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tinysunshine · 1 month ago

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

‎ ‎ [ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

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

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

word count: 13.4k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

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

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

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

daryl clings back.

“Cookies?”

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

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

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

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

Plans and Rick’s hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because for a moment, Daryl’s understanding?

It made the world feel a little less broken.

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because the approval from Daryl feels pretty damn good.

────

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

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

Sushi.

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

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

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

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

The thought makes you smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Derek is still talking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does Daryl know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel special.

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

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

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

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

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But god, the way he kisses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod eagerly.

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

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

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

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except maybe Derek.

And Cindy. Fuck that bitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daryl Dixon blushes red.

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don't want Daryl to do it.

No, this is a job you can do.

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

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

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s Daryl.

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

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

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

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

It’s the best compliment ever.

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

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

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

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

It’s a cookie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You found each other. You have each other.

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

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

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m1epes · 1 month ago

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I feel like GK!Jason is the type of guy who needs to be in his girls tight cunt when he sleeps. The world’s so rough and cold he just needs to be inside his girls soft and warm cunt. He loved it so much he always finds himself rutting into his girl before going to bed or waking up. Either that or he needs to have his dick between his girls ass although it just “doesn’t feel the same” according to Jason.

God forbid his girl needs to get up and do something. Jason will genuinely crash out, wakes up almost immediately as he feels you’re not around his cock, this man will find you near the door and jump at you. Safe to say you will NOT be sleeping for the rest of the night.

#jason todd #gk Jason Todd #jason todd smut #jason todd x reader smut #jason todd x reader #ch: jason #jason todd x fem!reader #dc smut #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood smut #red hood #dc jason todd smut #dc jason todd #dc characters #dc fanfic

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faithlia · 2 months ago

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| Body Language ۶ৎ |

✰ english ins't my first language!

summary: nothing more than Chris Sturniolo saying he wants to get you pregnant!

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, kink in reproduction, dirty talk.

๋࣭⭑

When Chris finishes sucking your pussy, his chin is shiny with cum and lubrication. You look down, even though your vision is a little blurry, and shiver when Chris gives your pussy a hot slap, deliberately. You whimper at the sensitivity and he trails wet kisses up your lower abdomen; your belly, which gives you goosebumps, as his hands follow the same path as his mouth; up to the hollow of your breasts, where he insists on sucking and squeezing your wet nipples.

You moan at all the teasing, and he reaches your neck and kisses up to the corner of your mouth to say: "It's my turn now." Before you can realize it, Chris moves you like a rag doll. You're back on Chris's chest, feeling his cock poke your ass - but that changes when he pulls one of your legs up and has perfect access to your tortured pussy.

"Are you going to cum again for me, baby?" he whispers in your ear, and you shake your head urgently, turning to kiss his lips – which taste like yours. Chris returns the kiss with more heat, not caring if it's sloppy and even less when he moans into your mouth. During the hungry kiss, he moves his hand to his own cock, tilting the tip wet with pre-cum inside you. Your pussy throbs as he applies more pressure to your wet entrance, and you start to feel a familiar burning.

"Chris, wait", you say, parting your lips from his. Chris stops moving, but he's still almost inside you. "What's wrong?" he asks, worried, as he takes his hand off his cock and caresses your leg.

You sigh briefly and say: "The condom, babe", you're so close to each other and it makes you delirious.

You see, you and Chris are not officially engaged, which was a mutual decision. But with each sexual encounter between the two of you, something deep inside intensifies. Chris is very careful; he doesn't mind buying your contraceptive pill himself, and when you say that you don't need him to buy it, he reprimands you, saying that yes, you do! Among these and many other attitudes of his, like always being understanding and making you feel comfortable at the end of each casual sex, or when he comes to your house and wakes you up next to him, waking you up with kisses on your skin and permissive touches, or when he calls you by various nicknames, whether in bed or on any other occasion, made you feel totally in love with him.

Even with the medication, you and Chris had never had sex without a condom before. So, he asks: "Don't you want to do it without a condom this time, hm?" He kisses your cheek, waiting for an answer. You sigh at how good the sensation of his hot cock touching your intimacy is - even if not completely. "It's just, you know I'm paranoid about it", you reply, bringing your hand up to touch his soft hair. Chris looks at you and bites his lip. "I haven't had sex with anyone else in the last few months, just you", he ponders, dragging his hand up your thigh, down to your groin, squeezing your skin.

"I know you don't, it's just that-", your speech is interrupted when you feel his fingers pass over the lips of your pussy. Chris looks away from yours to observe the delicious mess being made. His dick is not inside, but, meticulously, he begins to drag his member along the outside of your intimacy, rubbing your clit calmly. "It's what?", Chris asks without even looking at you; he is too busy playing with your pussy. He moves his finger on your sensitive spot, loving how wet and permissive you are. "It's the other thing", you manage to say and Chris soon understands. He doesn't stop his movements against your clit, quite the opposite, it gives him the opportunity to whisper: "That's what's the problem, huh? Don't you want me to cum inside?" he asks with shining eyes at you.

"I-", you try to say but are interrupted by the pleasurable sensation that hits you when Chris rubs your clit and, simultaneously, inserts his dick between the lips of your pussy. You can't resist grinding against his cock, causing a delicious friction. "Don't you want to?" he asks once more in a melodious voice, and you don't know what to say. Chris loves to tease you.

Before you can answer, he lifts his hips a little more, but he returns his movement and threatens to let the tip enter your pussy. You moan at the sensation and, involuntarily, contract your entrance. Chris smiles when he feels what you've done. "I want to fill you so much, princess", with that, he starts to masturbate, taking your lube in his hand and spreading it over his own cock. You can't say anything else but moan like an excited slut. "Can I fuck you?" you nod, biting your lip.

Chris teases your sensitivity a little more and then forces the tip against your entrance. He goes slowly just to have the effect of having you begging him to put it in right away. He passes his other hand between your arms, squeezing your breast and pinching your nipple; You moan and fall your head back.

"So good for me, princess", he whispers in your ear, pulling the crook of your leg up with his hand. You shiver as he pushes in further and then back in, pulling his entire length out. You whimper at the absence, but soon feel full; Chris can't resist imitating your expression as he sinks inside you. He squeezes your breast and kisses your mouth as he intensifies his thrusts, even if slowly.

"Fuck, that feels so good," he says between kisses. "I'm going to be able to cum inside, aren't I?" Chris milks his cock at your entrance pleasurably and you nod at what he says, not caring about anything else. You shiver as he starts to masturbate your clit. "You want me to fill you up, huh?" he asks as he thrusts slowly. You nod and he bites his lip with his eyebrows furrowed. "You're going to let me get you pregnant, aren't you?" you gasp at the question and the way he hurries his touch on your clit. Chris has never said anything like that before, but you liked it.

You moan into his mouth at the well-timed stimulation. Chris no longer cares about being careful, he slams his cock against your entrance, hitting a place he knows well. "I'm dying to make a baby inside you, pretty girl. I want it so bad," he moans in a sly voice, letting go of your clit to hold your leg tightly. Your head is fooled by all those convincing words, making you agree with everything he says. You feel a delicious throb approaching, moving your hips against Chris's.

"I'm going to cum," you whimper in a shaky voice. Hearing you, Chris continues his movements with more determination; he also feels the exacerbated urge to cum. "Cum for me, princess", he seals your lips and when he pulls away, he leaves a string of saliva between your lips. "Fucking hot pussy. Fuck, I love fucking you", he flicks his tongue against your mouth and opens his mouth, letting out gasps. Chris can't help but feel spellbound by the sounds of skin echoing throughout the room, he embraces your movements and moans loudly when you contract your pussy, squeezing his cock so hard it hurts. The moment he thrusts deeper inside, you release, cumming on his cock so deliberately.

You look into his eyes as you let out sneaky moans with your mouth open. Chris thrusts once more, and with great pleasure, fills your entire pussy with cum. He lets out sighs just like yours and removes his cock, seeing the damage done. He smiles at you and kisses your mouth again, but it's a simple kiss and you return it with the same feeling.

He falls back onto the mattress with his head, exhausted. Chris realizes all the things he said to you, feeling embarrassed for being so loud. You settle into his chest, not caring that you're both a little sweaty. You close your eyes, feeling sleepy.

"Sorry", he says very quietly.

"For making me cum twice? Relax, you're not a horrible monster for that."

"No", he laughs. "For being so loud, and the things I said", you don't know but he blushes when he remembers what he said.

"Ah!", you exclaim. "I thought it was really hot and it even made me cum faster, don't worry", you ponder and he nods silently, kissing the top of your head.

"I know, but you wanted to do it with the condom on and-"

"It's okay. You know that if I didn't want to do it without it, I would have grabbed it myself. Chill", Chris runs his hand through your hair and comforts himself with your answer.

When both of you are silent, and you seem to be asleep, Chris thinks about something he's wanted to ask you for a while now. "I need to ask you something", he says, finding his own voice strange. You don't have the willpower to speak, you just mumble a: "hum?"

Chris is reluctant but says it anyway. "Can I be your boyfriend?" you feel his heartbeat get faster. You smile drunkenly and lift your head to seal your lips on his with your hand caressing his face. "Of course", you say and Chris smiles, feeling relieved.

๋࣭⭑

Hey! if you enjoyed, please, repost, like and share with your friends. xoxo, lia.

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stevie-petey · 7 months ago

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but don't you remember? (august, honey, you were mine)

﹂ season four of "come home"

it's senior year and everything has changed. though steve harrington is now your boyfriend, not all of the change has been good. jonathan is gone, dustin is pulling away, the party is divided, and max's sunken eyes remind you of her brother's. all the change threatens to suffocate you. then one phone call, multiple dead bodies, and a song from your past changes everything you thought you once knew. time has never been your friend, especially when it reopens old wounds. (which only complicates things between you and steve). (and the upside down makes everything worse). (as usual).

episode one - the hellfire club: el writes to you as if youre her husband away at war, you debate the intricate nature of liking boobies with robin and steve, lucas is your beloved while eddie munson is your sworn enemy, steve accidentally exposes your (horribly hidden) daddy issues, dustin is an angsty teen, and jonathan really loves to drop emotional bombshells on you. can you believe this all happens in one day ? lol cheers to senior year !

episode two - vecnas curse: you and billy play marco polo, max interrupts a saturday morning breakfast at the henderson household, robin crushes steves dream of becoming a 1950s housewife, reefer rick has an odd taste in movies, boathouses are creepy in the dark, and eddie munson likes it when you pull his hair.

episode three - the monster and the superhero: you and steve can never have a normal conversation, dustin threatens nasa, eddie sadly eats his cereal because youre mean to him, youre once again nancys biggest fan, dustin and steve have an awkward heart to heart, and you and max become felons together and trauma bond (again) !

episode four - dear billy: steve almost hits lucas with a lamp, you try to trick your boyfriend into a gloomy arrangement, steve and nancy have a Talk, robin suddenly becomes an academic weapon, and max threatens legal action, gets really into hallmark cards, and levitating. all in that order.

episode five - the nina project: you and dustin steal pancakes to spite ted wheeler, steve just wants one morning of peace, nancy takes you to a haunted house, cobwebs are surprisingly intimate to remove from someone, and vecna decides to play flashlight tag with everyone. hes so sweet :)

episode six - the dive: dustin rejects the pity pringles you offer, eddie is straight up not having a good time, nancy does some investigative journalism about you and steve (gossips with robin), and steve suddenly decides he wants to take up scuba diving. for some reason. but hey ! title drop time !

episode seven - the massacre at hawkins lab: bats are really fucking annoying to fight, you always somehow end up critically injured, nancy carries the group on her back as always, eddie gives steve relationship advice (embarassing, tbh), interdimensional bike riding is lowkey fun, and you take a trip down memory lane.

episode eight - papa: steve is on the brink of a constant nervous breakdown, eddie questions your taste in music, you and max go halfsies on your lives, angry hicks are scary, and the end of the world is near so of course now is the time for every emotional conversation ever. duh !

episode nine - the piggyback: operation save hawkins is a go. youre eagle one, steve is currently doing that, eddie is youd be lying if you said you havent thought about it, nancy is it happened once in a dream, robin is if you had to pick a girl, and dustin is eagle two. what could possibly go wrong ? spoiler alert: everything. literally everything goes wrong. might as well break a few promises while youre at it. for the plot. but at least its over, right? .... right?

⌑ status: COMPLETE (for now)

⌑ season four title based on this song x

⌑ blurbs set within "come home" can be found here x

⌑ “come home” season masterlist

*note: this is a part of my stranger things rewrite, “come home”, and other seasons can be found linked above :)

#steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things rewrite #slowburn #angst #bdyr masterlist #ch season four #m's writing #holy hell we're at 4 already #my god #this season is .... a lot

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chenziee · 1 year ago

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Law gulped heavily, watching as the tiny, oh-so-tiny piece of paper moved weakly across his palm, getting smaller with every second as the edges burned more and more. There was barely anything left. Barely enough to hang onto any hope. “What are you doing?” Law growled, but he could barely hear himself. There was a hum in his ears, a white noise that didn’t mean anything, didn’t serve any purpose but to drive him even more mad. He refused to believe this. The paper had to be lying. There was simply no way, no way that Luffy lost. No way that his life was about to disappear, leaving behind nothing but a few specks of ash.

I (once again) commissioned the incredible @kagamiciel for this gorgeous piece to go with my fic Ash (from the Ashes of Life series) and I couldn't be happier with the result!! I mean, look at it, it's so so so beautiful 😭🤍

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tartagliove · 2 months ago

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IN GOOD COMPANY kinich x reader ✧ 1.1k words

"when there's no saurians to hunt, i take on other jobs too. i guess that means we're in the same line of work."

tags ✧ fluff, no pronouns used for reader, clumsy reader, reader and kinich are childhood friends but have feelings for each other.

note ✧ dedicated to @hanaeriin, from your @pixelcafe-network secret santa! i hope you're doing well and are taking care of yourself! i decided to not go down the wintery route for this since i know you don’t celebrate the holidays—hopefully you'll like this little kinich fic ahhh

a huge thank you to @fandomsuggestions for betaing this!

Three sheets of paper hang limply from the commission board. They flutter weakly as a hot breeze blows, which offers little relief from the scorching summer sun and the stifling humidity. You wish you were relaxing at home or cooling off in the river far below the tribe, but you have expenses that need to be paid, so you’re scanning the few available commissions and debating on which one you want to take.

Two of the commissions are straightforward and easy—a package delivery and hilichurl camp clearing—but the reward offered is nowhere near enough to cover your monthly expenses. You look at the third paper, skimming the wall of text that details a long and arduous commission. However, it also displays a reward of Mora with enough zeroes to make your eyes widen. That money would last you through most of next month as well.

It appears as though you will have a lot of traveling and fighting ahead of you. You normally are excited for a commission like this, but in the summer heat? Sighing, you reach for the commission.

A flash of green darts across your vision, snatching the sheet of paper out from beneath your fingers.

You whirl around. “Hey! Give that back, I was– Ajaw. Of course it’s you.”

“That’s Almighty Dragonlord K’uhul Ajaw to you, puny human! How many times–”

Tuning out the floating dragon’s usual rant, you look beyond him at the approaching Saurian hunter. A smile lights up your face. “Kinich!”

The bright sun makes the blue and green shine to his hair more obvious. His gorgeous eyes seem to glow from within as they look from his companion to you. “Morning,” he says, nodding at you in greeting.

You try to ignore the way a shiver runs through you at the sight. “It’s good to see you! Are you looking for a commission to take on, too?” you ask him, pointing toward the commission board that now bears two lonely pieces of paper. “The options aren’t very good.”

“Except for this one!” Ajaw flies between you two, waving the commission you were looking at in front of Kinich’s face. “It’s perfect—days of scaling the sides of mountains, fighting some dangerous creatures, not to mention, I can feel a storm brewing!”

You frown at Ajaw, knowing full well why the dangers of the commission delights him.

Kinich, however, swats the Saurian away with the back of his hand. “Were you planning on taking this?” he asks you.

You nod slowly, but then wave your hands in front of you. “You can take it if you want though! There are two more on the board, I can do those without a problem!” But even the combined pay of those commissions won’t be enough. You wince at the thought.

Kinich catches the expression that flashes across your face. “What is it?”

You hesitate for a moment, but under his steady gaze, give in and confess, “Those commissions don’t offer enough of a reward to cover what I need—even if I take both.”

There is no judgement on his face as he listens, only understanding. He nods when you finish talking, then says Ajaw’s name.

The Saurian darts over, still holding the commission. “You’re gonna pick this one, right? That puny human can’t handle this anyway–“

“Shut up,” Kinich growls, the harshest you’ve heard him in a while. He yanks the paper out of Ajaw’s grasp, then grabs the dragon and chucks him into the sky, where he vanishes with a furious yell.

With Ajaw temporarily gone, Kinich’s face relaxes as he turns his attention back to you. “Here,” he says, handing you the commission. “You had it first, you take it. I know you have the skills to see it through to the end.”

His vote of confidence warms you from within, washing away any sting Ajaw’s words had evoked. “Thank you, Kinich.” You accept the paper from him with a soft smile. “I hope you’ll find something good to take on yourself.”

He nods, strands of hair shifting from the movement. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on your commission.”

“Yes, sir!” you respond with a giggle. “Well then, I need to get ready for the job. When I’m back, we should catch up sometime! It’s been a while since we’ve hung out. I missed it- missed you,” you add on, a bit shy at the admission.

“That would be nice,” Kinich says. By his tone, you can tell he is sincere, so you can’t stop the grin from growing across your face.

