimmering iridescent, form around both The Codfather and her and Pix. The thin glass of the potion shatters against the opposing bubble's outer edge, dull purple vapors dissipating harmlessly. The two stop and stare at Jimmy, who'd fallen forward on his knees. It takes a second for them to realize. He's crying.

Shelby dissipates the spell. She takes a step forwards, despite Pix's nervous stare. One more step, then another, until she is crouched before the Ancient Cod King, tears making soft plaps upon the mud. He doesn't take notice, wide eyes staring at the dead air in front of him. His breaths are quick and shallow, with each one making his chest shudder. Oh no, this is bad for different reasons now. Quietly, cautiously, she starts talking.

"Hey Jimmy? This is Shelby, your friend. I need you to take a deep breath in, okay? Just one long breath"

It takes a moment, and she isn't sure Jimmy heard her at first, but the short shallow breaths are eventually replaced by a single, clumsy inhale.

"Good. Now try and breath out, slow and steady."

The exhale is wheezed out, snotty and gross. But calmer. They go through the exercise a few more times. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale, until the steady breaths no longer need instruction. Jimmy is still crying but his eyes have focused again, now looking at the ground beneath him. Shelby is suddenly aware of the freezing-cold mud soaking through the knees of her overalls. Jimmy gives a shaky breath.

"...I- I can't remember. Which one of us pressed that button? I didn't- I... neither of us wanted what..." His arms wrap around his head. "We thought we had really reached peace. That we were all headed for an age of prosperity.... that's all I wanted."

The two of them sit in silence, save for the soft pitter of tears and the buzzing of mayflies deeper in the swamp. There's a squelch of mud behind them as Pix walks over, a water bottle and towel in his hands. Jimmy takes the towel, tissue sized in his hand, and starts to wipe his face. Pix, unsure how to start, kneels into the mud as well.

"I'm... sorry how that happened. That must've been awful to live through. I... I suppose history isn't fair to those not there to write it."

He stops there. History remembering Jimmy as a monster isn't the issue at hand right now. Instead they let Jimmy cry as much as he needs to. Shelby thinks about it, how accidentally being involved in the ending of the world would feel. She thinks about the old ruins in the forest by her hometown, the ravines carved into the earth just outside the Witch's Academy's campus. She thinks about her blunder with her potions hut, how she had ended a tiny part of the world right there.

She thinks if she survived causing the apocalypse, she would crawl into a hole and sleep forever as well.

After a few minutes, the tears are all out of Jimmy's system. He sniffles, wiping his eyes with the towel one last time.

"M' sorry about that. I, um..."

"Hey, it's okay. You, uh, really seemed like you needed that cry, huh?" Shelby stands up, offering Jimmy her hand. He takes it, but gets up on his own since she's too short to offer leverage.

"I think... that's probably enough stress for today." Pix pulls out a shulker box, carefully packaging his books and papers now that he has ample time to. "How about we go someplace with a bit more room and a bit less mud? I'll be honest, I had Joel on stand-by in case things got too out of hand." He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "I... I seriously thought there was no possible way it could be you, but I called Joel just to calm my nerves. I didn't want the situation to get dangerous." The shulker closes with a click.

"With that aside, Stratos should be spacious and comfy enough to accommodate you until we can build you a proper house. How's that sound?"

Joel's empire was, in fact, spacious and warm and much less muddy. And while the god was at first annoyed that "back-up" meant offering a room to the potential murderous fishman he was warned about, he soon determined the situation wasn't anything worth worrying about to him.

For the first night in many, many nights, Jimmy slept in a bed instead of a hole in the ground. And though he didn't let himself dream yet, he had to admit it was a lot more comfy up here.

Swamp Duo AU: Part 8

8/9 - (FIRST) (<PREV<) (>NEXT>) (AU MASTERPOST)

(Ao3 LINK)

"Well," Pix starts, shuffling the many books and papers bundled in his arms. Shelby quickly places a table of wood planks over the mud, upon which Pix hefts the academic mass onto with a heavy thump. Shaking the strain out of his arms, he carefully begins organizing them, setting most of the articles to the side. What remains in the center is a maroon colored tome, not especially thick but fitted with large pages. Imprinted on its cover, the words "Art of the Pre-Ruinous and Ruinous Eras: a Documentation of Historical Works."

"Shelby I’m not sure how much you know about the Old Continent’s empires. Where the northern region of the Seareach Peninsula is now, on its western coast. That is where the Codlands once was.”

“A kingdom built into the swamps and salt marshes, home to slime farmers and fishermen. Curiously, the majority of its citizens were not human, but are referred as cod in most documentation. There is evidence of massive aqueducts throughout the Codland’s capital through which aquatic life theoretically could traverse the city. It brings the question though, why would cod desire to build a governed kingdom, on land no less? And how could they have constructed it?”

“The answer, as hypothesized today, is that there was some kind of influence that drew the cod to that area. An offspring of an ancient leviathan, said to have walked out from the tide and built a kingdom upon the marshes. So if my suspicions are correct…" Shelby follows his gaze upwards, from the book's art onto Jimmy's pale face.

