#death of the author hell yeah

[thefrogdalorian]

Having of those moments where I wish to yeet the like button into the sun or maybe make it so there was setting you could turn on so that people can only reblog posts (even better with the minimum requirement of adding at least one tag)!!

It's kind of absurd that one of my fics is getting close to 500 notes while simultaneously being one I've had the least actual human interactions come from. Like...... come on, that's now how it should be AT ALL!

Don't get me wrong, I'm so thrilled people are clearly finding it and I guess enjoying it(??) but just having endless likes without people letting me know what they enjoyed about it or even if they liked it kind of makes me sad. That's not why I want to share my writing here!

I love having those little human connections with others. I don't ever want my writing to feel transactional. I would love to talk to more people about things I've written. It's truly one of the best feelings and I would hate to lose that, the more I write or the more notes my fics get. Please don't be shy!! I get the social anxiety, but there is no reason to be. I am truly just a Din Djarin obsessed loser.

Anyway, whine over. I don't want to focus on the negatives here and I appreciate every single person who has ever left a positive interaction with something I've written. You are truly a light!

[franeridan]

finished the aq quest yesterday night tbh probably my fav aq quest to date maybe

[merge-conflict]

sometimes writing is like... oooo that sounds cool. don't remember writing that though. what the hell was I suggesting here.

He could just barely feel the pressure of her fingers along his endoskeleton. Somewhere in animal memory he could feel the glide of skin across skin and an answering shiver, but he remained motionless. Underneath the placid waves of the surface there was something stirring in the cold depths, something ancient and monstrous and hungry. “I cannot give you what you deserve,” he said finally, “But I would not leave you in that place. Not even if you hated me.” “I don’t hate you.” V was looking at the ofrenda, eyes unfocused. “I couldn’t hate you. And I don’t regret it.” She turned to look at him, reacting to something he thought he had suppressed. “Do you?

Like obviously Goro is studiously avoiding eye contact with some Big Feeling here but it was not obvious to me what it was supposed to be. I have, however, reverse engineered two or three plausible options which I can now start foreshadowing in a chapter or two of the actual fic I'm supposed to be writing. Never punished. ✌️

[zomquette]

Shoulda Knocked

Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (Established Relationship)

Genre: Fluff, Smut, Comedy, Domestic Chaos, Post-Canon (Prison Era)

Summary: It's mornings like these that make the apocalypse seem not so bad. Waking up with Daryl cocooning you, the normalcy of it all, fighting over the sink, Daryl not being able to keep his hands off you. But then again it is a prison. And privacy is a luxury.

Warnings: smutty fluff. Fluffy smut. fluff. Smut. Cute couple banter. Very very graphic smut. Like seriously it's gross children look away. Double creamoie, filthy talk, PinV, fingering, rough sex. Eventual smut. Daryl being uber possessive. A lil tiny bit of angst - Daryl Doesnt know what to do with all that possessive turmoil. Death threats, uncomfy situations where sex is very rudely interrupted.

Author's note: Had this lil number rotting in my drafts and I realised I hadn't written anything for the Prison era, so I thought I would finish it. This is a pretty big package deal of fluff and smut hope y'all like it. It was supposed to be short and sugestive then it turned smut under the cut then it just got out of hand what can i say. And lemme tell you sumthin', my face was embarrasingly hot writing this, it was ridiculous. The reason why this oneshot is so disturbingly hot is cuz im ovulating. so yeah. Part 3 to Dunno 'er? Em yeah still haven't even started writing it cuz of work shit but i have big plans and i have a process people ugh 😩. Anyway enjoy this very shameless oneshot lemme know what people think hehe.🙈

The cold hadn’t let up overnight. Even with the thickest of blankets and a second pair of socks, the chill clung to the prison like mold, seeping through stone and steel and right into your bones. But Daryl had never once let it touch you.

He always woke first. This morning was no different.

You were curled against him, legs tangled, skin pressed to skin beneath the blanket. He’d cocooned you in the night with the instinct of a man who knew how to trap heat and never let it go. One arm was looped lazily around your waist, his hand resting beneath your thin cotton vest, fingers idly splayed over the softest patch of your stomach. His nose nuzzled the back of your shoulder, the place where the warmth of your skin still held the faintest trace of lavender soap, and for a while, he just stayed there—still, breathing you in, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist.

He should have gotten up. You both had chores to do. Watch rotations. Supply lists. A dozen things that couldn’t be ignored. But none of it mattered yet.

He kissed your shoulder, barely more than a whisper of contact, then nuzzled closer to press another to your neck. His hand drifted, slow and aimless, tracing the gentle curve of your hip before sliding down to rub lazy circles into your thigh beneath the blanket. The skin there was warm and soft and his.

“Baby,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, voice all husk and gravel. “Time to wake up.”

You didn’t answer, not with words anyway. Instead, you let out a pitiful noise—half moan, half sigh—and wriggled backwards into him with shameless intent, burrowing deeper beneath his arm like a sleepy parasite. One hand blindly reached for his, dragging it tighter across your waist.

“Mmmno,” you grumbled, barely awake, your voice thick with sleep, lips barely moving. “You’re too warm. You stay… compulsory.”

Daryl exhaled through his nose, helpless, forehead falling lightly against the back of your neck. Christ. How the hell was he supposed to move? You were limp and molten in his arms, every inch of you molded to him like you’d been made for it, your vest practically sheer in the morning light, your skin smooth like velvet, your hair fanned out over his arm. The thought of untangling from this—from you—felt like tearing open a wound.

“Can’t stay in bed all morning,” he mumbled into your skin, more to himself than you.