“Alright then, I’ll see you around! Bye, Kinich!”

You turn and walk away, leaving the Saurian hunter to peruse the remaining two commissions on the board. Glancing down at the paper in your hand, you read it over once more to take in the details. When you get to the final line, you stop in your tracks.

The smallest string of words say, “Two or more adventurers recommended for this commission.”

Your lips part. What if- There’s no way. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?

“Kinich!” You shout his name as loudly as you can, running back toward the commission board. When you’ve almost reached him, you step on the back of your own sandal and trip, a noise of alarm escaping your mouth. Bracing for the impact of the ground, you are instead caught by warm hands and a steady frame.

You blink in surprise at Kinich, who keeps his grip on your upper arm and lower back until you regain your balance—and even then his touch lingers for a moment before he pulls away.

His eyes seem to pierce through you as you look at him and breathlessly ask, “Would, um, would you like to go on this commission with me?”

You hold out the paper, finger trailing along the final sentence.

Kinich huffs out a wry laugh. “Of course Ajaw didn’t mention that detail. Are you sure you want a partner for this? I know you could complete it alone.”

Swallowing, you manage to ask, “And what if I don’t want to do it alone?”

A soft look appears on his face. “Then you have someone willing to do it with you.”

You laugh in delight, and can’t help bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Alright then! I’ll be in good company.”

“And so will I.”

#drops this and runs >.<#I was soooo nervous writing this ahhh I haven’t gotten to meet kinich in game yet so I was scouring the wiki for help haha #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #kinich x reader #kinich x you #reader insert #genshin impact fluff #genshin fluff #my writing #my writing: fic #fanfic: genshin #fanfic: kinich #type: game #game: genshin impact #ch: kinich

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mutantjellybeans · 7 months ago

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Johnny Storm (celebrity with years of media experience and a number of scandals with a massive PR team) and Peter Parker (extremely bitchy broke photographer from queens with no media training) are hopelessly and disastrously in love and it is unfortunately everyone’s problem

#my post #spideytorch #sorry no one ever talks about how bitchy Peter is especially in situations that annoy him #and I personally think it’s so funny because sometimes he’s just a bitch to someone for no damn reason #ch; peter parker #ch; johnny storm #sh; spideytorch #maybe I will write this fanfic one day if I have the energy

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xiaokuer-schmetterling · 3 months ago

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saw somebody saying they don't post comments bc they don't want the author to reply? WTF is author dni??? I LOVE IT WHEN THE AUTHOR REPLIES TO ME THAT SHIT IS AMAZING it's like we're sending fandom themed postcards to each other it's like we're pen pals IT GIVES ME SO MUCH SEROTONIN i don't understand that mentality I WANT THE AUTHOR TO KNOW HOW THEY HAVE AFFECTED ME and then pat me on the head and tell me i'm a good reader

me @ me: bc i want a good grade in fanfic reader which is both normal to want and possible to achieve

ps authors owe me nothing btw if your energy is split btwn replying to comments or posting a new thing I will always support your efforts towards new thing. or yk taking a break for self care bc that's important too

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on-wine-dark-seas · 28 days ago

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The Invitation

Dedicated to the little Black girl who wanted to be all things when the world told her she was nothing. You are everything. 🍯

🪧 Summary: 1050 AD, Heian Era. One full moon, Sukuna meets a dancing storyteller at the Hida Harvest Festival. But after a tragically violent evening robs her of everything, she winds up in a strange alliance with the King of Curses as his guest. 📚 Series: Sonder 🔞 Rating: Explicit ⚠️️ Warning[s]: Rape/Non-Con [not from Sukuna don't worry], blood, gore, description of wounds and dead bodies, cannibalism, recreational drug use [ganja, psilocybin, opium], slow-ish burn, hurt/comfort, PTSD, revenge, catharsis, eventual romance, eventual smut, Ryōmen Sukuna is his own warning. 💋 Pairing[s]: Sukuna x The Writer [⛩️🍯] 🎧 Playlist: [ the invitation ]

⛩️ AO3 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs ⛩️

🍯 I. Hankali

Sukuna’s lips are curled into a sneer as he stares down at the shivering gaggle of priests kneeling at his feet. He towers over them, his shadow outstretched like an ominous hand, crimson eyes hard and merciless as he peels away the veneer of their presence to sink his teeth into their motivations.

Fear. These witless worms are motivated by fear, naught else. He half expects one of them to piss themselves any moment.

Sukuna has lived a life of solitude from birth, and one thing solitude has taught him is that his own strength is what is reliable. Friendships, companions, love, all of those are useless tethers beneath his scope of interest and control. No one invites him to things, because his lethal reputation has impressed upon them that he does not care. The people of Hida fear his power, and so they grovel to curry favor in hopes of gaining his protection. He is a sorcerer, but to them he is a god.

Hapless lichen and unmarked graves are testament of his power. A sea of blood for him to drink from endlessly. Meat to be torn and swallowed, sweet and succulent and limitless in its variety.

What care has he for petty festivals and sniveling proselytizing? He cannot make their crops grow nor their cattle healthy. He does not control those forces of nature, but these provincial types are superstitious about jujutsu.

And there are no other sorcerers who can lay claim to the feats he has accomplished.

His sneer becomes a leering grin.

“I accept your invitation,” he says in an even voice, deep and resonant in the temple he has claimed as home for most of his adult life. He watches with disdain as he sees the priests breathe collective sighs of relief.

“We thank his lordship for his consideration,” the head priest says, forehead pressed on the cool stone of the floor. Sukuna says nothing in response. He merely waits.

“I’m sure you do,” he says laconically after a stretch of fearful silence. “Get out.”

Thus are the priests dismissed, their limbs intact, and their numbers the same as when they arrived. They consider this a blessing in and of itself, scurrying out of the shrine like startled insects. Sukuna watches them go, his smirk turning to a pensive frown.

“Mercy, my lord?” Uraume’s cool voice is amused. Sukuna huffs out a breath.

“There is no joy in killing frightened peasants. Aside, there will be blood aplenty at this harvest festival of theirs. Blood is the only thing gods demand in tribute, after all.”

And Sukuna is fair starved for sacrifice.

The weeks leading up to the festival are hectic. With the Five Empty Generals and the Sun, Moon, and Star Squads eliminated, the capital, and by extension Hida, is thrown into chaos. Bandits roam the surrounding areas, waylaying travelers and refugees alike. Temples are packed to capacity to give alms to the starving and destitute. Misery permeates the air as the storm of Sukuna’s fury is felt throughout Heaven and Earth.

No one opposes him in the wake of this war, and he consolidates his power, taking tribute and extracting iron clad binding vows to secure and fortify his position.

But by the gods he can’t bring himself to care about any of it. It feels pointless to him. It nettles at his nerves, these petty political squabbles between clans of sorcerers who could not stand against him in the end. The Sugawara clan is especially in disarray, having lost their best sorcerers to Sukuna’s lethal domain.

Would that he could bring himself care, though. It’s as if the victory that should have been sweetest to savor has turned to stale ash in his mouth, and no amount of blood drinking can curb it.

Something is irritating his spirit, and he’s not sure what.

Uraume fields requests both in the form of face-to-face audiences with supplicants and distraught nobles desperate to hold onto their power; Uraume also fields written requests. Sukuna has so far been offered vast swathes of rice paddies, fields, and even cattle. Where he once had to hunt and scrape in the wilds for his food, now he has more than enough in his stores to throw feasts. But he does not do this. Anyone who would be invited to attend would only do so out of fear of how he’d respond should they refuse. Empty fear does little to sweeten his appetite. He has missed the scent and taste of true terror between his teeth.

It’s frustrating. So, he attends this stupid harvest festival as a guest of the highest honor: the God of Hida. Wielder of Storm and Flame. All manner of ostentatious titles he would never choose for himself, but he bears the weight of them all the same. Even the title, Ryōmen Sukuna, is not a name he chose, but it certainly suits him. It evolved from his deeds. He had been born a cursed and nameless wretch to a mother whose face was not even a blur in his memory. All he knows is the turning point of cognizance in his life, and the bloody present.

He sits amongst them, an impassive deity, inscrutable as the heavens that cursed him. Something stirs in his chest, makes his heart tighten uncomfortably. Will alone quells it, buries it too deep to be excavated without considerable aid, or his will. That unnamed feeling—that yearning—will be smothered in the salted earth of his heart like everything else.

The festival itself is lavish, a surprise for such uncertain times, but Sukuna sees these people—these insects—seeking joy when it would be easier to succumb to the hand fate has dealt them: misery and death; their pointless existence snuffed out and forgotten. Sukuna allows himself a smile at the thought. Yes, how fitting.

He sips his plum wine, smokes his kiseru, and stares at the nameless faces and listens to the empty and pointless chatter. His heart beats sluggishly as the contents of his kiseru finally take hold, dulling the sharpened edges of agitation flaying his nerves.

There’s a commotion at the entrance to the headman’s hall. Affronted gasps, mocking laughter. Sukuna knows that voice, and suddenly he reaches for the ornate lacquered box at his side, refills his kiseru, and takes a long, slow drag of it.

She’s naked. She’s always fucking naked. Sukuna doesn’t know or care, but she’s coming at him, her eyes shining with something he thinks is madness, and suddenly the distance is closed, and he feels strong arms go around him, gets a deep inhale of her scent: rosewater and her natural musk. Pleasant, but her arms around him, her fingers threading through his hair, her grating voice droning on and on about loneliness and love and other such drivel—the sharp edges of his nerves lash out before he realizes it.

Yorozu tumbles onto the floor, her open haori stained with her own blood, a slash mark across her chest, breasts stained in a curtain of crimson spilling from a wound that may as well have been made with a true blade. Sukuna should find this beautiful, but he doesn’t care. He’s just well and truly agitated, now.

There’s a fearful silence in the room as Yorozu climbs to her knees, swaying from the blood loss. Her face is a frightening rictus of ecstasy, as if she is having a religious experience.

“Ah, Sukuna!” She sighs in deep satisfaction. “You are the most magnificent thing! An honor to be struck down by your hands. I will spend the rest of our lives making sure you never know loneliness again, beloved.”

Sukuna frowns, the bridge of his nose wrinkling. Beside him, he feels the chill of Uraume’s cursed energy, like prickling fingers of winter in the form of their aura alone.

“If you’ve any decorum,” Uraume says in a warning tone, “you will attire yourself in a manner befitting the occasion and not embarrass my lord with your provincial ignorance.”

Yorozu should be angry, but when one is a powerful sorcerer, words of snarling lapdogs mean precious little. She gives Uraume as maddening smile.

“Oh, but have you not heard? I too decimated the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squad and have been accorded a place of honor amongst the Fujiwara for this festival. What role do you play here, Uraume? I am to be seated at Lord Sukuna’s right hand, as is my right!”

Sukuna snorts derisively.

“You talk too much,” he says in an exasperated tone. “Be seated and be silent.”

Surprisingly, Yorozu complies, arranging herself like some sort of creature at his side, giving Uraume a simpering smirk while they roll their eyes in obvious disdain and disgust. Sukuna is just thankful the woman is heeding his words and remaining blessedly silent. He focuses his thoughts again.

The entertainment for the evening is interesting. There is the traditional and ritualistic, which he watches and listens to with half an ear. He feels wholly apart from the festivities, as if he is some sort of interloper and not an honored guest. And all around him is the stench of nervous fear. Fear that he might do something unimaginably horrific should any displease him. He does nothing to dissuade them, but still…all this sweating and kowtowing is unnecessary and grates his nerves.

It’s not until he sees the performers arranging an interesting set of drums he’s never seen before that he sets his annoyance aside in favor of his curiosity. The players have also changed. Arrayed in strange costumes of grass skirts and anklets with bells. Their skin is as dark as rich, fresh-turned earth; the men have strong and stern miens; but Sukuna detects something submissive about them. They look to one of the other performers.

Sukuna’s gaze follows theirs as the lead dancer emerges. There’s a thump in his ears like a heartbeat. Her cursed energy blazes around her in a steady flame, moving with a fluidity Sukuna has seen only in himself.

Who is she?

Sukuna’s gaze falls like a weight on her and he suppresses a smirk when he sees her shift her body weight onto the balls of her feet. There’s a tinkling of bells from the thick ankle bracelets she wears, but Sukuna knows a tense posture when he sees it. She speaks to the drummers in a tongue he doesn’t recognize, hands animated in giving direction. Sukuna keeps his eyes on her. Skin like burnished umber from what he can see, her breasts high and proud in a bra made complete of cowrie shells. He can also make out the tattoo on her back, a symbol he doesn’t recognize. Is she a criminal of some kind as well? There’s a crown of cowrie shells on her head, affixed to soft buckskin straps that obscure her face from him, but he can make out her lips.

The dancer grows more interesting by the moment from her appearance alone, her eyes dark and sparkling, her braids falling around her in a sea of black and gold, framing her cowrie-obscured face that he catches glimpses of when she turns: high cheekbones, and sculpted soft nose, and lips shaped like a perfect bow. When she smiles, which is frequently, Sukuna marvels at the perfect whiteness of her teeth, the way her smile seems a power all on its own. There is something inside of her, something yet to be tapped, and he wonders.

He waits.

A hush falls over the entire crowd, faces illuminated by the massive bonfire burning in the center of it all.

Then, the dancer opens her mouth and begins to sing. Sukuna’s brows go up at the power of her voice, a clear trailing of notes and melody in a tongue he doesn’t recognize but somehow the tone of her song reaches him. He understands her meaning, sees it written in her smile as those foreign words slip from her mouth like a lure. She commands the music with skill, the primordial drumbeats whispering to thread with the melody she sings. Sukuna can feel the power in her, that thing inside her that he can’t quite place trembling like a chrysalis on the verge of opening.

When she begins to dance, Sukuna understands. By his side, Yorozu follows his gaze, notes how he never takes any of his eyes off of the girl. Her lip curls in open disdain and disgust.

The dance becomes faster, the drums carrying the dancer into a frenzy that is no wilder and more beautiful than a summer storm. Sukuna can see a sheen of sweat on the girl’s back, right between her undulating shoulder blades. She commands her small stage with consummate skill, executing complicated footwork, the bells around her ankles creating a counter rhythm to the drumbeat whipping everyone into an excited and breathless frenzy. Her cowrie shell crown’s straps are flung about her head like a halo when she executes hairpin turns on the balls of her bare feet, rapid and surefooted, affording the crowd a glimpse of the sculpted face beneath. Her feet, stained crimson with henna, tap out a counterrhythm to the drums in one sequence, creating a synergy the likes of which Sukuna himself has never seen nor heard. The drummers are not sorcerers, but there’s something in their playing that bolsters the dancer. The flames climb higher and higher, and Sukuna suddenly finds himself breathing with her. Inhale. Exhale. Controlled diaphragm as she chants and sings louder, not even sounding the least bit winded.

The crowd feels it too. They clap; they stamp their feet.

Sukuna can feel the chrysalis inside of her vibrating. Her soul is vibrating. The fire crackles and seems to dance higher and brighter. The drums are in his blood, pumping his heart, making his pulse race with the same breathless anticipation he gets just before a fight.

“Exquisite,” Sukuna says breathlessly to himself. Yorozu’s brow knits in consternation as she gazes up at him sharply. He’s still watching the dancer. Worse yet, his lower hand resting on the floor beside him is tapping in time to the rhythm. She’s sure he would hum along if he knew the damn melody of the barbaric chanting and yowling the girl is doing.

The smell of spring and bounty permeates the air as the music swells, and the girl’s feet move faster in more complicated patterns, a test of endurance, an expression of strength. Sweat slicks her dark, umber skin. Sukuna sees the softness of her body, the undulation of her waist and hips, the way every curve moves with its own fluid rhythm and knows she will taste so tender and succulent between his teeth. The salt of her sweat makes him salivate a little at the thought.

But also, she is gifted with immense power. He can feel it. A latent potential as yet untapped, struggling to be born. All it needed was the right push and it would be free, and she would be formidable. It would be a waste to consume her for the fleeting pleasure of tasting her. Sukuna knows a rare delicacy when he sees one.

No, he would have to do something else. He would need to find a way to savor her.

Several times she dances near him, and he tenses, but there is something reverent in the way she looks at him through the curtain of cowrie shells from her crown; the way she smiles at him as if she is inviting him to join her; the way she always seems to be in supplication when she addresses him with the movements of her body. A bow, a flourishing gesture of the hands to highlight the enormity of him, little bits of acknowledgement that she knows him to be the sovereign presence here; the mystery of her being obscured when she turns away from him with fluid grace, and he wants to reach out and seize her, turn her back, and look into her face in full. There’s something sensual about her method of dancing, which he deduces to be a harvest tribute.

He likes that.

The music swells and blooms, and her soul blooms with it as she kneels in perfect reverence before him, sitting on her heels, hands pressed delicately to the floor, her forehead on the ground. Her bells and shells are silent. She doesn’t even shiver in his presence. Sukuna looks down at her, fascinating by the rhythm of her slow and deep breaths of exertions. This close, he gets a good look at the tattoo limned in her dark skin. The symbol at her nape interests him, and he almost reaches out to touch it.

“Hm,” he says thoughtfully. Yorozu sucks her teeth in irritation. “You are a foreigner. What is your name, girl?”

The dancer doesn’t move.

“Do I have your permission to rise, my lord?” Her Japanese is accented, and she speaks slowly, but Sukuna understands.