"Codfather, Emperor of the Codlands, one of 12 Emperors of the Old Continent. That's you, right?”

The two of them stare at Jimmy, who opens and closes his moth like a, well... like a fish.

"N- no."

"No?" Pix challenged. "But-"

She knows about The Rapture. Twelve whole nations brought to ruin, all because of the cowardly Seaside King who wanted just once to be the sole arbiter of fate.

Wait a minute.

"Get ready to cast something or run."

"Hey Jimmy? This is Shelby, your friend. I need you to take a deep breath in, okay? Just one long breath"

It takes a moment, and she isn't sure Jimmy heard her at first, but the short shallow breaths are eventually replaced by a single, clumsy inhale.

"Good. Now try and breath out, slow and steady."

"I'm... sorry how that happened. That must've been awful to live through. I... I suppose history isn't fair to those not there to write it."

She thinks if she survived causing the apocalypse, she would crawl into a hole and sleep forever as well.

After a few minutes, the tears are all out of Jimmy's system. He sniffles, wiping his eyes with the towel one last time.

"M' sorry about that. I, um..."

"Hey, it's okay. You, uh, really seemed like you needed that cry, huh?" Shelby stands up, offering Jimmy her hand. He takes it, but gets up on his own since she's too short to offer leverage.

"With that aside, Stratos should be spacious and comfy enough to accommodate you until we can build you a proper house. How's that sound?"

For the first night in many, many nights, Jimmy slept in a bed instead of a hole in the ground. And though he didn't let himself dream yet, he had to admit it was a lot more comfy up here.

#empires smp #empires smp season one #esmp s1 #codfather jimmy of the cod empire #empires smp season two #esmp s2 #great witch shelby of the evermoor #empires season one and two #esmp s1 & s2 #To Be Tagged #cydanite's swamp duo au #tw depression #just to be safe #archaeologist pix of the ancient capitol #some AMAZING art and art history #empires worldbuilding #technically

281 notes · View notes

stawberrymiko · 15 hours ago

Text

𝙱𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙺 𝙾𝚁 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴? || 𝙹𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙾𝙳𝙳

⋆°𖦹 CHARACTER: Jason Todd

ᶻᶻᶻ SYNOPSIS: The start of your relationship was rocky and on the verge of ending. But one night changed it all.

₊ ⊹ AN: Love how well you can know a character without touching the fandom. So he will DEFO be outta character.

People have claimed that Jason is a tentative and caring boyfriend. Which, I can see. Later in the relationship. When he learnt to open up to you. When he learnt to trust you with handling his heart. When he realised you were there for him and that you handled his panic attacks with gentle hands.

But prior to that? I believe your relationship was rocky at first.

Arguments started over small things like who you were hanging out with, to major things, like why he stayed out late at night. Not returning until the crack of dawn. This was before you knew he was Red Hood.

Police had been called to your apartment a few times from concerned neighbours. Wincing whenever a door slammed or preparing to knock the door down when they heard your screams. But it never got physical. Jason always left before his urge to throw something or harm someone got overwhelming. He never wanted you to fear him.

Hurting you was the last thing he wanted to do.

Your relationship at first would be on and off. Some weeks you would be fine and happily living in the same apartment, other times you would be at each other's throats and either one of you would spend a couple of days away from one another for days, sometimes even weeks.

What flicked the switch?

A bath.

A drunk bath to be precise.

It was your turn to leave the apartment for a couple of days, and during those days you and your friends had gone out to get your spirits back up. You were young, you shouldn’t spend your young days rotting away in your bed being swallowed by your own self-pity. You should be out there, in the clubs, drinking like there was no tomorrow, having a good time with your friends.

That’s what tonight was.

You went out with a few friends, drinking a little bit past your limit. Everything was going swell, until that random cloud of depression hovered over you, ruining your mood. It came from nowhere, but it wasn’t going to be leaving anything soon.

Your senses were going off like crazy. The neon lights had gotten ten times brighter, irritating your eyes. The pop music that blasted from the club's speakers rang in your ear, your patience thinning. What pushed it were the bodies of strangers pushing up against you, no space to move around, the heat off their body made you feel warmer than you were.

You couldn’t handle it anymore.

Turning to your friend, you yelled over the music “I’m going home”.

Your friend frowned. “What?! Why?!” She yelled back.

”It’s getting too cowarded!” Without explaining yourself further, you pushed past the coward and towards the exit. Your friends yelled behind you, their words never reaching you, the music muffled them out.

Jason didn’t have patrol tonight, nor did he have any plans, so he was sitting on the sofa watching a tv show both you and him had started the week prior. He didn’t watch the new episodes, he wanted to wait for you to come back, so he watched the old ones. Kinda of like reminding him of what had occurred so when the day rolled around when you both finished it, he wouldn’t be sitting there confused.