“You do,” he says, curiosity making him unusually tolerant this evening. The girl rises into a seated kneel, her eyes still respectfully downcast behind the curtain of cowrie shells, full lips parted. Sukuna wants to tear the crown from her head and see her face, but something about it is…hm.

“My name is Šetû Asiri,” she says, her voice measured through steady breaths. “Though in your culture I suppose Asiri Šetû would be the appropriate introduction.”

Sukuna tilts his head. “Take off your headdress.” He orders. Asiri stiffens briefly, momentarily taken aback by the bluntness of his command. Behind her, her drummers are a knot of tension and anxiety. Sukuna’s reputation is fearsome, and no doubt whatever caravans brought them here from their lands leagues and leagues away have been rife with myths about his whims.

Asiri’s hands go to the cowrie shell crown, and slowly she pulls it from her head, braids tumbling free, her face bared in full. She keeps her eyes downcast, black lashes cresting on her high cheekbones. Her expression is neutral.

And Sukuna cannot smell her terror or fear. Either she does not know him for what and who he is, or she does not care…or she’s a fool.

Alternately, she can be as mad as Yorozu, but he highly doubts she is. He does not see it in the lines of her body, soft and sculpted by years of dance.

“Look at me,” he says. There’s another tense silence following those words. Asiri breathes in and lifts her face and gaze to meet his. Eyes darker than forest pools past midnight, glimmering like polished obsidian. Sukuna sees the inscrutable void of the moonless and starless nights in her eyes. Eclipse eyes. Asiri holds his gaze steadily. Sukuna’s lower eyes flit to her neck, collared by a cowrie shell choker with pretty silver coins, and he watches as two beads of sweat roll down, pooling in the hollow of her clavicle before rolling down the plush curve of her breasts. He licks his lips before he realizes it.

“Did my performance please you?” She asks steadily. Sukuna smirks but doesn’t answer. It is answer enough.

“Where are you from?” He asks. Asiri hesitates.

“Across the sea,” she says quietly. “Beyond the Silk Road. I would need a map of the world to show it to you.”

Sukuna narrows his eyes, makes a pensive hum. Asiri remains kneeling, and the assembled crowd holds its collective breath. Sukuna steps down from the dais, onto the soft moss she’s conjured around herself with her dancing. The heat of the bonfire illuminates her skin, and his nostrils flare as he breathes deep. Her sweat is sweet, but he smells something else…a fragrance heady and warm, like night-blooming jasmine.

Mm.

“You may go,” he says. “You and your troupe may enjoy the festivities…with my blessing.”

Asiri allows herself a small smile, pressing herself into an obeisant kneel, forehead to the floor. The shells that adorn her body click prettily.

Behind Sukuna, Yorozu seethes.

“Thank you, my lord,” Asiri breathes. She waits for him to be seated and rises from her kneel. Sukuna watches her return to her troupe, the musicians murmuring in that strange tongue, whispering and shooting nervous glances in his direction. He should kill them, but they are foreigners, and he foregoes his usual punishments. It will not do to profane these rituals with blood. Even he will not deign to be so greedy and blasphemous this night.

“Did you see the size of him?” Ajani’s voice is rife with shock and not a little horror. “What manner of creature is he that they would worship him as a god?”

Šetû smiles from behind her changing screen as her cousin continues to go on and on about the cultures and customs of the people, they find themselves performing for. It has been a long and arduous journey for their little family, but Šetû knows this place is where they can truly make a life for themselves.

Away from the horrors plaguing their homeland. The horrors that took everything from them but the talent in their skulls.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I thought he was kind of handsome. And he’s clearly a powerful man!”

Ajani sucks his teeth in disgust. “You are too kind, Haji,” he says. “Remember what those priests said? He eats people.”

Šetû shrugs into her abaya, a silky shift of oceanic blue, the collar and edges of the wide sleeves stiff with golden thread embroidery. She keeps on her dancing bells and places the cowrie shell crown reverently in her trunk. Then, she surveys herself in the shined pane of a beaten mirror, marveling at her reflection.

“I’m sure those were just the frightened exaggerations of peasants,” Šetû says as she slips into a pair tabi and geta, humble gifts from the leaders of the village. She had been surprised at the taboo of displaying one’s naked feet in public. The four-armed man had been barefoot, even outside. Perhaps these customs only apply to their living gods.

She steps from behind the changing screen, heaving a sigh.

Their troupe, Na Waje, consists of her, her two brothers, Amadou and Yusuf, and two of her cousins, Ajani and Ajamu. For the last few years, it has been only them since their grandmother and uncle passed. Šetû cannot count how many foreign lands she has traveled across in the years since they packed their entire lives in their painted wagon filled with their instruments, clothing, and supplies, and their sturdy Mongolian steed to pull it, a gift of the Khan for their rousing performance under their endless sky. It has been hard going, but Šetû will not trade it for anything.

Still, having stone walls and a proper bed would not go amiss.

Šetû makes her way outside of their tent, which they set up on the outskirts of the village near their wagon and horse. Amadou has already secured dinner for the evening as he and Yusuf had gone hunting and fishing much earlier that day. The smell of roasting rabbits seasoned with the meager spices they’ve managed to hoard for themselves is enough to make Šetû’s mouth water. Yusuf has secured sacks of rice, and a pot of it bubbles over an additional fire.

“Have any of you had any luck with the locals?” Šetû asks as she takes a seat on one of the logs arrayed around the campfire. Yusuf pokes at the rice with a grunt. Šetû laughs.

“They worship a four-armed man who looks like he eats people,” Yusuf says with a sour look on his face. “I’d rather not make friends with such a superstitious bunch, if you don’t mind.”

Amadou, the oldest of all of them, and their somewhat de facto leader, laughs.

“Perhaps you should consider taking more time to get to know them. We are the foreigners in this land.”

“We’re foreigners in every land,” Yusuf grumbles. There’s a collective groan as the twins come to join them and Yusuf’s sour face somehow—against all odds—grows even more pinched.

“Here we go,” Ajani murmurs with a grin as he sits next to Šetû, who hides her smile in her mug of tea.

“I was a djali!” Yusuf snaps. “A true scholar of the craft! I served noble families and was respected in every corner of the Mali Empire! I wore silks and walked in sandals made of the softest leather and exquisite beadwork. I was slated to be—”

“—given an honor at the right hand of the King himself; we know!” The others finish in unison. There is a sizzling sound as fat drips into the fire from the roasting rabbits. Another pot holds a rich stew. Since coming to this foreign shore, finding ingredients that best remind them of home has been hard. But they’ve made good coin this month and so their supplies are plentiful.

“Speaking of strange customs,” Ajamu says, gathering their bowls to serve rice and stew. “Did you see the woman next to him? Completely naked! Is that how these people celebrate the harvest?! And if she is his wife, how…immodest!”

Šetû snorts into her tea. “No,” she says. “I saw the way the people were looking at her. I’m guessing nudity at public events is frowned upon even here, Ajamu.”

“I didn’t mind the view,” Ajani says, earning an elbow to the ribs from his twin. He grins shamelessly. “She definitely had all of her best qualities on display.”

“Yeah, and was practically ready to rip Šetû’s throat out when that giant monster spoke to her for a few minutes.”

Šetû’s cheeks go hot. In truth she hadn’t noticed the nude woman’s venomous looks during the entire encounter. She’d been too afraid of offending Hida’s local deity. She thinks about the performance again: dust beneath her henna-stained feet, lost in the rhythm of her breathing to match the breath of the earth, her ears filled with the ancient rhythms of her homeland; four crimson eyes, glowing as bright as the flame she danced around, with a hunger she could not name; her head pressed to the ground in an obeisant kneel, a glimpse of very large bare feet, and thick bands of black ink around the ankles.

Look at me.

Šetû remembers looking up, so far her throat arched. He had been massive, looking down at her with a curiosity that reminded her of a tiger deciding on whether or not the lamb in its grasp would be a toy or food…or both. She remembers his face, black ink limned into the skin in sharp, thorny lines, emphasizing the divine sculpture of his high cheekbones, his nose, his strong chin.

Four eyes, glowing like coals in the breeze, flaring bright.

And the heat and energy that she felt from him had been oppressive. Not only was he massive, but whatever power he held was just as big. He frightened her.

But more than that, he intrigued her.

“Šetû are you daydreaming again?” Ajani asks, handing her a bowl. Šetû blinks slowly, a waking dreamer pulled from a reverie she had yet to finish processing. She takes the bowl with gratitude.

“Well, it’s night,” she says. “So, no. I was just…thinking, is all.”

Ajani’s brow furrows with concern, but he says nothing, taking his seat beside her. For a while, the family eats in silence, enjoying the bounty prepared by the elder cousins.

“The headman gave us a gift for our performance,” Amadou says, breaking the silence as they eat. “A cask of their rice wine. I say we breach it tonight in celebration.”

“There’s five of us,” Yusuf grumbles. “How are we to finish an entire cask of wine in one evening?”

“Well, there’s no room for it in the wagons so we’re going to have to try,” Amadou says back with a smile. “I’d say we’ve earned a night of drunken respite! And the festival continues for another day. We’ve been permitted to participate in the rituals and festivities freely after our performance tomorrow.”

Šetû feels her mind beginning to fade, Amadou’s voice turning into a drone. That oppressive energy is back, spilling into their camp like a chilling fog.

Hida’s god is here.

It’s frightening that none of them so much as heard a twig snap, but the conversation dies down as the four-armed deity’s shadow falls over them. Šetû shivers from his presence. There is something sinister about it, and whatever it is…it’s hungry. At that thought, she has an idea. She sets aside her bowl, jumping to her feet. She motions for the others to do the same.

“Šetû,” Amadou whispers, “you’re the one who speaks their language best. Does he mean us harm?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she answers. “But we should all kneel out of respect.”

And so they do, and the god’s brows raise up in surprise. The youth beside him, whose presence feels like the first, dire fingertips of the bitterest winter, smirks.

“My lord,” Šetû says from her kneel. “It is a surprise to see you here. How may we serve?”

The god tilts his head, says nothing for a long while. Šetû’s knees are beginning to ache.

“You may rise,” he says at last, as if he had been deliberating on something and finally came to a decision. “And resume your meal.”

Šetû breathes a sigh of relief as they all climb to their feet and return to their seats. Šetû lingers a moment and gives the god a friendly smile.

“Would you and your companion like to join us?” She asks. “We’ve plenty to spare, and we were just discussing breaching a cask of wine. Far more than needed for the five of us.”

Here, in the full light of their own cookfire, Šetû takes an opportunity to look upon Hida’s living god. She isn’t quite sure what to make of him, really, and his expression is inscrutable. For a moment, there is only the crackling of the fire, a log pops, and the subtle hiss of moisture steaming out of it in the heat. Amadou’s jaw is tense, his body taut. Of all of them, he is the only one with any real combat prowess, as he once served in the city guard back in their homeland. He and Yusuf and the twins have protected them from the onslaught of bandits, gangsters, ruffians, and all manner of unsavory attackers over the years. They will not let Šetû come to harm.

The god smirks, and Šetû is reminded of the first time she ever saw an animal slaughtered. His smile is the blade drawn across the trembling throat, spilling crimson vitae in its wake. She shivers and his nostrils flare.

“You would offer me a seat by your fire?” He asks. “Do you know who I am?”

Šetû blinks in obvious confusion.

“Are you not…are you not the deity being honored at this festival? Ryōmen Sukuna?” She asks, genuinely puzzled. “It would be rude not to offer you a place by our humble fire. It would honor us, in fact.”

The god—Sukuna—crosses his lower arms and Šetû grits her teeth on a surprised sound but her troupe is not so subtle. There is a subtle gasp of shock. She hadn’t noticed his physique up close before, but it is truly a marvel.

“What’s this?” Sukuna asks, peering into the cook pot. Yusuf looks nervous but Amadou places a hand on his shoulder.

“Well,” he says, steeling his courage much to the amusement of the mountain of a man before him. “In our homeland it’s called…naman sa.” He glances at Šetû, who smiles.

“I guess the closest translation would be beef stew…but we didn’t have any beef on hand, and the local butcher would not sell to us. So we used rabbits we hunted.” She explains. Two crimson eyes regard her and she tries to maintain her composure under the weight of his gaze. A low rumble sounds in his chest, a sound that reminds her of a tiger purring. Pensive. Ajani and Ajamu gulp, clearly fearful.

“I will join you,” Sukuna says and there is a collective breath of relief.

From there, the strangest of meetings unfolds.

Sukuna arrays himself like a king by the fire. Amadou moves to serve him, but he holds up a forestalling hand. Amadou’s brows go up in silent question. Was he not hungry?

“I want her to serve me,” Sukuna says, pointing at Šetû who startles, but rises quickly to do so. Amadou’s brow knits in a frown but at his younger sister’s insistence he hands her the bowl. Carefully, she scoops heaps of rice into the bowl, then ladles a helping of the spicy rabbit stew over it. Sukuna’s lower eyes watch, going a little wide when he sees the stew on the rice but then takes the bowl from her proffered hands, admiring how she kneels to serve it to him. His large fingers brush her hands and heat blooms in her cheeks before she moves away to sit beside Ajani.

“Hashi?” Uraume asks cooly. Amadou’s brows knit again, and he nods, fetching a fresh set of chopsticks for Sukuna to use. He doesn’t hesitate, the god of Hida begins to devour the food immediately.

Everyone sits in silence, breathing slow, wondering just what they’d done to deserve his attention this evening.

Sukuna clears his bowl in record time. Amadou has retrieved the cask of rice wine, and pours Sukuna a cup, which he uses to wash down his meal.

Sukuna grins, eyes heavy-lidded, like a man sated.

“That was delicious,” he purrs. “Which one of you made this?”

Amadou bows. “It was me, my lord,” he says in his halting Japanese, speaking slowly. Of all of them, Šetû is the best at picking up languages, and they’ve not been in the country long. “Though it is my sister who crafts the recipes.”

Sukuna glances at her again and she tries not to jump.

“Uraume,” he says. “Get the recipe from this one.”

“Of course, Lord Sukuna,” Uraume says, affording Šetû a smile that can only be described as chilly. She chews her lip nervously.

“Well?” Sukuna grins, and they tense. “Don’t stop on my account. Do whatever it is you do when the locals aren’t bothering you.”

The troupe glances at one another in confusion. How did they carry on when they’d been warned how dangerous this man is? That he has a capricious temperament and kills on a whim?

The wine.

It doesn’t take long, but the wine flows, and eventually, tongues loosen and tension eases enough for conversation to flow. Out of respect for Sukuna and his companion, they converse in Japanese to include them in the conversation.

“How is it you wound up here?” Sukuna asks. “And what was it you were singing earlier?”

Amadou smiles. “We travel all over, performing for coin, doing odd jobs. Our homeland was ravaged by war, and we had to leave. This may be the furthest we’ve ever gone in the world.”

Sukuna chuckles. “Tch. And now that you’ve come here, what do you think?”

Amadou is silent. Yusuf, however, snorts in disdain. Sukuna’s crimson eyes focus on him, and he startles like a cat in a spray of water. Ajani and Ajamu laugh when he shoots them a glare.

“Are all the locals so rude to foreigners?” Yusuf asks bitterly. Sukuna tilts his head with a grin.

“Count yourself lucky that it is only the ignorant peasants who are rude to you,” he says and there’s something about his tone that sends a chill down their spines. A threat? A warning? It can be either, but his smile is too sharp, like a butcher’s knife freshly-whetted on the stone. Even a caress will cut.

“I suppose you have the right of it,” Yusuf concedes. “Still, it’s something to hire us to perform and then force us to linger on the outskirts of the village. To have fallen so far—”

“What he means to say is…things could stand to be a bit more hospitable,” Amadou interrupts quickly. “But it is a beautiful country. Reminds me of some parts of our homeland.”

Sukuna recalls the brief conversation with Šetû and smirks.

“Come to my estate,” he says. “All of you. I could use some entertainment and new flavors to try.”

Yusuf looks visibly nonplussed but Amadou smiles.

“Truly? We would be honored to accept but…” Amadou hesitates, glances back toward the village. “We have obligations here. Would we still be welcome after the festival is done?”

Sukuna’s grin is sleek, and one of the eyes on the bone plate of his face settles on Šetû and she chews her lip again.

“I don’t see why not,” he says laconically. “You will be paid for your services. A great deal better than these provincial superstitious idiots. Aside,” he turns the full weight of his gaze on Šetû again. “I believe what you have to offer is very interesting.”

Amadou frowns. “And what do you mean by that, my lord?” He asks in a tone that dares to reveal a bit of steel. Sukuna grins then, and this time it chills all around the fire. Uraume smirks as if they know something the others do not.

“I have never seen art like yours before,” Sukuna drawls. “And it would please me to have you present it to me away from…” He gestures vaguely toward the village. Amadou seems settled by the explanation, but he shares a brief glance with Yusuf who seems to understand what just transpired.

“It would be our highest honor, my lord,” Amadou says, bowing his head.

There’s the sound of bells tinkling as Šetû shifts in her seat.

“We should play Hankali,” she says with a grin. Amadou and Yusuf look momentarily startled, but Ajani and Ajamu seize on that opportunity.

“Great idea!” Ajani says, getting up. “I’ll grab my tama, eh?”

Šetû claps her hands together excitedly, kicking her feet and making the ankle bells jingle prettily. Sukuna watches her with an amusement one would expect from a normally impassive deity.

“What is this…” he thinks for a moment, then says the word slowly. “Hankari?”

“Hankali,” Šetû corrects with a grin. “It’s a children’s game we usually play after a good night. A test of rhythm, memory, and word association.”

Sukuna snorts. “And how is it played?”

The little family gathers around as Ajani returns with a small, two-headed drum affixed with thick, gutstring ropes, and a curved stick with a flattened tip. He wears the drum slung on his shoulder and carried in his armpit; and it sits high, almost too high for it to be reasonably played by hand. Sukuna watches unblinking as he tests the drum, tapping out a rapid series of syncopated rhythms with only the stick and his fingertips. Sukuna’s eyes narrow when he sees the subtle flex of his arm, tightening the gutstring ropes and causing the drum to sound out different notes.

As if it is talking. Sukuna tilts his head, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Teach me,” he says to Šetû, who beams at him as if he is an old friend and not the fearsome and rightly feared sorcerer that holds sway in these lands.

Sukuna watches as she moves her hands, gesturing to Ajani to play.

“So,” she explains, “we start by establishing a rhythm…”

Sukuna listens, watches as Šetû’s hands move, tapping her lap, clapping her hands, and then snapping both fingers. Sukuna’s brow furrows, listening. The drum, her hands, two counter rhythms locking in to become a sentence, a phrase. Sukuna begins to breathe in time with the music; it’s just like her performance earlier in the evening. He’s caught in the rhythm, tapping in time with one finger before he even realizes he’s doing it.

Šetû begins to sing, her voice coming out honey sweet in that strange tongue Sukuna doesn’t understand, introducing yet another element to the music. Sukuna focuses on her hands, but he hears the men respond to her call, and he smirks.

It doesn’t take long for him to pick up on the pattern, letting them play a round where they switch to Japanese, listing off words that are commonly associated with one another. At the end of each turn, Šetû returns to the calling chorus, and Sukuna responds. Even Uraume who is usually so reserved seems to relax to the music.

And now he’s having fun in a way he did not expect.

Several times, people are knocked out of the game for missing the rhythm, hesitating, or saying a word that doesn’t match the round robin. Sukuna laughs uproariously when he realizes the point of the game.

“It helps teach you our language,” he says. Šetû beams again.

“Got it in one,” she says. “We’ve gone begging for translators and native speakers in our travels, but the best way we learn is by simply immersing in the language. And then we use Hankali to practice.”

Sukuna smirks. “You’re passing fair at it already, and your brother isn’t a bad cook.” Although there’s a sense that he doesn’t believe for a moment that Šetû isn’t the smartest one in the bunch. He finds her brothers to be irritatingly suspicious and antsy, but Šetû has exhibited a calm in his presence he isn’t used to; not only that…she has welcomed him.

“My lord…” Uraume stirs by his side. He seems startled from his thoughts, eyes cutting downward to regard them. “We must depart if we’re to prepare for travel tomorrow.”

Sukuna sighs and waves a hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says dismissively. He rises to his full height, and all rise with him. They bow to him as he turns away to leave. He spares a glance over his shoulder.

“I expect to see you all at the shrine after this festival is over.” He says and Amadou keeps his eyes dutifully downcast.

“Of course, my lord,” he says, willing obeisance into his tone. Sukuna smirks smugly, pleased with the outcome. Uraume bows one last time before they depart.

“My lord appreciates your hospitality,” they say cooly.

And with that, the pair depart. For a while, Šetû watches them go until they vanish around a bend in the path, leading toward the thick forest, vanishing like mist.

“Anyone else almost shit themselves in terror?” Ajani asks when he’s sure Sukuna and Uraume are out of earshot as well as line of sight.

“Wallahi, each of the man’s hands were the size of Amadou’s head, I thought for sure he was going to kill us all,” Ajamu says, earning nervous but relieved laughter from the group.

“And the way he kept looking at Šetû…” Yusuf snorts. “Like he wanted to have her served up on a platter or something.”

Šetû’s cheeks flush with heat. “Please, he was probably just lost in thought or something. Plus, I’m the one who speaks the language best. And if you blockheads would actually stop acting like a bunch of posturing peacocks, we’d be able to get the locals to be more welcoming!”

“Tch! If his mouth hadn’t been closed, he would be drooling like a starved dog.” Yusuf says and Šetû laughs. She doesn’t quite believe it herself, but she remembers the weight of Sukuna’s gaze, the way the crimson irises seemed to gleam like drops of blood, rippling with something she couldn’t name. A hunger with an unending maw and gullet, one that will inevitably swallow her up if she dares get too close.

She pushes such thoughts from her mind.

“Well, in any case, we’ve accepted his invitation,” she says. “We can’t back out. Something tells me he’s not the type who takes kindly to one going back on their word.”

Amadou makes a pensive sound, resting his chin on his hands.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We’ll finish up the festival tomorrow and then head to the shrine. I don’t think Sukuna means us harm. He could have easily harmed us right here if that was his aim.”

Yusuf sucks his teeth in annoyance.

“And would you wander into the mouth of a tiger if it promised not to close its jaws on your head? Amadou, the man is dangerous. He had an aura of evil about him that chills the blood. You cannot mean to accept his invitation!”

Amadou sighs. “Of course I do, Yusuf. He has promised payment, and we’re low on coin as is. Our wagon wheel will need mending soon, and our food stores are in dire need of restock. Of course I will accept the invitation, what other choice is there?”

Yusuf grumbles but no retort comes to gainsay his brother. Thus settled, Amadou declares the night over. Together, siblings and cousins clean up the camp, douse the fire, and retreat to their yurt. Inside is a snug fit, but it’s warm. Ajani and Ajamu decide to take the first watch.

“What do you think we should expect at the shrine?” Šetu murmurs from her pallet. Amadou snorts.

“More of the same: servants, a few priests and priestesses, and Sukuna himself, I’d imagine. Likely he’ll only want us there for the night, so it should be safe.”

Šetû thinks about the way Sukuna’s crimson eyes flared with a hunger that made her shiver to the marrow. Safe is not the word she’d use, and yet she gets the distinct feeling his invitation is sincere. Her eyes drift close, and she catches the faintest whiff of something burning as she slips into sleep.

𓇢𓆸 Masterlist 𖤓 Next

© 2024-2025 Hajara Asiri. Do NOT copy, translate, plagiarize, repost anywhere without permission [reblogging posts is okay]. This includes feeding any of my writing to an AI as well as copying my masterlist format, fanfic format, or stealing my graphics. I only upload on Tumblr and AO3. Header, footer, and dividers by me.

☕️ Member of the @pixelcafe-network.

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hanasnx · 11 months ago

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x gon' give it to ya.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: @fuckmyskywalker introduced me to the concept of talking to a pussy i think via an anakin smut post and it changed my life so i'd like to dedicate credit to the idea. WARNINGS: fem reader | sex in the suit | deadpool calls himself daddy ironically and talks to your pussy.

A deep groan reverberates from low in DEADPOOL's throat. "Baby, I can't believe how good you look right now, seriously never looked better." he praises, commending the space between your legs as she's stuffed full of every inch of his dick. Another inexplicable thing about his mutation—he grew.

"'Talking to my pussy again, Wade?" you scoff, amused and breathless as you rock back on him, tossing a glance at him over your shoulder. Your spine is in a deep arch over the bed, and the nine inch heels you're wearing are the only reason you're able to compete with his height bent over like this.

"She needs to know what a good job she's doing otherwise she'll get discouraged. Poor thing needs a lot of love." he refutes your judgement, however playful, lovingly stroking the flesh of your ass with his glove. "Give us some privacy, please. Jesus." he tsks, shaking his head at you while you bury your face in the mattress. If his dick wasn't yanking your brains out along with it, you might have more to say. He turns his attention back where your bodies conjoin. "Thank God I put zipper on this thing. Who knew a onesie would be such a hassle to take a piss in?" The sounds of the room are filled with him running his mouth and your cunt's wet responses when he pulls out and shoves back in. "Now look at us." A particularly moistured sound squirts out, and he laughs knowingly, like your hole's said something entertaining at a tea party. "Zipper makes it too easy, you know? We've gotta stop meeting like this, maybe next time we can just sit and talk—"

"Wade!" you giggle, banging your fist onto the mattress. "Just fuck me, already!"

"Don't worry about her, she's just jealous." he tells your cunt, "You and I have something special, don't we? 'Specially when Daddypool says to christen the suit." A wave of wetness wells up from his comment, and he gasps in pleasant surprise. "Oh, you like that, you dirty thing. Next time I crotch-shot a bad guy he'll smell you all over, is that what you want, you freak? C'mere, I'll give you something real to leak about." Big rough hands grip on your hips, slamming into you so hard your ass ripples from the effect, and your happy pussy gargles around the dick it chokes on.

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ditzydoe444 · 1 month ago

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roommate!jay who hears you masterbating in the shower and he comes in and ‘helps’ you..

also could there be him using the shower head on your 🐱?

-the best, 🍎

MDNI 18+

jason and overheard you moaning in the shower, and what kind of roommate would he be to just let you whine like a pathetic animal with no release?

“m-mph! fuck jay,” you moaned as jason held you tightly to his chest, one of your legs placed on the wall whilst he was knuckles deep into your cunt. you were so god damn wet you filled the bathroom with the most lewd noises coming from your pussy. you were so flustered, unlike jason who was clearly not phased by fingering his roommate.

“just helping you out,” he said calmly as his thumb rubbed your clit. “you were makin’ all of those pretty noises it’d be a shame to not give you something to get off.” jason was huge, like greek god huge. the water ran down his chest and down to his abs, his hard cock jutted out and rubbed against your inner thighs.

“can’t have ya not come when you were whining like a dog in heat.” he groaned as his fingers moved at a pace you couldn’t handle, if it wasn’t for his strong arm around your waist, gripping you tightly to him you would’ve slipped and fell. the sensation was just too much, you couldn’t help but squirm in his embrace.

“‘m close jay,” your walls were so god damn tight he hissed as you clenched around his fingers, god what he would do to feel them around his cock. your eyes widened as you watched him grab the shower head, switching the water pressure to a higher setting. “no, ‘m gonna come with that jay!” you whined as you shook your head, you didn’t want it to end, god it felt so good it couldn’t end.

a low chuckle escaped his lips, “don’t worry, i’ll make sure you come more than once.” he used the shower head on your pussy, the water pressure hitting all of your swollen folds just from his fingers alone. “jay!” the water pressure was too much, jason putting it where it directly meets your puffy clit. your eyes rolled back as your head tilted to meet his chest, his arm around your stomach forcing you to take it. “n-nngh!” “stop whining, or else i’ll turn up the pressure.”

#🍎 anon #jason todd #ch: jason #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd smut #dc smut #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood smut #red hood x reader #dc jason todd smut #dc jason todd #dc fanfic #dc universe

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tinysunshine · 23 days ago

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━━━ ✧˖° 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒

[ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

warnings and triggers: extremely dark subject matter, graphic mentions of abuse. sexual trauma. hints that daryl might be autistic. name calling. no smut, but moments of fluff. slight alternate universe.

word count: 9.4k

you and daryl grew up in broken homes. bonded by the abuse you both suffered, you find comfort in each other. but as you grow up, you drift apart, although the connection between you two never fully goes away.

when you reconnect as adults, you both realize that the love between you two has always been more than just friendship - it was also survival during the rough times, and in each other you find healing. in daryl, you realize that home isn’t always four walls and a roof.

sometimes, it’s a man with rough hands and a kind soul, who’s always had your best interest at heart. who knows all your demons - and loves you anyway.

you grew up with daryl - but instead of riding bikes around the neighborhood and telling fairy tales like a normal kid, you trauma bond over stories about your abusive family situations and collect empty beer bottles littered around both of your childhood homes to throw baseballs at, looking for any form of entertainment to get through the day. you’re practically neighbors, and as you grow up you’re more like brother and sister than just friends. shared trauma will do that to anyone.

during the summer, you stay awake and out of your homes until it’s dark, looking for frogs and eating berries, finding loose change on the road and walking the mile to the little convenience store in town to buy and share a bag of chips. you stay out until merle comes looking for daryl, or your own brother calls out to you, yelling, “get your ass inside or i’m locking you out!”

daryl and you always exchange a look, one that’s founded in humor, a ‘look what i deal with everyday’ expression while you try to act strong - but you both know it’s a very thin thread that holds your emotions, your hope, together these days. the only thing that brings a little light into either of your worlds is the friendship you have with one another.

you don’t have to hide around daryl. both of you can be your broken selves, show your bruises around each other. it’s not even embarrassing to bring daryl into your home, because his home is just the same. dirty, loud, a place that has you constantly tense and ready to defend yourself.

daryl is like your shadow, and you’re his. wherever you go, he goes. wherever he goes, you go.

you’re so close - until you’re not.

────

as teenagers, you grow apart.

you get pretty - and a little slutty. you look for validation from the mean guys at school, offer yourself up to any man that reminds you of your father. your beauty is your currency, your weapon, but also your biggest curse. makes it so you don’t even want to be around your father when he’s drunk, or your brother or his friends for that matter.

you’re busy, flunking your classes and stealing fashion magazines from the same convenience store you used to go to with daryl as kids with pockets full of change. you spend your time in bedrooms, mostly yours, hanging up photos from those precious magazines on your wall to cover up the cigarette smoke stained wallpaper. but you also spend a lot of time in the bedrooms or truck beds of different men.

sometimes, you wonder about daryl - the boy with the haunted eyes that was your lifeline and such a big part of your childhood. he’s just as much of the voice in your head as your own is, and when you walk home alone, from school or the store or past his house without catching a glimpse of him, you think back to the memories you shared together. the games you played, when there was still a little bit of innocence in the both of you.

like pretending to be cops, with daryl being the good cop and you being the bad. hide and seek by the stream in the woods that destroyed both of your school shoes, and you only got one pair a year, in just one weekend. grabbing an old bowl from your house to collect grass and leaves and little rocks and mud, so you could play family and make dinner, pretending the random squirrels that ran past you both were your pets. it was an idealized version of a family from the television you watched - because neither one of you have any actual memories of your mothers cooking.

or your favorite game: royalty, when daryl made you both crowns out of old grass and twigs and bestowed upon you the most important title you’ve ever held: mud queen to his mud king. like you were married or something.

on especially rough days in your present, you swear you see the tiny, muddy footprints of you and daryl when you’re walking on a trail back to your house. when you’d both check to make sure your fathers were at the bar or out of the house so you could sit next to each other on either of your couches, and share a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on stale bread, watch cartoons on televisions with grainy screens and bad audio.

you still remember how daryl likes his peanut butter sandwiches. lots of spread, a little jelly, and if there was one available - a whole banana smashed up inside.

you wonder if he remembers anything about you. you wonder if he even thinks of you at all.

────

daryl’s not like the rest of the guys in town, and that’s good - because he was always worried he would be. used to look at merle and your brother in disgust and hatred whenever they were high or drunk or just being themselves. and you don’t know daryl anymore, not at all, but what you do know about him, hear about him - you can tell that he kept those promises to himself.

promises to you, when you’re feeling extra sorry for yourself.

you have a memory of him walking into your bedroom so you could show him a new coloring book you got. you were much too old to be so excited about a coloring book, but daryl was ranting about how much he hated his family, and you wanted to cheer him up.

you notice this in your life even though you’re almost all grown up. maybe coming from poverty, having nothing, being denied a real childhood - it keeps you young. interested in things that normal people your age would’ve outgrown already.

like now, with your bed full of stuffed animals you could’ve never afforded as a kid, but that you’re so excited you can give to yourself now. back then, it was that coloring book that your mom’s boyfriend of the month, when she finally remembered she had a daughter and came to visit, gave to you. it had unicorns on it and you also had a brand new pack of crayons.

but when you opened your drawer looking for it, excited to show daryl, there was just a bunch of broken crayons and ripped up pages. your eyes watered, and daryl stopped his story about his father putting out a cigarette on his hand to see what was wrong. his expression fell, seeing what was in the drawer, and he picked up whatever was left of the coloring pages. your brother walked by your bedroom at the same time, and he saw what was in daryl’s hand.

he shook his head, and you couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. daryl stepped in front of you, and you don’t even think he realized he was doing it, but you remember that it was obvious that he was turning into a man. he was finally taller than you, and too strong now to climb up and into your favorite tree. your brother scoffed, like he was disgusted just by your presence.

you knew that feeling all too well.

“yer too old for a coloing book anyway. what you do to get that, huh? mom didn’t give me anything. she didn’t even say hi, but you - you whoring yourself out like her already?”

you saw daryl’s hand tense up. he grabbed onto the coloring book so hard it was damaging it more, but you didn’t say anything. just whispered, “let’s go for a walk,” as soft as you could until your brother walked away.

and on that walk, daryl grabbed at his hair and kicked empty cans in the road.

“god,” he groaned angrily, and you still remember that he was the only man or boy you’d ever been around who’s anger didn’t scare you. “i’ll never be like them. i swear it,” he ranted the entire walk. you stopped at the convenience store again.

the guy at the front hassled daryl about telling merle to pay up, and daryl hassled him back, which was unusual. you didn’t realize why he did that, until you both left.

on the way back home, daryl pressed a fresh pack of crayons into your hand. he had been distracting the guy at the counter so he could steal it. he shrugged. “can always just use regular paper,” he suggested, and you remember leaning on your tip toes to kiss his cheek.

nowadays, daryl sticks to himself, and eventually, drops out of high school. but you know he’s still in town because you see him sometimes when your brother drags you to the dixon place to pick up a bag of something to get him high. you never talk to daryl, but sometimes you see that he’s there, from his crossbow by the door or a banana on the kitchen counter - because merel wouldn’t eat that gay shit. or sometimes you hear him in his room, blasting music while merle bangs on his door and roars at him to “turn that shit down!”

you don’t know if he’s avoiding you or just avoiding the world. you wonder why you grew apart exactly. you have some theories, because there was never a falling out between you two. one day - you just stopped hanging out. you don’t even remember how it happened.

both of you just wanted to outgrow the shitty childhood you had, maybe hope for something better as you got older. did it happen? no. but the memories you have together are just reminders of the abuse you’ve seen the other handle. the dreams you bonded over, about escaping this town and your families - they never came true. looking at each other is just a reminder of that.

but your paths keep crossing. it is a small town, after all.