The climax of the episode was slowly creeping up when the door to their apartment had gone off. Someone was knocking. “Fuck sake” Jason mumbled under his breath, pausing the episode.

Knock-Knock-Knock

”yeah, yeah, I’m coming” Jason called out, his hand reaching out for the door knob and twisting it, pulling the door back.

He was expecting a neighbour, not your drunk self. He was taken back. It had been four days since you both last saw each other, probably the shortest distance in the relationship. “[NAME]” He sounded surprised. He was surprised.

He was expecting you to yell at him. Saying why he was there and that he shouldn’t be in the apartment. Or make a remark on how he wasn’t out in the night, doing god knows what. But, you didn’t. You stood there, your body swaying left to right, left to right softly. A look of sadness and distance lingered in your eyes.

What happened?

”. . . .Can I come in?” Your worlds took him back. He had to repeat the words to make sure he wasn’t hearing things.

”You. . want to come in?” You shared an apartment, so of course you were allowed in without having to ask first, but it still caught him off guard. You never asked to come back, you just walked in and pretended like nothing happened.

”I- I understand. . .if I can’t”

”No. No. Uhm. . come in” He stood to the side, allowing you into the apartment.

He took notice of how you dragged your friend along the floor. You scanned the apartment, as if you had never been there before. You were acting odd and it started to worry him a little. Jason walked to your side, his hand hovering over your back, uncertain if he would be allowed to touch you right now.

You seemed so vulnerable.

Without warning, or preparation from his end, you turned to look at Jason, tears welling up in your eyes. That got him acting. “Woah. . what’s wrong?” He held his arms out, one arm in front and the other behind. A support system in case you fell either way.

You inhaled a shaky breath. “I. . .I want a bath” Your voice was cracking. He could tell you were holding back some tears and possibly a sob too. But. . .he found the request a bit random. You wanted a bath? But, you were on the verge of tears. Why would you be on the verge of tears?

”Okay. Yeah. You can take a bath” How does one respond in this situation?

Your foot stomped on the floor, taking the man back. You just. . .stomped your foot. “I want. .” You took in a shaky breath. “I want you. . to make it!” You were giving out, but why?

Typically, Jason would get irritated by this and yell back at you. He would say you were being emotional and irrational. You were being childish. But he didn’t this time. He couldn’t find it in himself to yell at you. He just simply nodded his head. “Ye. .yeah. Okay”

Jason took you to the bathroom, sitting you on the toilet while he ran the bath. He used his hand as a way to check the temperature of the water. Not too hot, but hot enough that you'll relax and maybe even calm yourself down. “Okay. Uhm. . .I’ll be outside” Jason left to give you privacy, but stopped mid way when he felt a tug on his shirt.

You were holding onto the hem of his shirt, tugging it to bring him back to you. “Stay. . “ It came out barely audible. So small.

Something was clearly wrong with you, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that was wrong. You were sad, no doubt about it, and intoxicated. But what occurred for your mood to dip so low. You weren’t a sad drunk, emotional maybe, but not a sad drunk. It was unusual behaviour.

”You want me to stay?”

”Yes!” He heard the crack in your voice. You were about to cry, and that was the last thing he wanted to deal with at this moment.

Jason obliged. He stayed. He helped undress you and take the make-up off your face before you stepped foot into the bath. He sat himself on the toilet, watching you. You were slumped in the tub, your arms resting on the edge of the tub and your head resting on your arms. Your eyes were distant. Mentally, you weren’t here.

Silence fell between the two of you. Not awkward silence, but comfortable silence. Silence where you could do your own little thing. Silence that fell between you both a lot during the first couple of weeks into your relationship, even before your relationship. There were moments where you both would be doing your own thing in the same room, in complete silence.

”Jay?” The silence broke. Jason hummed in acknowledgement. “Can you. . .wash my hair?”

Wash your hair? Can’t you wash your own hair? Why did you want him to do it?

Saying nothing, Jason got up from the toilet and sat on the edge of the tub, freezing slightly when you rested your head on his lap. His trousers were getting soaked from your hair, but he didn’t mind it right now. He could always wash them after.

Jason squirted shampoo onto his hand, settling the bottle beside him. He rubbed his hands together before working on your hair, rubbing the shampoo into your locks. He gathered your hair into his hands, rubbing it into the lather on your scalp before letting it fall naturally, shampoo bubbles getting on his trousers.

A content hum raised from your chest. A wave of tranquility washed over you as you allowed yourself to sink further on Jason’s lap.

When you weren’t fitting, it was moments like these that you cherished. Moments like these remind you how little you two actually fought. Moments like these got you walking back to your apartment after spending a week away from him, realising just how much you truly missed him.

Moments like these got you thinking. “Jason. . “ You spoke again, eyes opening. The hum from Jason was a sign he was listening, so you continued. “Why. . . do we fight?” You asked the risky question. The question that could spark a new fight. A fight where he may leave the apartment.

You didn’t want that.