────

daryl sees you at a party one day, being shoved in a room by three guys that you don’t know beause you’re drunk and your reputation precedes you. he pulls you out of the room and gets in a fight in your honor, one against too many to win but daryl is a dixon and can hold his own. he walks you home and when you thank him he just shakes his head. won’t even look you in the eye. “quit bein fuckin’ stupid,” he says, and it hurts. but you know he’s not wrong.

it’s not your fault that you got shoved in a room, but it is your fault that you can’t say no. it is your fault, that you dumb yourself down so you’re easier to use, anything for a crumb of attention from a man who might be your ticket out of this town. you don’t want to be ashamed, but you are. of the woman you are, of the one you’re becoming - at the things you’ve done, just for an ego boost that ultimately ruined your self esteem even more.

daryl can see through you, even after all this time. and you hate it.

you see him smoking on the steps of a diner a few days later, eye bruised and black and nearly shut. his hair is dark and floppy and he’s so handsome, but your heart hurts when you see that even though he’s getting taller than his dad and merle, even though he’s strong now, the way he always used to wish he was as a kid, with big arms and shoulders from buffing up on his porch with the weights merle has - he’s still a punching bag.

you know the feeling. you gaze down at the bruise on your wrist, hidden by a tight sweater. it’s the sad proof that daryl is a stranger now, that you have to hide things from him that you never would’ve had to hide when you were kids. although: both are fucking sad situaions. the fact that you were kids, bonding over bruises anyway.

you walk up to him, and he offers you a cigarette. you shake your head. “good girl,” he says mockingly, and you hate the way that your body heats up. you can’t deny that you feel like he’s mocking you, like cigarettes are where you draw the line in terms of risky behavior, but you try not to dwell on it. it’s just nice to see him.

“they got you good,” you say, referring to his eye and the party. “thanks for helping me.” you don’t know what else to say, aren’t really thinking - you just want daryl to talk to you again. but daryl just shakes his head, scoffs and walks off. but not before putting his cigarette out, stepping on it with his scuffed up boot.

“wasn’t from that fuckin’ party,” he says, about his eye. “you know that.”

you don’t speak again for years.

────

in a blink of an eye, you go from two damaged kids to two fucked up adults.

daryl, a man now, big and strong and tough. handsome, dirty, rough. you see him in town sometimes, around his brother and their fucked up friends. or maybe they’re just merle’s friends, but you can’t judge. the people you hang around aren’t exactly good.

you hear the whispers about him, how nobody can read him, how he’s stupid, or a creep with anger issues - all things you know aren’t true. you know that, because they say shit about you too. that you’re stupid, slutty, a whore no better than your mother.

you don’t have an excuse for your behavior, but daryl does. you’ve got a television in your room now, and you watched a show one day that talked about…mental stuff. it was a little too complex for you to fully understand, but the doctor on the show explained somet things that just screamed out daryl to you. quiet, sensitive. they talked about some spectrum thing, and you wonder if that’s what daryl is on. why he’s so hard to understand.

why he dropped out when you saw him coming from a classroom that your peers used to always call the idiot class.

you wish you could tell him about it, but then again. what do you know? about life, or even about daryl in general.

you want out of this life, but you don’t know anything else. you don’t know how to get out. you wonder if daryl thinks about the future you used to dream about when you were kids. two apartments in the same complex, so you could always play together but got to experience your own space, you know? a big, color television. you have that now, but so does everyone. a fridge stocked with food and snacks. no beer allowed.

it’s a sad, funny thought. because every time you see daryl in town it’s with a beer bottle in his hand. and you, well - you’re never alone. never have truly experienced your own space that you’ve always yearned for.

these days, you see daryl as a stranger. not as a childhood friend. not anymore. and you certainly don’t see him as your brother. maybe you never did. because your brother is mean, with cruel hands and even crueler words. daryl could never be like that.

and you know that daryl doesn’t see you as his friend or his sister, or as anything different than the people in your town see you, because whenever he sees you at a bar in town, dressed up and on the arm of whatever shitty boyfriend you have, the way he looks at you, with the same disgust he used to look at your brothers with and something else in his eyes - it makes that clear.

although, when you’re hopeful, you hope that disgusted look is meant for whatever man you’re with and not you.

sometimes, when you know you might see him in passing, you dress up just a little sexier. but you’re not sure why. daryl’s not the type to think you’re any happier than you were as a kid, just because your skirt is short and you’re wearing cheap perfume. he’s not fooled by the charms of any woman, because he does have admirers. you embarrass yourself, for even thinking about getting his attention with your body and your looks. this is the same person who used to smear dirt on your face and call you mud queen, pretending to throw arrows with twigs before merle stole him his first crossbow.

daryl could give a shit about cleavage - and he sure as hell doesn’t think being chosen makes someone any more worthy. you should take notes.

while it’s a good feeling that deep inside, daryl might be the same person he always was, it scares you a little bit. because maybe you’re the only one who’s different. and not better in this case.

sometimes you feel even worse off than when you were a kid.

────

you’re walking home from the store one day, bag of groceries on your arm, when you run into daryl. he’s hopping on his motorcycle, and it starts to rain, which sucks - not because you don’t want to get wet, but because you’ve got makeup covering your black eye and the hand prints on your neck, that’ll surely wash off on the long walk back to your house in this weather.

daryl spots you. he’s leaving the gas station. you’re humiliated that of all people, you run into him today. you pretend you don’t see him, and tighten your hold on the bag.

“hey,” he calls out as you pass him. his voice is different. a little deeper than you remember hearing, but you guess it makes sense - you’re both all grown up. you always wished for that, but now you’re not so sure it was the right wish. because you’re in the same position you were in as a kid.

maybe you should’ve wished for a ride out of this town instead.

you look back at daryl, and give a tight lipped smile and nod of your head to let him know you saw him. you keep walking, but as embarrassed as you are, you’re pretty happy that he’s talking to you.

he starts up the motorcycle, and you wait for him to speed by you. a thought occurs to you, that he’s always wanted a bike like that. used to talk about it as a kid, used maple syrup to stick pictures of motorcycles from his father’s magazines to his bedroom wall.

you’re happy for him. it must feel good, to finally get something you want. you don’t know what that feels like. maybe daryl is happy in this town, and it’s just you who’s so miserable you’re projecting that onto everyone else.

the motorcycle stops right beside you, and you’re closer to daryl than you’ve been in years. you see his face, with more lines than he had the last time you spoke to him. but just as handsome as ever, hair longish and dark and in his eyes. you want to push it back, like you did with dirty, sticky hands back when you were kids.

“you need a ride?” he asks shyly, and you swallow hard, wondering if he remembers that was the first thing he said to you back when you were kids. the sentence that started your friendship.

you were stranded at school, your mom run off with a new man and your dad too drunk to give a fuck, brother probably high somewhere. daryl rode by on his run down bike, just slightly too big for him, the parts all mismatched - but at least it was wheels. he rode that thing until merle went to prison and coudn’t steal him anymore parts to fix it.

he asked you that same question then, and you still have the same answer.

“wanna ride?” he’d asked, no backpack or anything even though you were both leaving school. “you live by me. i’ve seen you.” you nodded, and got on, just like now.

it breaks the ice. much like it did when you were kids.

you realize that day, from a thought that's just as sweet as it is scary for someone like you - that history really does repeat itself.

────

suddenly, you’re not avoiding daryl anymore. and he’s not hiding from you. when you see him in town, you walk over to him to talk. you offer to go to his house to get shit for your brother from merle because you know you’ll see daryl, and you share a soda on the porch with him, sitting mostly in quiet, but daryl’s presence has always been comforting to you. not his words.

being around daryl now, as an adult - it doesn’t feel like friendship. it feels like something else. when you see him, ripped arms showing in a vest, his new camaraderie with his brother that feels more equal than it ever has before - you realize you’re attracted to him. it’s the first time you’ve ever though of daryl like that, and even though your friendship or whatever it is is growing, you pull back, scared.

it’s been a long time since you’ve been around a man who just wants to be your friend - and you trust daryl, but it’s hard to believe that’s all he wants. the pressure you’re making up all in your head starts getting to you, and you change.

start wearing makeup to your little porch sessions. a push up bra that’s a size too small. you’re a little jealous, you think one day, sitting on his porch after your own brother punched a hole in your bedroom wall because you drank the last orange soda, that daryl’s big enough now that his brother and father don’t pick on him, while you’re still at the mercy of the two men in your home who will always be bigger and stronger than you.

you see daryl one day when merle and his father are out so he’s alone at his place. you’re in a little, yellow sundress and daryl scoffs at you. “what the hell are you wearin?’” he asks, and you blush, attempting to sit on the dirty stairs of his porch. but he stops you by reaching a hand out and you flinch - and he notices. looks at you like he always did when you were a kid and he heard your father yelling at you. pity, but something like hurt in there too. hurt, maybe, that you flinched around him. but’s it not like you can control those types of reactions. your body is just being cautious.

daryl doesn’t say anything. he just puts that angel wing vest of his on the step so you can sit on it so you don’t ruin your dress, and it’s sweet but it makes you sad.

you’ve never had a guy be thoughtful to you before. only daryl - and that’s pathetic. you’ve shared your body with more men than you can count, and daryl doing something so normal makes you feel incredibly indebted to him.

“just wanted to feel pretty,” you tell him, embarrassed. he looks you over, shakes his head like you’re an idiot. maybe you are. you can’t say you’ve ever had a man not want to see you in a sundress, but you’re happy he’s noticing the effort you put in to be around him.

“don’ have to do shit to be pretty, mud queen,” he says. your stomach erupts in butterflies. he remembers. “yer already the prettiest girl in this garbage town.”

────

weeks go by, of sharing sodas on daryl’s porch, or bringing him those peanut butter sandwiches he likes so much when he stops by yours. eventually, those childlike foods progress to beer, and then somehow, some way, you kiss him.

it just happens. you’ve never been good with boundaries, and daryl has never made a move. you worry, even if you’re not conscious about it, that if you don’t show him you’re interested soon that he’ll be done hanging out with you. men play the long game that way. it’s all a game to them. you know daryl is different but still -

you put yourself out there. or maybe, a better term would be get desperate. you make it clear, how you’re feeling. and after his compliment, calling you the prettiest girl in your entire town, all you can think about is the fact that you got pretend married when you were kids. you found a dirty lace shirt in the back of your closet that must’ve belonged to your mom, and it looked like a veil you saw in a movie. and daryl humored you, used a leaf as a bow tie and held one of your dirty hands in his own as you said i do.

and then you admitted that you don’t know what being married actually means. how could you? you'd never seen a normal example of a family. “i think there’s supposed to be rings,” you remember telling daryl that day, and he just shrugged. “i’ve never heard of that,” he’d said.

but now you’re adults. and you're not a mud queen, you’re the town slut. and daryl isn’t the broody, quiet kid skinning frogs for fun, he’s strong and handsome and a man - and, okay, he's still broody and sinning frogs. but things are different, and so are you, but he’s still the daryl that always brought you peace.

you wonder, pressed arm to arm on his little porch step, what it'd be like to be married to someone like daryl. to daryl dixon himself. but you shake yourself out of those random, childish thoughts, because they do nothing but hurt. with your reputation, there's no way in hell anyone, even a man as kind as daryl, would ever actually marry you.

but daryl's always been your peace. even with the screaming and yelling and the violence in your home, or in this case, with merle screaming at the television inside of the dixon home -

you’re still that same little girl you've always been. desperately looking for someone to care. to love you. you push yourself into daryl’s arms and kiss him, and he kisses back for a second before pulling away. shoving you, although gently, back.

‘’m not one of those losers you gotta fuck for some attention,” he spits, and you’re speechless. embarrassed. he stands up, and you know it’s your cue to leave, especially when merle comes out. he overheard, despite the screaming. or laughing. hard to tell with merle.

“oh hell, little brother,” he teases. “you finally fuck her? wassit been? ten years? how much longer you gunna make her wait? she’s aching for it, comin’ here all the time. you sure your pecker works?” he goes on and on.

they starts bickering, and you leave, heading back to your home with nothing your brother asked of you - weed, something stronger. you’ve got nothing but the last piece of self-worth in your hand, and you want to just toss it down the toilet and flush it.

what kind of woman puts the moves on a man? it's so desperate. you're mortified, and as you pass the mirror in the entryway of your shitty home, you feel like the ugliest person on the planet.

of course, not having what your brother asked for causes a fight, only - you’re not daryl, and you’re not strong. it’s not a fair fight, and you end up with bruises so bad you just pack your sundress away, because there’s no way in hell you’ll get to wear it again by the time summer is over. it's long-sleeved shirts from now on.

you think you ruined whatever you had with daryl and you hate yourself. how stupid you were, treating him like some other guy. just because that’s the only way you connect with other men, doesn't mean that's the way to connect with daryl. you should known that, better than anyone.

you ignore him. avoid him. but it’s not like he’s seeking you out.

until one day, he comes to your window.

that’s how he used to ask you if you wanted to play, when you were kids. would walk through the dense woods, because he said he was never scared - which was a lie, because you’d seen his eyes when his father pulled his belt out of the closet one day. but maybe he just meant he was never scared of anything in the woods. he would throw a rock at your window to get your attention. anytime you ever watch a romantic movie with a window scene, you always think about daryl - and you wonder why it took so long for you to see him in that light.

why it took so long to realize that daryl dixon is so much more than the dirty, damaged boy you knew as a kid. but maybe that’s because it’s a scary realization. would mean that you could be more than the damaged, dirty little girl you used to be - and if that’s the case…what do you do? how do you move on and learn to live as someone you’ve never even known you could be?

you open your window when daryl taps on the glass. he doesn’t use a rock this time, probably because he remembers when your father shoved you against a wall for throwing a book against the television once as an accident. now that you think about it - the rock throwing did stop after that incident.

when you see daryl and open your window, all you say is, “i'm sorry.” he doesn’t say anything else, just crawls through the window, body almost too big, and lands with a thud after almost tripping. you giggle, so happy he’s not mad.

“room looks different,” he comments, sitting on your bed. he looks funny, a little filthy and all dark clothes, on your ratty, floral print bed covers in your trashy, uber pink room. you wish you’d cleaned up, but you never have anyone in here who matters.

never have had a man in your room who’s more interested in the design of of it rather than the little pajama set you’ve got on. you nod.

"i’m all grown up now, daryl,” you remind him, standing in front of him. “and so are you.” you’re not trying to excuse kissing him or making him uncomfortable, but maybe he forgot. you’re not kids. you’re not friends - you don’t call yourself brother and sister to the people at school after they question why daryl always shares his lunch with you.

it’s okay if he wants to kiss you back.

you wish he would.

he just looks at the ground, at your dirty carpet, the red nail polish on your toes that are so close to touching his boots. you follow his gaze. and then, he notices the bruises on your arms.

“whos been hurtin’ you?” he asks, and you understand why. you’re always seen with a different guy around town. or, you were, before daryl filled the void a few months ago. maybe he thinks it’s someone from town, but you’re too embarrassed to admit that it’s not. or maybe, he forgot that just because he’s bigger, can handle his brother and father - you’re not. it feels like he should really be asking who’s hurting you now?

you understand now, how he felt that day outside the diner. on the spot. like the answer is obvious, and someone is just trying to pry the truth you’re so ashamed of from your mouth. you bite your lip, shutting your eyes as you answer. “you know who.”

he looks from you to the door, hearing your brother laugh at something that’s playing on the television, before visibly taking a deep breath. he shakes his head as he exhales, pausing before his eyes look into yours. he’s quiet for so long, that you shift on your feet, looking for something to fill the silence the way his large frames fills your room.

“i don’t think of you like the other guys, daryl. i just. i dunno. i felt comfortable with you and,” you don’t know what to say. you’ve never had to apologize for coming onto someone before - and you’ve definitely never had anyone apologize for coming onto you.

he looks at you, neutral expression on his face, and then he sighs.

“come here,” he says, tugging you closer by the hand. gently. you stand between his legs, in nothing but your pajama camisole and a pair of shorts, and he kisses you. has to lean up a little from sitting, but it works. he wraps his arms around you, holds your body close, and when he rubs a hand down your back, your body shudders with sobs.

daryl is a good kisser. sweet. he’s timid, and you can tell he hasn’t had much experience. not compared to you, where kissing is like breathing at this point. you like that about him - it makes you, selfishly, happy.

but you’re still crying.

daryl pulls away, visibly confused and worried, but you you push yourself back in his arms. like a stray kitten, who's not taking no for an answer now that it's finally being shown some love.

you’ve never been kissed so gently. never been touched so gently. you never thought about what it’d be like to kiss daryl until recently, but you didn’t know it’d feel so, so. soft? the opposite of home? warm and calm and safe. maybe it's what home should feel like. you lose yourself in him, even with the sound of your brother screaming at the television and hitting the wall in the other room.

you cry like an idiot in daryl’s arms, even as he kisses you. some first kiss between you two.

when you were a kid, you never cried. always prided yourself on being strong and tough - just like your best friend daryl. maybe you have changed more than you realized. you sniffle, and sit beside him at the end of your bed, but he still holds loosely onto your hand.

“you’re the only one who has ever held me without hurting me, daryl,” you admit. sheepishly, with heat in your cheeks, you sort of shrug. “you’re the best man i know.”

you don't know what this is between you two. what it could be, what it will be. what you want it to be. you just know that it feels like the strings of fate wove together to give you both someone to count on. someone who understands. unlike when you were a child, tonight, in daryl’s presence, you don’t hope or wish for anything.

you don’t care what that kiss meant. you just don’t want daryl to go.

daryl says nothing at first, just strokes a hand down the back of your head, a comforting gesture you’re not sure where he learned, considering the way he grew up.

if you weren't so upset, you'd realize that his mother used to comfort him like that. the few times she ever did.

“yeah,” he finally replies, swallowing hard, like the compliment isn’t one at all. maybe he just doesn’t like what it means for you. “that’s a shame.”

and that’s it. you’re inseparable again.

────

after that night spent together, you don’t kiss again. but you touch. something is different between you two. you’re more than just the former friends you used to be, but there’s a line you haven’t crossed.

it sort of feels like it’s always been, you know? you and daryl. daryl and you. you see each other almost every day, but it's hard since you both still live at home. you stopped sneaking him in your room when your father ran into daryl at a bar and slapped him on the shoulder. said, “so you’re the one screwin’ my daughter now, huh? enjoy it while it lasts, dixon. she’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

daryl had to punch a hole in the wall of the men’s bathroom to stop from punching your father in the face. he wants to hurt him, you know. your brother too. now that he’s big enough, no longer the little boy that used to help cover for whatever mistake would get you hit as a kid because he lacked physical strength, he wants to be the friend he’s always wished he could be.

but you tell him no. it’ll just complicate things. you still live at home, and he can’t be there every second to protect you. daryl seems pissed, but he understands. has the scars on his back to prove how just much he does.

but things are good. as good as they can get, anyway. you spend a lot of time together. find an empty field behind your homes and lay on the grass together, watching the stars. he never tries to kiss you again, but he lets you hold his hand or nuzzle against his arm. and that’s enough. it is.

shit’s getting crazy in town. a few hours away, in the big city, there’s word going on about people getting sick and dying. first it’s a fever, and then they’re up and walking and trying to bite others. you don’t understand, but daryl tells you not to worry. you want to trust him, and you do, for the most part -

but it's getting worse every day. people are dropping dead all around. which would be horrible in itself, except for the terrifying fact that they don’t stay dead. they get back up, and they - the walkers - try to attack and -

that’s what daryl says they’re called. you see your first one when daryl’s walking you back from your spot on the field. it looks like the man that owns the old convenience store, but he’s growling, and he’s trying to walk towards you, and his scalp is missing and you’re so scared you start crying.

daryl kills him with a big rock. you’re shaking, hysterical when you get home, and daryl walks you inside. “your dad home? brother?” he asks from the doorway, but you don’t see their truck or the television on, their staple. you shake your head, and he comes inside.

“shit’s going to hit the fan. you understand?” he asks, and you don’t. you’re scared. you’re confused. and you’re worried. but you nod anyway.

“you need to be ready for,” but the sound of a car driving into the garage and alerts you that’s someone’s home. daryl looks at you, then the door that leads into the house from the garage, before nodding. “i’m gunna go. gunna get some shit together and check on merle. i’ll be back in a few hours to check on you. pack a bag or sumthin’ just in case,” he says, and for the first time in all the times he’s walked you home lately, he looks shy as he leans in and kisses your cheek.

he’s out the door before your brother and father even drunkenly stumble in the house.

you obey what daryl says. you lock yourself in your room, and you’re not sure what daryl meant by be ready, but you grab a bag from your closet and fill it with clothes. just in case, right? who knew it’d take an apocalyptic situation to get you to finally leave this shitty town.

you’re worried, about daryl. you count the minutes until he comes back, because it's getting later and later and he’s not here yet. the sound of the clock, the tick tock tick tock makes you want to puke. you honestly consider trying to empty your stomach in the bathroom before your body makes you puke on its own when there’s a sound outside your door.

the door opens. it’s your brother.

“get your shit,” he orders, your door bouncing off your wall. there's a hole in the wall from the doorknob being constantly slammed against it. you catch a glimpse on the skinny part of the door that's normally hidden when it's closed - it still has the height markers you and daryl used to measure yourself with. he's everywhere, has always been, even when you don't notice.

your brother looks down at your bag already packed, purse on top of it. “shit, you already did. where you goin’?” you open your mouth to answer, but then your father is walking behind him, both of them peering at you with so much suspicion in their eyes you actually feel like you did something wrong.

“you planning’ on leavin us as soon as shit goes wrong? we’ve put a roof over your head for how many years? and now, what? you think dixon is gonna save you? that fuckin' re," he stops before he finishes that statement. even he knows better. besides, he'd never be mad at another man - only his daughter gets that special treatment.

"we’re all gonna die, girl. you first. can’t fight, can’t think, can’t do nuthin but pass yourself around town.” your father won’t stop, and you try not to cry, but you really just wish daryl would come back. your hands are shaking when they try to zip up your jacket, but it seems like that just pisses your brother off more. that you’re avoiding their angry outburst.

there’s nothing an angry man likes more than getting someone else angry. so he has an excuse to be the asshole he is at his core. you’re not going to give them the satisfaction.

in the distance, there’s a noise like an explosion. the sound of alarms going off from the neighboring city, the smell of smoke, so strong it actually masks the smell of cigarettes in your own home, which you didn’t think would be possible. tears start flowing from your eyes.

but it’s not because of the state of emergency in the city. on your brother and father’s face you see fear - something you’ve never seen before. and then it all happens so fast.

your brother reaches out and pushes you down. grabs you by the hair and hurts you, hurts you, hurts you. your father only interrupts to tell him it’s time to go, and they leave you, alone on the ground with new bruises and trauma to take with you wherever you go.

they used you, like always, to mask their own fears and pain. at this point, you really feel numb.

daryl comes back, a few hours later. you’ve been staring at the floor, scared to move. the town is literally a hellscape right now, the sound of people breaking windows, screaming, growling. you stay as quiet as possible on your bedroom floor, and you almost jump out of your skin when you realize it’s daryl coming through your window.

“you good?” he asks, a huge bag slung over his shoulder. he’s in a rush, you can tell, is looking around the room with a frequency you’ve never seen in him. he’s reading the situation, and he sees it written all over you.

but you see through him too. he’s scared, but he’s trying to be casual as to not scare you. you wonder where he learned to be gentleman - sure as hell wasn’t from any man in this town.

when you don’t answer, he tosses his bag down and pulls you up, grabs your little bag too and hands you your purse. there’s a little stuffed bunny keychain hung on it, and it looks so fucking stupid for the severity of the situation happening outside your window. you rip it off and daryl notices but doesn’t say anything.

“c’mon. we gotta go. i grabbed some supplies, i’ve got my bike. can’t stay here. it’s crazy outside,” and he goes on and on but you’re not really listening.

you interrupt, just as he helps you to the front door. “my brother and dad. they left,” you say, embarrassed to admit. yeah, you both know you’d be leaving with daryl - but the fact that they didn’t even care about what happens to you hurts more than you thought. maybe you convinced yourself, all these years, that they were so hard on you because they loved you. showed they cared in different ways - kind of like merle with daryl.

you were wrong. because your arm hurts, your hand is cramping, and you’re pretty sure you’re missing hair from the way your brother hurt you. it’d be tough to fight a walker at your full health, but right now, you’re completely useless.

thank god for daryl dixon.

daryl freezes, pauses. looks down before ushering you to his motorcycle. “yeah,” he says, nodding. he won’t look you in the eye. “i know.” another pause. “c’mon. we gotta go.”

he leads you to his motorcycle, and you hop on. it’s kind of impossible to get comfortable, because you’re holding two fucking bags and trying to hold on for your life, but you manage. daryl speeds off, and you wonder how a normal day could turn into such chaos. fire blazes through the trees and neighboring city. there’s these, these - things walking around, slowly, growling.

you hold onto daryl tighter. press your face in his back and breathe in the comforting smell of him. he smells like home - cigarettes, cheap detergent, woodsy.

you want to ask about merle. about your own brother and dad. how you can just leave them, how that’s fair, but you just can’t. you’re scared, but you still know the best place for you to be right now is with daryl.

you just know. and anyway, it’s not like anyone else gave a fuck about you to make sure you got anywhere safe.

that day daryl picked you up on his motorcycle in the rain - you imagined what it’d be like if he just kept going. if you didn’t stop on your street, if you didn’t have to go home. you pictured the two of you driving somewhere better, so long as it was out of this fucking town.

but you never imagined it’d be like this. with the walking dead running after you, cars stalled on their journey out of town because the walkers got to them before they could drive off. fire in the distance, the sound of some alarm going off so loudly you can hardly think. the dead litter the streets - walking, but also just laying there.

and then you see them. you're not even a few minutes away form your house. they’re laying on the ground, right next to a truck you’re sure you’ll see in your dreams for years to come. it belongs to your father.

“daryl,” you say, but he keeps driving. you’re certain the people on the ground are your father and your brother, a group of those things surrounding them, ready to dig in. “daryl,” you say again, “stop the bike.” but he doesn’t. you turn your head to look back, almost dropping your bag, but you catch a glimpse of the muscle in your brother’s arm being torn out. the muscle he always utilized to hurt you.

you sob into daryl’s back.

────

you keep driving until daryl’s bike needs gas. there’s a long road that leads to all the major highways, and it’s completely jam packed. you’ve been on the road for hours, so daryl parks the bike, tells you the run down of the plan that you’re not even listening to because you’re so scared and frozen. he's beyond frustrated with you, but he leads you to a spot in the woods to spend the night.

it’s risky, being anywhere right now. but daryl knows what he’s doing more than you do. you trust him, more than anyone else you’ve ever met. more than you even trust yourself.

“did you,” you start to ask, wanting to know if he was the one who saw your brother and father and put them on the ground. you couldn’t see the blood or how they died, but there was no gunshot wound. it was too clean, and you counted the arrows daryl has left in his crossbow. he's missing two.

“yeah,” he answers coldly, leaning against a tree with a sigh. he pulls out a bottle of water from his bag and hands it to you, and you take a greedy sip before realizing you better learn to ration. embarrassed, you hand the water back to daryl who raises his brows in amusement and puts the bottle back in his bag. you think that’s it. that he’s not going to talk about what happened, what he did, anymore.

but you’re wrong.

“been waiting for a chance to do that. ‘ve wanted to, for a long time. now that the world is shit, thought there’s no better chance, you know? no police, no laws,” he seems proud of himself, but even though you’re not close to your brother and dad, them being dead is still painful.

daryl’s not stupid. far from it. he reads your expression and then hands the water back to you. anything to stop the look you’re giving him. it looks like fear, you know -

but anyone looking a little deeper can see that it’s gratitude.

────

it’s been just the two of you for weeks.

you spend those weeks sharing a little tent, eating the animals daryl catches and cooks for you, wanting to cry at the sheer discomfort that not bathing has brought on. you're itchy, you're tired, you're hungry - but most of all, you're scared.

you don't know how daryl does it. wakes up every morning after a shitty night sleep to hunt for food to feed you both, to protect the both of you against walkers, since you still haven't got the hang of it.

the first few nights, things weren't so bad. the reality of the situation wasn't yet known. deep down, you thought something would be able to save you both from this mess. you were wrong.

but on those nights, you curled up against daryl in the tiny tent, and tried to take his mind off of the sound of distance cries and screams.

"we shared a tent before this, remember?" you asked. he just shook his head. it was actually the night you got fake married. both your brothers and fathers went to some poker game, and you both knew it'd be impossible to sleep at home. so you found a sleeping bag in your garage, and daryl found a tent in his, and the both of you camped out in the woods, too scared to go home.

"married people live together," you remember daryl saying while he zipped up the tent and you opened up a can of expired ravioli. you just shrugged, shared the food with him, and spent the night telling stories about what your future would be like.

you didn't imagine this, but it's like history is repeating itself again.

────

a few weeks later, you find a group to join.

it’s when you’re looking for a place to sleep after moving through the forest, dirty and hungry, that you come across a camp. you hear a child laugh, and then the sound of a woman's voice, and before you know it you're tugging daryl towards the sound while he drags his feet and curses.

he doesn’t want to see anyone else, let alone join anyone else. but you do. you don't know a lot about surviving, but you do know that pretty soon, you're both going to be walker food if you don't eat something proper. if you don't get a full night of rest. it's impossible, to live like this as two people.

it's been days since you even had more than a sip of water.

you both need help, you need -

“do you need a place to stay?” a man says, walking towards you and daryl while you try to reason with him. he scoffs, and you’re too tired to roll your eyes. you nod to the man, and then a woman appears. they must've heard you bickering while you walked towards the sound of their camp. they look friendly. they seem nice. and so you go with them, tugging daryl behind you.

it’s like asking for help makes him feel like a failure. but he goes because he knows you want to, and mutters something when you’re alone about looking for merle again when he gets his strength back. you tell him okay, good plan, knowing and hoping you never see merle dixon ever again. not that you’d ever tell daryl that.

daryl just feels like your other half these days. bonded now, not just from the childhood trauma you shared - but also this situation. you don't hold hands, you only touch to keep each other warm. you don't smile - and sometimes it feels like daryl regrets ever bringing you along with him. you're dead weight, and extra mouth to feed.

you don't know what he's thinking because he won't open up.

the first night at camp, you have dinner with the rest of the group. but you still haven’t had a chance to freshen up. there’s mud on your face and caked under your nails when someone asks daryl who you two are to each other, he pauses for so long that it's actually uncomfortable.

you’re more than friends, but you’re not exactly friendly. you're not close, beyond the memories that you share, that you're not even sure if daryl remembers.

you're stuffing your face with a can of chili, wondering why you're worried about a relationship status during the fucking apocalypse, and you're so in your own world that you don't see the way daryl is looking at you.

you take his word so literally - because you trust him so much. when he told you, ages ago, that he didn't get scared - you must've believed him.

because he's terrified. of losing you. of misreading what you want from him. of admitting, that every single memory with you is etched into the forefront of his brain. that he had to distance himself from you back then, because you deserve more than a hick like him, and watching you destroy yourself never came easy. that he wonders if you'll ever forgive him, for what he did to your dad and your brother.

there has never been a day that has gone by that he hasn't thought about you. and all day long since this shit started, he feels like he's failing you. can't feed you enough, can't find a good enough shelter.

and he looks at you, with mud and dirt on your face, messy hair. even at your worst, you're better than another woman's best, and he sees the greedy eyes of the men around the campfire, wondering if you're free. daryl doesn't know these men. he doesn't know if these people are safe, women and kids here be damned. that doesn't mean shit, not when people put themselves first to survive.

he thinks about the tent you shared a decade ago, after that fake wedding ceremony he went through with to make you happy. how it felt when your soft lips pressed against his before you left town. how you want him, how you never give up on trying to connect with him, even when he doesn't open up back to you. he likes that you're chatty. likes that you're trusting, and even dirty and starved you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

but when he sees the mud on your face, your hands, your clothes - and he sees the men looking at you, leering, he makes up his mind.

a lot has changed. but not how he feels about you. you're still his mud queen, the girl that loved him so much she said yes to marrying him, even without a ring.

“she’s my wife,” daryl says, and that's it. the rest of the men look away, because a man's claim is more important than a woman's own voice. and daryl knew that’d be the case. he knows men. he is one, even if he sometimes hates that he is - particularly when you flinch from a movement he makes, or go all quiet when he raises his voice. being apart of a gender that can do so much hurt has always made him feel like an outsider.

at his words, you don't even think about the way history is repeating once again. because your history, your past that you share with daryl - they've been the best parts of your life. and instead of trying to run from them, to avoid them because of what they mean - you should embrace them.

connection formed during the worst hours of your life is still connection. and you're done feeling ashamed.

daryl throws a look your way. one that feels like you're sharing your own secret world. like you did as kids.

but most importantly, you're riding on a high, because daryl dixon might be a man of few words. he might be more guarded than a maximum security prison, might be ashamed of his emotions and wants and everything else that makes him human. but -

he remembers.

the childhood you shared. the memories you made. history may be repeating - but that doesn’t mean you can’t make new memories together.

life is different now. tough. and it’s all about survival. but then again -

when has life ever been anything different for you and daryl?

so you put yourself out there again, this time without fear. you put the can of chili down and reach for his hand.

but daryl grabs yours first.

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m1epes · 1 month ago

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My minds all over the place but!…

GK!Jason is the type to worship pudgy girls in bed like…what started off as cuddling nude under the sheets because it’s the dead of winter (since Gotham is based off NJ) its freezing slowly turns into a sloppy make out session with her cunt, and then cuddle sex. Slowly thrusting into his darling girls greedy little cunt as he whispers either sweet nothings in the darkness of their cramped shared apartment. Like I KNOW he’s just such a sweetie in bed and he try’s so hard not to pound into his girls cunt, he just wants to lay in bed all day and kiss her stomach but sometimes he just needs to fuck her to remind her he loves her. :((

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glossdebut · 5 months ago

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take a bite | MYG ★ 5

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SUMMARY: Your fledgling career as a music journalist is finally going in some kind of direction that must be on the path to success. Your coworkers like you enough to invite you out on Fridays, your boss is starting to think you’re competent enough to let you score a few bylines, and you’re finally getting the hang of InDesign. All of your hard work, late nights, and complete lack of a social life are starting to pay off… Even if it all came at the expense of the longest relationship of your life. Fine. You’ve accepted the fact that romance isn’t for you, under any circumstances. You won’t risk your career for anybody. Not even Min Yoongi.