Jason thought about the question. He knew why. It was because of him. He kept things from you. Kept who he was from you in fear you would run away or look at him differently. He kept himself at a distance from you, believing it was protecting both you and him.

But it was at this moment, when he was washing your hair with you using his thigh as a pillow, something clicked.

He wanted this relationship to work. You had poured your heart and soul into the relationship, only to meet with a wall. An obstacle. A divider between you and him.

Whatever it was that had gotten you upset tonight, it led you here. You could have gone home with your friends, but instead you walked back to the apartment. In the moment of need, you thought of him.

”I’m. . .scared” vulnerability.

It was the first time he showed you any form of vulnerability. It felt weird, unnatural. He didn’t like it. “Lean back.” He was going to rinse your hair.

You turned your head, your chin now resting on his thigh. Your eyes locked with his. A look of admiration and genuine affection swirled in them as you spoke. “I’ll hold your hand” You reached out, taking his soapy hand away from your hair.

”We’ll be scared together”

#ᝰ.ᐟ Cakes Imagines #Jason Todd #Jason Todd imagine #Jason Todd x reader #Jason Todd x you #Jason Todd fluff

113 notes · View notes

hobivore · 3 days ago

Text

Transient | LMH

— Lee Minho x reader (f)

Growing up in the casino business, you—now standing at the head of your family’s imperium—know all the tricks of the trade. Rule number one: don’t gamble. It would be such an easy rule to follow if it weren’t for your company’s most trusted lawyer, Minho Lee, who loves nothing more than to raise the stakes.

AU/Trope: lawyer!au, smut (minors DNI)

Warnings: sub!minho, rope bondage, sensory deprivation (blindfolding), impact play (face slapping), wax play, knife play, one small drop of blood, choking, spitting, light cockstepping, no aftercare, power dynamics, complicated ‘relationship’ (two people using each other because they’re bad at feelings)

WC: 4.8k

A/N: This piece was originally uploaded to my old sideblog linoguistics and written for the s! week sub!skz event by @skzseasons, check them out for more. Many thanks to the wonderful @hesperantha for beta reading. ILY!

— SKZ masterlist | Ask box

“Will that be all, boss?”

Boss. The word ricochets against his teeth and rolls off his tongue like a caged bird set free. Only Minho Lee could make a title sound like that: like a prayer, a taunt, a pet name, a challenge.

The tilt of his head tells you he already knows this isn’t all. Of course he knows; it’s nearing 1 a.m. on a Tuesday, and you wouldn’t have him come over to your apartment only to deliver you the most recent news on the acquisition of Full House Entertainment. Sure, it’s an important step for your company, but acting the herald is way below his pay grade.

No—Minho is here for something else entirely, and his feigned innocence is all part of this cat and mouse game the two of you have been playing for years now.

He waits for your answer, shoulders straight, something subversive to the set of his mouth. You let your gaze travel down his figure, stretching out the silence until it thickens the air with tension. Your fingers play with the silver necklace around your neck, lingering on the edge of your collarbone, and he swallows.

You suppress a chuckle at the familiar, telltale sign betraying him. In a way, you and Minho have grown into your roles in the company alongside each other. It had been your father who had hired him—although he probably wouldn’t have, had he known the man would end up in his daughter’s bed—when Minho was fresh out of law school, stiff-collared, hungry, ready to take on the world.

To Minho’s credit, he remains still, and when your eyes meet his again you see a hint of that same fervour behind them. But rather than a spark of wildfire, it’s the burning of a furnace; calculated and controlled, white-hot.

“Drink?” you inquire, more command than question, walking towards the cabinet and opening a whiskey decanter. He follows your movements, watching closely. Even when you turn around to pick up a glass you know his gaze never travels below your shoulders. His self-restraint is admirable.

“Tell me,” you hand him his drink and he takes it, clinking the edge of the glass against yours. “What do you think of Nick Blake?”

Minho narrows his eyes. “He’s a fool.”

Nick Blake is the current chief financial officer of Full House Entertainment. You’ve been told that although he may be new to the position, he shows promise, so you tilt your head in interest at Minho’s response.

“I’ve heard other things.”

Minho swirls the liquor around in his glass and shrugs. “Whoever you heard that from is wrong. You should’ve asked me.”

You raise an eyebrow at his brusque tone. Few men would have the guts to say something like that to your face—or behind your back, for that matter. But Minho has never been anything but forthright with you, quickly becoming one of your most trusted employees. And he knows it; knows he can get away with a lot more than the average member of your staff.

You decide to challenge him, to push back a little and see if he stands his ground. “Last time I checked, this was my company. I’m perfectly capable of deciding who to seek out for counsel.”

“It is. You are. But none of us benefit from mistakes. I don’t trust him.”

You sigh. Ever since you took over from your father the company has grown explosively. The profits are great, but with diverse lines of business comes an increased difficulty in oversight. You find yourself needing to rely on others more and more—something you don’t particularly like.

“So you think I should fire him?”

Minho takes a swig of his whiskey, eyes meeting yours. “I don’t know, aren’t you the boss?” he retorts, defiant, one brow raised.

You snort—an ungraceful sound—and he grins. You put your glass down on the cabinet and give him a small nod. “Thank you for your honesty. I will reconsider Blake’s position.”

A silence falls between the two of you, not unwelcome, some of the earlier tension permeating the air again as your eyes fix on the curve of his cupid’s bow. The anticipation feels familiar in a way that puts you at ease, makes you relax.

Minho is not the type for small talk and useless chatter. It's one of the things you like about him; he's astute and straight to the point. He doesn't waste your time.

And unlike most others he doesn't try to flatter you. It's a welcome change from the sycophants that come with your position. Instead, Minho has always relied on his wits and his sharp tongue. Navigated his way through the muddy water of rules and regulations until he knew them like the back of his hand. Knew how to bend them and how to break them.

There was a certain softness to him at first, back then; but much like you, he’s always been quick to adapt, quick to change.

You don’t pry into his personal life. You don’t ask and you don’t care. Just like you don’t care how he gets things done as long as he does them—because you know he always delivers, one way or another. He doesn’t keep to his luxurious office, preferring the grimy underbellies of your casinos instead, not afraid of getting his hands dirty.

Still, it’s all too easy to picture him as a deer-eyed, grubby-kneed kid, growing up watching the same programs on TV as you did. Fast-paced animations, colourful heroes saving people and serving justice. And then, later, the hours spent behind stacks of books, in courtrooms, for a good cause, only to end up here—

But Minho isn’t innocent. Every move and every choice he makes is deliberate. He, like no other, knows the world isn’t black and white. He wades through the grey fog, always mindful of the lines he should not cross.

It seems you are his only exception.

There’s an irony to it, its taste bittersweet on his tongue every time you kiss. An acidity to the both of you circling each other as you take his glass, your fingertips brushing against his skin.

“What do you want?” you ask, putting his drink down next to yours. You wait for him to say the word, confirming that he wants this as much as you do.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and it’s out of line, teetering on the edge of mockery if it wasn’t for the honesty in his eyes. His long lashes caress his cheeks when he blinks, twice. “Venom.”

There’s a beat of silence as the word hangs in the air between you, followed by his look of surprise when the flat of your hand connects with his cheek. The expression lasts only a second, quickly overtaken by something darker as his skin flushes pink.

“I asked you a question.” You step closer, grabbing his jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh of his cheeks, distorting his grin. “Answer me.”

It’s a deflection, an attempt to steer away from his admission, and it works: the immediate effect it has on him, how it makes his pupils dilate and his breath hitch in his throat.

“Please,” he says, barely audible, mouth forced into a pout by your hold on him, “make it hurt.”

His words trickle down your skin like molasses and settle deep in your belly. You press your lips against his, tasting the rich, smoky flavour of the alcohol you’ve been raised on, coupled with that sweet taste that’s so unmistakably him—

Minho lets out a sudden moan as you sink your teeth into his bottom lip and you swallow the sound, letting go of his face, not missing the way he sways into you as you lean back and tap one finger on his suit jacket. “Follow me.”

There’s a shift in the air as you enter your bedroom, a place he’s seen countless of times—a privilege reserved to only a handful of your lovers. You can feel his presence behind you, heat radiating off him in waves, feeding your own excitement.

“Take off your clothes,” you instruct, walking towards a large wooden chest beside the bed, “and get on your knees.”

When you turn back around, a long piece of red rope in your hands, you’re surprised to see him kneeling on the thick rug already. His eyes are trained on the floor and his clothes lay next to him, neatly folded.

“Someone’s eager tonight,” you smile and grab a fistful of his dark hair, tilting his face upwards.

“Just making it easy for you,” he grins, “for now.”

You tighten your grip and he shivers at the pinpricks of pain tickling his scalp. “You’ve always liked to play with fire.”

He tilts his head, as much as your hand allows. “A man can hope.”

You crouch down in front of him, noses almost touching, catching his half-lidded stare. “Show me you deserve it.”

Rising to your feet again, you instruct: “Arms in position.” He puts them behind his back, forearms parallel to each other, fingers grazing his elbows.

You carefully wrap the rope around his forearms, then twice around his chest, right above the pectoral muscle. Putting your hand in his, you ask him to squeeze it. “Good?”

He confirms, voice low, and you bring the rope together at the back to tie it to the loop on his wrists, locking the box tie with a sturdy knot so his upper arms are confined against his body. Your fingers adjust the hemp where needed, your own body remembering the familiar motions. You wrap the leftover rope around his torso, this time just below his pectorals, across the sternum, and fasten it at the back.

You check his range of motion one more time before stepping in front of him, admiring your handiwork. His arms are pulled back, chest rising and falling steadily, pushed forward by the rope. The red hemp forms a striking contrast to his skin and when your fingers skim the side of his shoulder he shivers, the muscles in his thighs tensing.