✧ TAGS: slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, producer yoongi, music journalist reader, neighbors to friends to lovers? you’ll see, reader is bad at feelings, reader is post-break up

✧ WARNINGS: SMUT, sexting, i guess a little bit of exhibitionism? not really but if we're splitting hairs, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex, COMPLICATED FEELINGS! MEN NAMED KEVIN! YIJEONG?????

✧ WORDCOUNT: 7.4k (jesus christ)

✧ STATUS: complete

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: TAKE A BITE 5 IS HERE!!!!!!!!! this chapter was ALMOST written in a planet fitness, but it wasn't. this chapter is also almost ENTIRELY smut, but the smut is important to the plot so leave me alone! i'm sorry to inform those of you that wanted more of yoongi's brain that this chapter is entirely reader pov, but there's a reason for that and i promise yoongi will be back before this story is complete <3

CH. 5: I Think I Need Your Help

Next time can’t come soon enough.

Since Friday night, you’ve been alternating between being super proud of yourself for being direct and asking for what you want, and being equally repulsed by yourself for the way getting what you want has made you act.

You’ve seen Yoongi once since the night in his studio, when he was coming home after pulling an all-nighter and you were on your way out to work, like two goddamn ships passing in the night.

You were in that barely functional state post-waking up where you were shocked you were even able to get your shoes on the correct feet before walking out the door, and the mere sight of him in a short-sleeved white t-shirt had you pausing where you stood and taking a looooong look. You’re that desperate.

And he knows it, too. Exhausted as he looked, your blatant staring didn’t go unnoticed. Mercifully, though, Yoongi didn’t say anything. Just shook his head at you knowingly, smirking to himself as he pushed his front door open and stepped inside, presumably to go crash for a few hours.

You thought, foolishly, that a byproduct of your friends-with-benefits arrangement would be an ability to relax, loosen up a little bit so you’re able to be more productive during office hours. Don’t people say that about sex? That it clears the head? Well, those people have clearly never had Min Yoongi’s head between their legs.

You are decidedly not clear headed. You are wired, wanting, finding yourself zoning out in the middle of newsroom meetings thinking about Yoongi’s hands spreading your thighs, his lips wrapped around your clit, the way he groaned into your pussy. It’s fucking distracting.

You’ve never been like this before with anyone you’ve slept with. Sex with your ex had been good, even great sometimes, but you never really thought about it until it was happening. With Yoongi, you can’t seem to think about anything else.

Meanwhile, Yoongi has been busy, on a completely different sleep schedule from you all week. He’d given you fair warning before you left his studio Friday night, wobbly-legged and fucked out. He’s working on a very important track for an upcoming artist’s debut album, he’d told you. It’s due at the end of the day Friday, and he probably won’t have time for any… extracurriculars until it’s done.

No big deal, you’d said! Dumb bitch.

It doesn’t help in the slightest that, as you’d hoped, nothing has really changed between you and Yoongi, aside from occasional suggestive texts (mostly initiated by your horny ass!!!!!!) exchanged throughout the day, sprinkled within normal conversation. No, Yoongi has continued to be himself: sweet, considerate, kind of nerdy. Sending you links to articles he finds interesting, or funny videos, or songs that he’s had on repeat. It is driving you insane.

On Thursday afternoon, you snap.

You open your phone on your lunch break to find that Yoongi has sent you not one, not two, but three devastatingly cute cat videos, and has provided his own commentary on them.

So, obviously, you text back with what you think is the only appropriate response to that kind of behavior.

[12:14] You: i am begging you to put your cock inside me before i lose my mind

It is by far the most direct you’ve been since Friday night, far exceeding the coy flirtation you usually go for. You place your phone face-down on your desk with a shaky hand, staring down at your sad little salad. Lunch seems impossible now, what with your heartbeat thrumming in your ears and all.

Your phone buzzes not even a minute later, twice. Which stands to reason. You wanted Yoongi’s attention, and now you’ve got it. You take a deep breath through your nose and turn your phone back over.

[12:15] Yoongi: You’re begging, huh?

[12:15] Yoongi: You’re at work, baby. Can’t focus? Need it that bad?

Um. Yes, yes you do. And the way that you can practically hear his voice right now, in your ear, teasing. Fuck. Not helping.

You pick up your phone, hiding yourself behind the monitor at your desk so nobody in the office can see how flushed you’ve become all of a sudden. You’re on your lunch, and they should mind their damn business.

[12:16] You: yes

[12:17] Yoongi: You know I can’t help you until I’m done with my track.

That’s pretty much the response you expected, but you can’t help feeling frustrated about it anyway. He can’t take a break for an hour? You’d even settle for thirty minutes!

[12:18] You: i think you can and you’re just making me wait to be an asshole

[12:18] You: which is really dumb because i can just come to your studio tonight when i get off of work and you can take a break

[12:19] You: let me ride you in your chair

[12:19] You: fuck. you don’t even have to stop working yoongi

You’re acting desperate, you know that. You know how you sound. But you are desperate, can’t help it. Yoongi opened the floodgates to over three years of pent-up sexual frustration with his stupid tongue, and now it’s his fucking responsibility to deal with it.

You watch as the bubble pops up to indicate that he’s typing, and then disappears, then reappears again. Ha. Maybe you actually got him.

[12:22] Yoongi: If you think calling me names is gonna get you what you want, you’ve got another thing coming.

[12:22] Yoongi: You can come to the studio tonight if you really want to. But I can guarantee that you’re not getting my cock.

[12:23] Yoongi: Except maybe in that fucking mouth to give it something better to do than complain.

Holy shit maybe not!

[12:23] You: oh my god

You had a feeling, of course, that Yoongi liked being in control, that he liked to guide. He had coaxed your desires out of you so sweetly Friday night, letting you tell him what you wanted, but how he did it was his choice. But this is more than guiding. He’s telling you what’s going to happen if you come over. You shift in your chair, your thighs clenching.

[12:24] Yoongi: Hey. Tell me if this is okay, Y/N.

You can practically hear the words in his voice, soft, like when he asked you to stay when Seokjin came over to cook. The stark difference between this and the texts immediately before are almost enough to make your head spin. He’s giving you an out if you’re not into this. But you are into it.

[12:24] You: yeah

[12:24] You: yes. it’s okay

[12:25] Yoongi: I need you to tell me if I say or do something you don’t like, okay? No matter what.

[12:25] You: i will

[12:25] Yoongi: Good girl.

God. Being this turned on at work feels like a crime.

[12:26] Yoongi: I’m not trying to be mean, baby. I already told you, I’m dying to fuck you. I wasn’t just saying that.

[12:27] Yoongi: But when I fuck you, I want to be able to take my time.

[12:27] Yoongi: Wanna have you in my bed and not in my studio, first of all. All spread out for me so I can see all of you.

[12:28] Yoongi: Wanna taste you again. I can’t stop thinking about how good you taste, fuck. I didn’t take it slow enough last time, didn’t get to savor it, but I’m gonna fix that. Gonna make you come with my tongue again before you even get my cock, get you nice and wet for me.

[12:29] Yoongi: Not that it takes much. Bet you’re wet right now, aren’t you? Just from this?

Oh, he’s so mean. Your thighs clench again and you chew on your bottom lip as you type, hyperaware of the way the thin fabric of your panties clings to your sex. It feels so dirty, knowing that in a few minutes you’ll have to work like this. You’ll have to talk to your colleagues like this, pretend like nothing’s amiss. You’d be lying if you said the thought didn’t turn you on even more.

[12:29] You: yeah. god, yoongi. i am

[12:30] Yoongi: Yeah. I know, baby. It’s okay. I’m gonna take care of you when I can. Gonna make you feel so good. You sounded so sweet when you came for me last time. Can’t wait to hear what kind of pretty noises you’ll make when I get to have you properly.

[12:31] Yoongi: Fuck, Y/N. If you think I don’t wish I was with you right this second you’re insane. Been dreaming about your pussy. But I wanna do this the right way.

You believe him. Even through your phone, you can feel it—that raw honesty that Yoongi always gives you. He’s been agonizing over this just as much as you have. It makes you feel a little bad, honestly, that you so wantonly distracted him like this, when he’s been working so hard this week. Maybe part of you wanted to get back at him for denying you what you wanted on Friday, but now, you realize that you’re glad he did. You want all of that, too. Everything he said, every word of it. Just because this is casual doesn’t mean you have to rush.

Maybe it’s time for you to give him a little honesty of your own.

[12:32] You: i want that too

[12:32] You: shit i have to go back to work soon but i promise i’m not trying to rush this i just…

[12:32] You: really, really want you

[12:33] Yoongi: I want you too.

[12:33] Yoongi: Soon, okay? Really really soon if I can help it.

You look up from your phone when the chime of an Outlook notification snaps you out of your bubble, directing your attention to an email from your boss. With a longsuffering sigh, you click it open. He wants to talk to you as soon as you’re available, and your salad isn’t going to eat itself, so you resign yourself to letting Yoongi get back to work.

[12:35] You: soon

[12:35] You: go back to work. that grammy isn’t gonna win itself

[12:36] Yoongi: Lmfao. Go back to work, she says, as if she didn’t just give me the most persistent boner of my life unprovoked.

[12:36] You: motivation!

[12:36] Yoongi: Motivation for me to do more inappropriate shit in my place of business, maybe. But it’s a lot sadder when I’m by myself.

[12:37] You: wowwwww pics or it didn’t happen

[12:37] Yoongi: YOU go back to work, pervert.

You do. Begrudgingly.

You quickly type an email to your boss, just a cursory, ‘There are fifteen minutes left in my lunch, and then I’ll be there. Thanks Kevin!’ Afterwards, you scarf down your lunch. And you finally watch those cat videos Yoongi sent you, which effectively tamps down your horny high enough for you not to feel icky about meeting with your boss.

★ ★ ★

Fifteen minutes later on the dot, you’re knocking on Kevin’s door.

You like your boss well enough. As much as one can like their boss, maybe, give or take a bad day. Kevin is nice, but his name is stupid, and he certainly doesn’t live up to your expectations of what a music journalism editor would be like when you first applied to Look Here Magazine.

Foolishly, you expected someone straight out of Almost Famous: young, wears band t-shirts beneath blazers, a chainsmoker, a little bit sleazy, with music knowledge to put Nardwuar to shame. Instead, what you got is a mostly-bald, clean-cut, mid-forties guy who wears khakis most days of the week and says things like ‘circle back’ and ‘best practice.’ He’s competent, sure, and you need him to like you, absolutely, but he does make your job feel a little less cool. But who knows! Maybe Kevin rocks out on the weekends. You certainly don’t, so who are you to judge?

Kevin waves you in, and before you even have the chance to sit down, he’s dropping a bomb on you that makes you feel like your legs are going to give out beneath you.

“You’re taking charge on the Yijeong profile piece,” he says flippantly as peers over his glasses at his monitor, typing without pause.

There’s absolutely no way you just heard that right. Yijeong's profile was assigned already, to a reporter who has been at Look Here a lot longer than you. You tell Kevin as much, as if he wasn’t in the newsroom when the piece was pitched in the first place.

“Sora didn’t have enough bandwidth to juggle the profile and the reunion tour coverage, and that’s going to be on the cover,” Kevin says, without even a passing glance to you. As if he isn’t altering the trajectory of your career over a scheduling conflict. “It’s all you, kid.”

“I don’t have the contacts,” you blurt out, having mercy on your poor, wobbly legs as you sit down.

“Ask Sora for the contacts.”

“Don’t you want someone more experienced for this? Connected?”

It’s not that you don’t want it. Writing a profile on someone like Jang Yijeong is a dream come true for someone as green as you are. It may not be the cover article, but the headline will be written on the cover, and so far you’ve only written the puff pieces that readers likely use to pad outgoing mail. If you do this right, there’s a chance of less puff pieces and more real journalism.

It’s the if that scares you. Jang Yijeong has rebranded his entire career from being an idol to being a producer, so he’s technically considered an up-and-coming artist where Look Here is concerned. Nobody has heard his name in a few years, and a piece on him by a publication like Look Here could make him the most sought after producer in the country, if he plays it right.

But Yijeong has also been in the music industry for a long time. He’s been interviewed by countless reporters. He’s media trained. Good media training is a death sentence for profiles, which are supposed to dig deep into the subject. Trust is everything in this kind of situation, and if Look Here sends a rookie like you to interview Jang Yijeong without the proper connections, without someone to vouch for you, he will show up to the interview with a script in hand. The profile will be a dud and your career will pay the price.

Sighing, Kevin finally stops typing, looking at you for the first time since you walked into his office. You shift in your seat, trying to make yourself look less fucking terrified.

“Look, I could hand it off to someone else, but you’ve been doing a good job these past couple of weeks. In your interview, you told me you’re most interested in writing features. That you’re good at it. I’m throwing you a bone,” he says, and you take a shaky breath. “Take the piece. Don’t try to reinvent the wheel. You’ve written profiles before, you know what to do. Just ask good questions, don’t be stiff, and you’ll be fine.”

Kevin’s phone rings, and his attention is stolen again as he picks it up to answer it without a second thought. “Talk to Sora, and then take the day out in the field tomorrow to see what kind of background you can dig up,” he says, waving you out with the same indifference he waved you in with. You scramble to stand up, rushing to leave.

“Deadline is Wednesday!” he calls as you shut the door behind you, taking a moment to catch your breath before you try to find Sora.

Holy shit.

You have work to do.

★ ★ ★

You spend your entire day on Friday pounding pavement, milking all of Sora’s sources for what they’re worth, but you don’t learn any information about Jang Yijeong that you can’t find on his Wikipedia page.

You don’t give up easily, though. No, you plan to put your investigative reporting skills to good use, via a healthy session of social media stalking. You can find out a lot about someone from what they post on X and Instagram, after all. You have to reach out to Yijeong’s label to schedule an interview as soon as possible, and if you have to get your hard hitting questions based off of what you can glean from a meal he photographed in 2013, so be it.

It’s ten at night by the time you flop onto your bed, phone in hand, ready to pull an all-nighter and plunge yourself into the rabbit hole that is Jang Yijeong’s social media. Pepper hops up with you, curling up on your stomach and purring contentedly as you start scrolling.

Nearly two hours and ten possible interview questions later, your phone buzzes in your hand. It’s Yoongi.

[11:47] Yoongi: Are you coming over or not?

Oh, fuck. It’s Friday. Meaning Yoongi is done with his track.

You’d almost forgotten how horny you’d been for the past week, completely absorbed in your assignment. It stands to reason that as soon as Yoongi is free, you’re suddenly swamped with work of your own. But, of course, it all comes rushing back just from a text.

Whatever! You’ve been at it for hours, anyway. You deserve a break.

[11:49] You: when did you get home?

[11:49] Yoongi: About half an hour ago.

[11:50] You: hmmmm… did you take a shower?

[11:50] Yoongi: Obviously. I’ve been in the studio for most of the week. I’m not an animal.

You snort to yourself, which scares the shit out of Pepper after your complete silence for the past two hours. You’re suddenly proud that you had the foresight to take a shower of your own when you got home from interrogating people all day, although this wasn’t on your mind at the time.

[11:50] You: leave the door open?

[11:51] Yoongi: Will do.

You very carefully nudge Pepper off of your stomach, giving yourself a cursory glance in your mirror once you’re up. You make sure that your hair looks good at least, but your clothes don’t matter as much. It’s not like they’ll be on for long anyway.

Satisfied with what you see, you make your way through your apartment, grabbing your keys to lock your door on your way out.

Maybe it’s the workload that was dumped on you yesterday, but you feel much more level headed about this than you thought you would. It’s like your body has finally caught up with your brain, and you can recognize this part of your relationship with Yoongi for what it actually is: stress relief. You’ll go to his apartment, he’ll give it to you so good, and then you’ll go back to work and he won’t care because, like he told you before, he gets it. You’re giddy just thinking about it.

Walking into Yoongi’s apartment isn’t daunting, nor is locking the door behind you. Nor is finding him on his couch and climbing into his lap without even a hello, crushing your lips to his the way you’ve spent all week dreaming about.

Yoongi makes a surprised noise against your mouth, his hands hovering at your waist, but he quickly melts into the kiss, letting you take the lead for a moment as his hands find their place, pulling you closer. It’s only when you tease the seam of his lips with your tongue, silently requesting entry that he pulls back, forcing you to breathe.

“Hi,” he says, clearly amused by your enthusiasm.

“Hi,” you parrot back, grinning.

His hands slip from your waist to your hips as he looks you over, toying with the fabric of your sleep shorts. “Remember what we talked about yesterday?” You hum coyly, guiding his hand under the hem, which makes him huff, shaking his head with a smirk. “Wanting to do this the right way,” he reminds you, quickly removing his hand from where you led it, instead opting to smooth it over the curve of your ass.

“Easier said than done,” you reply, feeling bold enough to take the initiative that he won’t and sliding your hands under his shirt, running them over his abdomen. The fabric bunches up, and you can’t help but stare at the tantalizing inch of pale skin you’re rewarded with.

You gasp in surprise at the light spank Yoongi gives your ass in return, not nearly hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough for you to pull your hands away. You know a warning when you see one—or feel one, that is. When you look up at him, he’s raising an eyebrow at you.

“Thought you said you wanted it like that,” he hums, rubbing over where he smacked you. “There’s always the alternative.”