With a pleased hum you notice his responsiveness to your touch. Your gaze drops down to where his cock hangs between his legs, already half-hard. The sight of him on his knees, wrapped up and presented to you like an offering, sends a lick of heat down your spine and you fight the urge to reach out and touch him again—there’s a time and place for your own desire, and it will have to wait for now.

You walk back to the chest and take out a bottle of massage oil and a silk sash, sifting through the chest’s contents until you find a small white box holding a collection of candles: massage candles, coloured soy flakes, and plain white paraffin candles. You know Minho prefers the latter, their heat more intense, the hot wax contrasting the colder air in the room. For a moment you consider starting with the massage candles just to rile him up, to have him writhing in his restraints and begging for more—but tonight’s not a night for such patience.

You take the necessary precautions for his safety and return with the items, displaying them on the carpet in front of him.

He watches you pour some of the oil on your hands and tilts his chin towards the candles. “Looks like it’s my lucky day today.”

“Don’t be so sure of that.” You kneel down in front of him and smooth one hand over his chest. “I haven’t started yet.”

Expertly, you massage the liquid into his skin, enjoying the warmth of his body underneath your fingers. When his chest and stomach glisten in the muted lighting you move behind him, lathering his shoulders with copious amounts of oil. Minho’s silent except for the occasional sharp inhale when you graze your nails over his skin, the subtle scent of sandalwood filling the air.

“You’re sensitive today,” you murmur as you trail your fingertips down his nape, gooseflesh erupting in their wake.

“It’s—it’s been a while,” he groans, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip when you press your front against his back, reaching around to rake your nails over his chest. “I’ve been away for a long time.”

You ignore the implications of his words—you know he could have anyone he wants, anytime, anywhere—before they can unravel the frayed edges of your chest, forcing yourself to focus on the sharp press of your nails.

“Good,” your breath ghosts the shell of his ear as he shifts under your rough touch, “more fun for me.”

You stand up and move to face him again, tutting when you notice he’s closed his legs a little, looking for some friction on his aching cock. You nudge one thigh with the toe of your shoe. “Keep them spread.”

He obliges, albeit reluctantly, and you bend down to adjust the ropes around his torso a bit, making sure to linger in front of his face. His eyelids flutter, gaze briefly flicking up to your chest, and you chuckle.

“Like what you see?”

“Always,” he says, amused, despite his impuissance. “I told you I’ve missed you.”

You smile at his words, their intent unmistakeable this time. And it’d be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy this, this back-and-forth between the two of you, even though you know he doesn’t mean half of what he says; weaponises his words and uses them to try and get a rise out of you. He’s a lawyer, after all. A good one.

And all good lawyers lie.

“Don’t make me hit you again.” You give the ropes a last tug, straightening your back.

“Now that—” Minho shakes the hair out of his eyes, looking up at you, “—that would be a real shame.”

“Absolutely,” you confirm, picking up the black sash, mirroring his smirk. “You’d like that way too much. Besides,” you tie the fabric around his head, “you haven’t earned the right to look at me just yet.”

Minho opens his mouth, witty response dying on his tongue as your oil-slick palm, unseen, wraps around his cock. “Fuck—” he curses, and you squeeze him, once, before removing your hand again. He groans. “That’s not fair.”

You bring your face next to his, lips brushing his cheekbone. “Nothing in this world is fair, Minho. You of all people ought to know that.”

Crossing the room, you grab the dressing table chair and put it down in front of him. His shoulders tense at the sudden sound; it’s the only reaction he shows, putting on a false display of nonchalance as you sit down and light a candle.

At first glance he does appear at ease, but you notice the small signs of tension: the quickening rise and fall of his chest, the tautness in his shoulders, the tremble that runs down his body at the soft click of the lighter. His head is slightly cocked, turned towards you, trying to catch any sounds you might make when you dribble some wax on your own arm to test the heat.

When the first drop hits his skin he hisses sharply, wax trickling down his chest. You know it doesn’t hurt when drizzled from this height, not really, a mild sting at most—but being blindfolded and unable to anticipate your next move is enough to have him on edge.

You pour the hot wax on his shoulders, his chest, his arms. The room is quiet as you work in silence, adjusting the heat and intensity by moving the candle closer or farther away from his skin. He bites back a whimper as some of it drips on a nipple, trying to stay focused, trying to predict your next move.

But when you press the sole of your shoe against his neglected cock he whines—loudly—and you laugh. You keep it there, the pressure not enough to satisfy him, and he shifts uneasily under your touch.

“What do you want?” You feign innocence, voice flat and uninterested.

“Please—” he begs, hoarse, “—more.”

“Go on then. Move.” You dribble the hot wax on his upper thigh, close to your foot. He groans in response and rocks his hips, reluctant at first, almost shy, giving in with a choked-off sound. He’s more frantic now: previous restraint gone, the rope spanning taut across his chest, his knees digging into the carpet.

Minho tends to be quiet, holds back his moans as if he’s afraid they’d escape the room. But you know his cursing is only a preamble so you aim to draw out every sound. To coax them from his lips until he can’t keep them caged behind his teeth any longer.

“Look at you,” you muse, in awe of the vision of him, “such a desperate mess.”

It’s a sight few people get to see: Minho Lee bound and covered in wax, quickly cooling, hardening into white strands of pearls on his skin. Your foot is pressing his cock against his lower abdomen, precum wetting the red sole, his thighs trembling with exertion as he ruts against it.

You squeeze your own thighs together in an attempt to find some relief and when his tongue darts out to wet his lips you can’t help but lean in, blowing out the candle and crashing your mouth against his, taking him by surprise. The kiss is messy, feverish; all tongue and teeth as you nip at his lips, a hand tangling in his hair.

He objects, a faint whine, when you pull back and take your foot off his cock. “You did so well,” your voice sounds breathy as you untie the sash, steadying your wobbly, eager fingers, “you deserve a reward.”

Minho blinks, letting his eyes adjust to the light, pupils still blown wide and unfocussed.

“But you’ll have to get it yourself.”

You hike your dress up, spreading your legs, inviting, and he sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of your soaked panties.

“What are you waiting for?” you bait, enjoying the brief, rare glimpse of bewilderment flickering across his face before he collects his bearings and shuffles closer on his knees, until he is mere inches away from your clothed core.

Minho closes his eyes, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing as he leans forward. His skin is still covered in dried wax, which has started to flake, but he doesn’t seem to care—too preoccupied with pushing his face into the black lace at the apex of your thighs.

When he flattens his tongue against the fabric it’s you who has to suppress a moan, nerves set alight with every nudge of his nose.

“Ugh—this—” as expected, it doesn’t take long for him to get frustrated with the barrier keeping him from tasting you properly, “—is supposed to be a reward?”

You grab his hair, tugging at it sharply, noticing the way he hisses in response. “Don’t get greedy now, Minho.” Your index traces the edge of his jaw before giving him a gentle smack on the cheek. It’s nowhere near firm enough to be satisfying, only serving to fuel his impatience. “I can leave you here and go back to my other employees, if that’s what you prefer. Or we can continue like this.”

He narrows his eyes. It’s nothing to him if it isn’t a competition, a dispute, always and everywhere—in the courthouse, at the office, in your bed. You know he would’ve lost interest long ago if you hadn’t met him with the same fervour.

His jaw ticks, determined, and he sits up, taking the hem of your panties between his teeth. You lift your hips so he can pull them down your legs, clumsily yet insistent, until they gather around your ankles. You lift one foot out of the fabric but before you can move the other leg Minho is already back, his face between your thighs.

When his mouth connects with your core he exhales, mumbling, “Fucking finally,” cutting off your reply with the plush of his lips wrapped around your clit. You can feel them curl against your skin at your jumbled words, warning him, a hand tangled into his hair as you hold him impossibly closer.

It’s a little embarrassing how fast the knot in your stomach tightens, only to be unravelled again by the expert teasing of his tongue. “Fuck—Minho—” you gasp, and he pulls back slightly, slowing down his motions until you can feel your high ebb away, just out of reach.

You groan. “Stop teasing.”

He chuckles, the sound reverberating through your body, and you shiver. “Am I not good enough?” He leans back and looks up at you, eyes glinting. “Maybe you should go back to your other employees instead, then.”

His smile is a little crooked, and he tongues the inside of his cheek, as if he’s waiting for you to make a move. Expecting you to lash out or press your heel against his cock, anything—

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you bend down until your face is in front of his. “Miller is more than capable.”

His expression falters for a second, morphing into something unreadable before he puts his carefully crafted mask back into place. “M—”

You cut him off with the press of your fingers against his lips. “Open.”

He obliges, eyes falling shut as you grab his tongue between your thumb and index and spit on it, coating your fingers in the mixture of saliva and arousal and spreading it over his already saturated face.

“Go on, Minho Lee,” you tap his bottom lip, ignoring his protest as your fingers leave his mouth, “show me that tongue is good for anything other than fucking the law over.”

This time he doesn’t have to be told twice, working a steady rhythm, paying close attention to the sound of your moans and the involuntary shaking of your legs.

He revels in it: on his knees, restrained, driving you to the edge and turning you into a whimpering mess. It’s a small price to pay for the pleasure that crests over you in waves, the soft strokes of his tongue bringing you down from your high.

Through the distorted blur, stars behind your eyelids, you see his face, still covered in a mixture of arousal and spit. A pleased smile pulls at the corners of his lips and you suddenly feel exposed despite his state of undress.

Rising to your feet, you pull your dress down and flatten the fabric with your hands, eyeing the way he tries to adjust his arms within his confines. “Let me clean you up and get these ropes off.”

You retrieve a stainless steel knife from the chest, kneeling down in front of him and carefully chipping away at the dried wax on his shoulders. It peels right off, the scent of sandalwood filling your nose once more now you’re in such close proximity to him. It’s mixed with something sharper, something you’ve come to associate with him—intimately familiar, a scent you could pick out in any room.