Oh. That.

You wish you could say the thought of letting Yoongi fuck your throat wasn’t appealing, but there’s no hiding the way it makes you squirm, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. Yoongi hasn’t been particularly rough with you yet, but he’s hinted that he can be, if you want it. You imagine his hand on your jaw, encouraging you to open wider for him. Your eyes watering as you struggle to breathe through your nose. You still don’t know what his dick looks like, how thick it’ll feel on your tongue, how much your jaw will ache, but you’re eager to fill in the blanks of your imagination. You’ll definitely take him up on that one day, but no, he’s right.

You want to come. You want him to make you come. As stubborn as you are, you can’t deny that.

“You can take your time,” you mumble, meeting his eyes.

He smiles, bringing his free hand up to cup your face, his thumb rubbing your cheek like it did that night in his studio. “Good girl,” he murmurs, rewarding you with a sweet kiss that makes you moan, shifting your hips to grind against the bulge you feel stiffening under you.

Yoongi pulls away from your lips with a chuckle, patting your hip gently. “Up,” he says, and you scramble to your feet, no more bratty attitude to be found at the moment.

He stands with you, guiding you by the hand to his bedroom. Since he’s so adamant about taking his time, you take a moment to glance around the room, taking in all the little things about it that reflect what you’ve learned about Yoongi over the past several weeks.

Like the rest of his apartment, his bedroom is much cleaner than you would’ve assumed. There’s a desk with a small home studio setup, much more sparse than what you’ve seen in his actual studio. The equipment looks old and well-loved, and you wonder how long he’s had it. A basketball jersey hanging over his desk chair with his name emblazoned on the back. A dresser with various jewelry scattered on top, chains and rings and earrings.

His bed, of course, takes up the most space in the room. Where you have a queen bed in your own bedroom, you note that his is clearly a king, with a soft looking black comforter over top. A comforter that you’re about to be pressed into, you think.

Yoongi comes up behind you, his hands on your waist, lips on your neck trailing kisses over your nape and making you shiver.

“Relax,” he murmurs, huffing a laugh that you feel more than hear. “Lie down for me?”

You nod, walking to the bed and settling flat on your back. God, is this a Purple mattress? You hate him a little bit. You found your mattress on the side of the road.

Yoongi doesn’t give you long to stew on your hatred, though. Not when he’s spreading your legs, your feet planted flat on the mattress beneath you so he can fit his hips between your thighs. Not when you can feel how hard he is already, even through the layers separating you.

He kisses you again, long and slow and hot, all of your breath leaving your lungs at the feeling of his lips on yours. “Remember to stop me,” he mumbles between kisses. “If I do something you don’t like.”

You honestly find it hard to believe that Yoongi could do anything you wouldn’t like, but you nod your head jerkily in response, not wanting to separate from his lips for any longer than necessary.

Soon, he’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down your neck as his hands push your shirt up slowly, only separating himself from you to pull it off entirely and toss it aside on the mattress.

“Fuck,” he groans at the discovery that you aren’t wearing a bra, his hands immediately coming up to squeeze your breasts. “Wanted to make it easy for me, huh, baby?”

In reality, you’d just been dressed for bed, but you can’t bring yourself to tell him that, unable to form the words as his lips travel down to your chest, his tongue coming out to lave over a nipple.

You moan, your head falling back onto the mattress under you with a dull ‘thunk’ as Yoongi wraps his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.

“You like that,” he teases, a statement and not a question. He lifts his head, looking down at your tits with his bottom lip between his teeth. “So pretty, baby.”

Your cheeks flush warmly at the praise, and desperate to shift the attention away from yourself, your hands slide down to his chest, fisting in his shirt and tugging.

“Your turn,” you breathe, and he chuckles as he sits up on his knees, tugging his shirt over his head.

You can’t help but stare. It’s not that you thought that Yoongi would be skinny, per se, but he does have a tendency to wear clothes a little too big for him, dwarfing him, and given his already small stature due to his height… Not that you would’ve minded in the slightest if he was on the scrawnier side, but Christ. He’s decidedly not scrawny. He’s lean, with shoulders broader than you would’ve given him credit for at a passing glance.

And now here you are, gifted with an expanse of pale, smooth skin over compact muscle. Your eyes roam over him, from dusky nipples all the way down to the thin trail of dark hair starting right under his navel and leading your gaze down to where his cock strains against his sweatpants.

You don’t think you’ve ever wanted to touch somebody so badly in your life. The best part is that you can.

And you do. You feel greedy, your hands reaching out to smooth over his chest, down his abdomen, your eyes half-lidded and lips parted in a daze.

Yoongi lets you touch all you want, but when your hands move down to cup his erection through his sweatpants, you hear his breath hitch as he stops you, shaking his head and pinning your arm to the mattress gently.

“Your turn,” he murmurs softly, throwing your words right back at you. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, tilting his head at you as he starts to pull them down, the movement torturously slow. “Wanna see if you skipped the panties, too.”

You lift your hips so he can pull them down the rest of the way. You are not, in fact, wearing panties, because you were going the fuck to sleep originally, and you hear him suck in a breath after the shorts are discarded.

“What the hell did I do to deserve you?” he breathes. You ignore the funny thing your heart does in your chest at his words, opting instead to focus on his hand drawing closer to you.

You both moan when his fingers slide over you, finding you soaked once again.

“Fuck,” Yoongi hisses as he gathers your slick with his fingers. He drags them slowly up to your sensitive bundle of nerves and circles around it, only to slide back down again, repeating the motion again and again. You moan every time he reaches your clit, your hips bucking up into his touch.

“This pussy,” he starts, and you lift your head at sudden motion as he sinks down to lay on his stomach, holding himself up with his elbows, “gets so fucking wet for me.”

His pupils are blown as he hooks your legs over his shoulders, just like last time, but instead of going right for it, Yoongi starts pressing kisses to your thigh. Your head falls back onto the mattress again, and you squeeze your eyes shut as he continues to speak.

“Been thinking about this all week,” Yoongi mumbles into your skin, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, forcing a gasp out of you. “You make it impossible to focus, you know that?”

A high, needy whine falls from your lips as he suddenly runs the tip of his tongue between your folds, and when you lift your head to watch, he pulls away, his dark eyes meeting yours in a smoldering gaze.

“I could’ve been done with that track on fucking Tuesday,” he says, dipping down again to wrap his lips around your clit and suck, making you cry out, tangling your fingers in his hair again. “Do you know how many times I jerked off thinking about being between these thighs again?”

“Fuck, Yoongi,” you whimper, his words conjuring images that make you feel as though you’re coming apart at the seams. Yoongi chuckles darkly, pressing a kiss to your clit.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he praises, his tone so dark it sends a shiver down your spine. “Gonna make you say my name like that again, baby. You want it?”

“Yes,” you gasp out without a second thought. You need his mouth on you so bad you feel like you’re going to explode. “Shit, please.”

“So polite.”

Yoongi doesn’t make you wait any longer, his head dipping back down again so he can taste you properly, the flat of his tongue licking slowly over your pussy.

“Thank you,” you moan, the words slipping out completely outside of your control. Yoongi’s movements pause for just a fraction of a second, and suddenly you’re overwhelmed with the worry that ‘thank you’ was a fucking weird thing to say to the guy eating you out. But then you feel Yoongi’s responding moan right into your cunt, the vibrations making your eyes roll back into your head, and his tongue resumes its movements.

True to his word, he’s taking his sweet time, savoring every bit of you, but you don’t fucking care. You want his cock, desperately, but he can stay down there for hours if he really wants to so long as it feels like this.

You lose track of time, your thighs trembling around his head as you lose yourself in the feeling of his tongue, but you’re quite literally yanked back into the moment when Yoongi lifts his head again, forcefully dragging you closer and latching his lips around your clit.

“Fuck, fuck—Yoongi, fuck!” you cry out as Yoongi makes it abundantly clear that he’s no longer interested in dragging this out any longer. The way he’s eating you out now is going to make you come, and soon.

You can hear the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth on you, even over the blood pulsating through your ears, even over the way you’re moaning for him as your orgasm barrels closer.

Your fingers pull at his hair, your hips shifting to grind against his tongue, and he moans into you again, his hands grasping at your hips to help you move. You take the action for what it is: he wants you to come. Like, now. Well, he doesn’t have to fucking tell you twice.

For the second time, you come from Yoongi’s tongue, writhing beneath him as you moan helplessly. Your body feels like it’s on fire, your muscles clenching and unclenching as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly.

Yoongi works you through it, but unlike last time he can sense your impending overstimulation before you need to push him away, shifting to sit up on his knees as you catch your breath.

“So fucking sexy,” he grunts, running his hands over your body as his eyes trail over you appreciatively.

Shit, he’s one to talk. He looks so hot like this, his hair a mess from your pulling, his lips and chin slick from your pussy.

Not to mention, just like last time, he’s so fucking hard. The only difference is that this time, he’ll let you have it.

“Wanna touch you,” you breathe, already pushing up shakily to slide your hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. Yoongi makes no move to stop you, his breath hitching as your hand wraps around him.

His length feels thicker than you expected in your hand, your mind instantly wandering to how it’s going to feel inside of you very soon. You don’t think you’ve ever taken something this thick before, and you want it so fucking bad.

“Shit, baby, just like that,” Yoongi grits out as you start pumping him slowly, his hips bucking forward into your hand. “Feels so good.”

You lean up to capture his lips with yours, tasting yourself on his tongue as the kiss quickly turns sloppy and desperate, lacking all finesse but somehow still so goddamn sexy. All the while, you keep touching him, his breath coming out shaky through his nose as he licks into your mouth with heat.

When your grasp on his cock gets a little firmer, his hips stutter and his hand comes up to grasp your wrist again, urgently halting your movements.

“Gotta stop. ‘m gonna come if you keep doing that,” he says, pulling away. There’s a flush in his cheeks, spreading down to his chest. It’s almost cute, but then he opens that fucking mouth again, his eyes locked on yours. “Wanna come inside you.”

Fuck.

“Yeah,” you breathe in agreement, nodding jerkily and pulling your hand from his pants in an instant. “Want that. Fuck me.”

Yoongi groans, his eyes shutting tightly. He shakes his head. “Need a minute,” he says, his voice almost pained. “Fuck, you’re too much.”

He busies himself with reaching over your body and across the bed, pulling open the drawer of his bedside table. You keep your hands to yourself, ignoring the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch again. If he needs a minute, he can have it. You’ve waited this long.

Once his body returns to yours, he tosses a condom next to you on the bed before dipping down to kiss you again. His lips are gentle on yours this time, slow and almost sweet, unlike any way he’s kissed you so far. The chasteness of it throws you off, but it isn’t necessarily unwelcome—not from Yoongi, at least. He’s probably just trying to chill the fuck out so he doesn’t come too fast, you reason.

After a few minutes, though, Yoongi’s lips part from yours and he presses one last kiss to your temple, reaching for the condom beside you.

“Ready?” he asks, the edge of the foil packet held between his teeth as he sits up, using both hands to push his sweatpants down.

Your eyes are glued to him as he rips the packet open carefully, rolling the condom onto his cock. Your imagination never would’ve done him justice. The sight of his long fingers wrapped around his length is enough for your last thread of patience to snap.

“I think I’m going to die if you don’t fuck me right now,” you say honestly, your eyes unmoving from his cock, and he laughs, sliding a hand up your thigh.

“Dramatic,” he teases, his fingers trailing over your pussy, ensuring that you’re still wet enough to take him. “You think you’re ready for it?” he asks, two fingers prodding at your entrance before they start fucking into you easily.

You whine, your back arching as his fingers scissor inside your pussy. “Can’t wait anymore,” you gasp out, and he relents, withdrawing his fingers to wrap them around his cock, shifting so he’s over you again.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, the tip of his nose grazing yours at this proximity. You feel the blunt head of his cock running through your folds, one last tease, before he lines himself up with your entrance. “I’ll take care of you, baby. Promise.”

Your legs wrap around his hips as he slowly eases in, his breath shuddering next to your ear as he fills you bit by bit. The stretch makes your head spin, but Yoongi takes his time just like he promised, rubbing your hip soothingly to keep you relaxed.

“Finally,” you breathe when he finally bottoms out, and he laughs.

“Yeah? Gonna thank me again?” Yoongi jokes, but the way his cock twitches inside you betrays the way he really feels about that.

“Maybe when you make me come,” you quip in return, but his hips draw back, giving an experimental thrust back into you, and suddenly nothing is all that funny anymore.

You both moan, and Yoongi trails his nose up the side of your neck as he does it again, setting a rhythm of long, slow strokes.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, the wrecked sound of his voice sending a flare of arousal through you, causing your walls to clench around his cock. “You feel so good.”

All you can do is moan in response, your arms looping around his shoulders, hands in his hair. “Squeezing me so fucking tight,” he grits out, fucking into you just a little bit faster, a little bit deeper.

“Like that,” you gasp out, fingers tightening in his hair out of desperation.

“Yeah?” he groans, snapping his hips into you with more force now. “You want it harder, baby?” At your choked ‘yes’, it’s like a switch has flipped, Yoongi’s hips snapping into you so forcefully you see stars, your thighs beginning to shake on either side of him as he slams into you.

His hands smooth up your thighs, deep thrusts continuing uninterrupted as he positions your legs, pinning your thighs between your bodies so you’re practically folded in half, and oh, fuck. The angle change makes the head of Yoongi’s cock hit the spot that makes you cry out, your nails dragging down the length of his back as you become instantly aware that you’re going to come soon.

“Mm–Yoongi, fuck, please don’t stop—I’m so close, please—”

“Taking me so good,” he groans. “Touch yourself, baby. Make yourself come, I’m right there with you.”

You obey instantly, your hand sliding down between your bodies to rub your clit with two fingers. Your walls flutter around him, making him hiss as you teeter on the edge of your impending orgasm.

Yoongi braces himself, held up with his hands on either side of you. It’s his eyes on you, his lip between his teeth as he watches you touch yourself that finally sends you hurtling over the edge. You squeeze tightly around him as you come, your body convulsing under him as the pleasure washes over you, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Nghh, good girl, shit,” he grunts, the rhythm of his hips instantly becoming erratic. “Fuck, Y/N. Gonna come.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before you feel Yoongi’s body tense, his cock pulsing inside of you as he spills into the condom with a groan. He drops down to his elbows carefully, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss, his lips moving languidly over yours.

You kiss him back, but after a few moments you’re suddenly hyper aware of how… intimate this feels, kissing like this as he softens inside of you. You pull away to look up at him. “Thank you,” you say, grinning tiredly as you try to break the tension surrounding the moment.

It seems to work, because Yoongi laughs breathlessly, pulling out of you with care and shifting off of the bed to dispose of the condom. “Funny,” he says.

You take the opportunity to sit up, despite your body feeling like jelly. You don’t think you can take Yoongi cleaning you up on top of what just occurred.

“Bathroom?” you ask, heading to it when he points you in the right direction.

You clean yourself up quickly, and when you return Yoongi is, mercifully, dressed again and retrieving your shorts from the floor for you. You take them with a small, grateful smile, pulling your shorts and top back on.

“So you got your track done?” you ask, trying to make some light conversation.

Yoongi scoffs, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Few hours ago,” he says, tilting his head and looking at you a little funny. Whatever he’s thinking, though, he doesn’t say it. “How was your week, anyway? I know I was a little M.I.A.”

You brighten the slightest bit at his question, joining him on the bed. “Actually,” you say. “Something pretty cool happened yesterday afternoon.”

“Yeah?”

“I kind of got entrusted with this huge assignment. I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull it off, but if I do, it’s a career changer, for sure.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, grinning at you. “That’s great, Y/N. You deserve it.”

His praise makes you blush, looking down to pick at a loose thread on his comforter. You only blush because you know he means it. Yoongi actually reads your stuff. Rina doesn’t even really read your stuff, and she’s your best friend. But maybe it’s because Yoongi is in the music industry and the stuff you publish is more interesting to him.

Yoongi is in the music industry.

It’s like a lightbulb goes off in your head, and you shift closer to him.

“Actually,” you say. “I’m kind of struggling with it? And I was wondering, um… I’d really appreciate it if you could help me out a little bit. Do you happen to know Jang Yijeong?”

Yoongi stiffens next to you, not a lot, but enough for you to notice from this close. “Yeah, I know him,” he says anyway. “We’re friends.”

You’re confused by his reaction, but you soldier on. “I just need an interview with him. I need someone he can trust to set me up with him so he doesn’t give me scripted bullshit, you know? And… If you could be the one to do that, it would make my life a million times easier, honestly.”

For a long moment, Yoongi says nothing, not really looking at you. You don’t know what you said to get this reaction out of him, but you don’t like it, and you’re about to take back your request entirely when he speaks again.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him,” he says. He’s looking at you now, which makes you relax a bit.

“Really?” you ask softly. “Only if you’re okay with it, but it would seriously be a huge help.”

“Yeah, I’ll put in a good word,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. He suddenly seems much less stiff, like whatever weird moment that just took place has passed now, and he laughs. “Just promise you won’t make me regret it.”

At ease, you snort, rolling your eyes. “I promise,” you say flatly, nudging his shoulder with yours. Your voice softens. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” he says easily, getting up from the bed and making his way to the door. “Have you eaten? I’m gonna make kimchijeon.”

Yoongi really is saving your ass. After fucking you so nicely, too. And now he’s making you midnight kimchijeon!

“That sounds good,” you call after him, smiling to yourself after he’s left the room.

Yeah, you can get used to this.

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