The blade drags across his collarbone and he shifts on his knees. “Don’t move,” you warn, enthralled by the gooseflesh erupting in the wake of the cold metal. A few inches higher, there’s the steady beat of his pulse, pressing against the steel.

“I could kill you.”

The laugh he lets out is soft but complacent, a low rumble deep in his chest. “You won’t. I’m too good at my job.”

There’s a sharp pang behind your breastbone. Does this count as work for him, too? When you call him late at night, is there ever a part of him that doesn’t want you?

“Men can be replaced.”

He turns his face towards you, the curl of his lips turning treacherous. “You like me too much.”

It’s cocky, smug, and you hate it—hate how it’s the truth. In moments like these you wonder if he knows how much power he holds over you, and not for the first time tonight you’re thankful for the pokerface you were taught to wear.

You press the tip of the knife into the hollow above his clavicle, a red drop blooming underneath the steel. “For a man so meticulous you’re pretty reckless sometimes.”

If he felt the small cut he doesn’t show it, tilting his head towards the floor instead, angling it away from the sharp metal. “If it isn’t for me, it’s for this ridiculous pristine rug. I know it was a gift from your father. I’ll live.”

It’s there, as always, woven between the threads of light-hearted banter and off-handed sarcastic remarks; something that shouldn’t exist between the two of you, something that has no place in your world: trust. Even if it exists only in these rare moments—fleeting, transient, a gossamer thread.

You shake your head and straighten your back, stepping behind him, worried he’d be able to hear your heart hammering against your ribs. Sometimes it feels as if he can see right through you—it makes you nervous, kept on tenterhooks, your intricate house of cards threatening to collapse.

Busying yourself with prying the last bits of wax off his skin instead, your other hand traverses over his chest and shoulders, feeling the ridges and dips of sinewy muscle underneath. He leans into your touch and heat courses through your body as your own desire flares up again. You untie him and help him to his feet, his fingertips leaving scorching marks on your skin as you realise it’s the first time they’ve touched you tonight, a promise for more.

You swallow thickly. “Get on the bed.” There’s an urgency to your voice that wasn’t there before, and you’re thankful he holds his snarky retort and clambers onto the bed without a word, back against the soft mattress.

When you finally sink down on his cock it takes you all your effort not to moan loudly, hissing through clenched teeth. He’s right—it has been long, too long, and the slight burn as he bottoms out only fuels your arousal.

The tips of his fingers caress your knees, but you allow him, too preoccupied with rolling your hips just right so his cock brushes against that sensitive spot every time you push yourself back on his thighs.

His half-lidded gaze travels over your body and you put your hands on his shoulders, steadying yourself as you set an unrelenting pace. His jaw slackens at a particular motion of your hips so you repeat it, bending down to capture his mouth with your own, the faint taste of your own arousal still lingering on his tongue.

“Ah—please,” his brow furrows as if he’s in pain, pleasure overwhelming his senses. “Please let me fuck you.” His hands hover above your thighs, waiting, desperation lacing his voice at the thought of your refusal.

Your fingers graze the edge of his jaw, almost tender—wandering down to his throat, wrapping around it, as you squeeze and tell him, “Then fuck me.”

Minho plants his feet on the bed and grabs ahold of your waist, nearly toppling you over if it wasn’t for the hand around his neck holding you up. You let yourself collapse against his shoulder, his pulse quickening underneath your fingertips as his thrusts become frantic, chasing the high you’ve been withholding from him all night.

He mutters your name into your skin, a Judas kiss, and you feel your body react, disloyal—clenching around his cock, limbs leaden and heavy. Your fingers slip into his mouth, mind buzzing, a half-hearted attempt to stop his perjury.

It’s sanctimonious, though, when you fall apart around him with his name on your lips. He follows suit when you tell him to, hips stuttering before stilling underneath you. There’s a drawn-out silence, only filled by your laboured breaths. Your dress is a welcome barrier between your bodies as his hands fall away from your waist, reluctant, and you resist the urge to hold him, moving off the bed.

You watch him go through the motions you know by heart: bending down to retrieve his pants from the pile of clothes on the floor first, faint imprints of rope still lingering on his skin.

“Stay,” you say, and this time you hope it doesn’t sound like an order, “finish your drink first. You have a long trip back to Oklahoma ahead of you.”

He turns around, wearing that smile he’s mastered for your clients in court, and you already know the answer before it has left his mouth. The familiar words erode all the nights spent together until they slip through your fingers like sand.

“Whatever you want, boss.”

Thank you for reading! If you liked this story please reblog, leave a comment, tell a friend, send me a pigeon, launch a mars rover. Your encouragement fuels my inner writer cryptid 👾

#stray kids smut #stray kids hard hours #lee know smut #lee know hard hours #lee minho smut #lee know x reader #sub!skz #sub!idol #sub!kpop #skz smut #skz hard hours #stray kids imagines #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic

110 notes · View notes