You hummed in response, groaning ‘just a lil longer’ into your pillow, the sound contented and low, a denial that buzzed against his chest where your back met him. His hand drifted again, tracing the dip of your waist, the notch of your hipbone, not quite ready to surrender the moment.

“Cmon, now,” he tried again, kissing the side of your neck this time, his lips lingering there. “Gotta get up. You know we do.”

You made a noise that might’ve been a protest or a curse or possibly even his name, but the blanket muffled it as you ducked your head further down, stubborn to the very end. The chill outside the covers had already started to creep in, brushing your shoulder as Daryl reluctantly shifted, and you shivered in retaliation.

Instead of getting up, Daryl leaned in closer, drawn by something he didn’t have the strength to fight. You were still turned away from him, curled loosely beneath the sheet, your breathing soft and uneven in that hazy space between dreams and waking. The early morning light cut through the slats in the cell door, catching the slope of your bare shoulder, the thin strap of your vest barely clinging on. The fabric was almost translucent in the pale wash of dawn—white cotton worn thin with age, clinging damply to the warm curve of your back, the gentle dip of your waist, the faint suggestion of skin and softness that he had no business staring at as long as he was.

But still, he did.

His hand hovered, fingers flexing like they weren’t quite his to control, before he reached out—just to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, that was all—but his knuckles grazed the back of your neck, and his chest clenched at how warm you felt. He bent low, pressing the barest kiss to the spot just behind your ear, careful not to startle you, just needing the contact. Then another, slower one at your jaw. Another at the gentle slope where your throat met your shoulder. You stirred slightly, but didn’t turn. He stilled, breath caught—but when you didn’t push him away, he let his lips drift down again, across the exposed edge of your shoulder blade where the sheet had slipped. Each kiss was softer than the last. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just… reverent. He wasn’t trying to start anything. Not really. He just wanted to be close. To worship what was already his, in the quiet morning hush before the world came back alive.

You sighed again, definitely more awake now but pretending not to be, your body stretching long and loose under his touch.

“Daryl…” you warned, voice still thick with sleep, the syllables dragging out across the pillow. “If this is your idea of motivation, it’s not gonna get me up any faster.”

He didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. Just smiled into your skin like he hadn’t heard you, like he wasn’t guilty at all, and dragged his mouth lazily down the center of your chest. The kiss he left over your sternum was unhurried, deliberate, soaked in the kind of quiet patience only he could afford this early in the morning. Like he had nowhere else to be but here, pressed against you, tasting skin that still carried the warmth of shared sleep.

“You’re mean,” you muttered, breath hitching just enough to betray how awake you really were now.

He lifted his gaze without lifting his head, peeking up at you through his lashes with that crooked, barely-there smirk that told you he was enjoying this far too much.

“…And you’re getting up,” he said, low and smug, before leaning in and brushing his mouth over yours.

It was meant to be a quick kiss, maybe even a tease—just a goodbye on the lips, soft and fleeting—but the moment his mouth touched yours, something shifted. His lips stayed, molded to yours like they fit better there than anywhere else, and the air between you thickened. Your body responded before your mind caught up—your neck arched, following him when he pulled back, your brows drawing together like something had been taken from you.

He lingered a heartbeat longer, just long enough to feel your breath chase after his, then reluctantly peeled away with a quiet grunt. The mattress dipped as he swung his legs over the edge, one hand blindly reaching for whatever clothes were nearest. At the same time, the other smoothed across your thigh in a slow, familiar pass, before giving it a gentle, affectionate pat.

“Up,” he muttered, not even glancing back, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

You groaned dramatically, flopping back onto your pillow. “I liked you better when you were a human furnace.”

“Still am,” he muttered, yanking a shirt over his head. “Just mobile now.”

You made a rude little noise and dove back under the blankets, burying your face like the sunlight itself had committed an unforgivable sin. The cold had begun to creep in where his body had been moments ago, and you groaned in protest—long, drawn-out, and far more theatrical than necessary. Your bare legs tucked in tighter, one heel sliding across the sheet as you tried to seal every edge of the fabric against your skin.

Daryl hadn’t gotten far. He was still seated at the edge of the bed, bent over to shove his foot into a boot, one arm halfway into a shirt sleeve. At your noise, he paused, twisted slightly to glance back over his shoulder, and raised a brow.

“You sittin’ up,” he asked, voice gravel-thick and unconvinced, “or just floppin’ around like a damn fish?”

You made a muffled sound and rolled further away, the blanket dragging with you. “M’hibernating,” you muttered into the mattress.

He snorted low, shaking his head. “Alright then. Guess we’re doin’ this the hard way.”

Without warning, he reached back and gave the blanket a solid tug.

You shrieked and clutched it with both hands, yanking it back toward your chest with the fury of a woman defending her kingdom. “I am exposed here, sir!”

Daryl didn’t flinch. He was already shifting closer on the mattress, smirking faintly as he fought for another handful of the quilt. “You’re exposed every damn morning. Ain’t seemed to mind when you were draggin’ me down into the sheets last night.”

“That was before,” you huffed, one leg popping free in the scuffle before you managed to trap it back inside. “This is now. The mood has passed.”

He leaned further in, bracing a forearm beside your hip, his voice low as he hovered above you. “You talk like I ain’t seen you naked a hundred times.”

“Exactly,” you grinned, breathless, “which is why you should be immune by now. Go bother someone else.”

Another tug. You gripped the top corners of the blanket and rolled with it, twisting the fabric until it tightened like a shield around your torso.

“This is harassment,” you declared, peeking out from a fortress of cotton.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, reaching again.

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare, Dixon. I will bite.”

He paused, grinning now, one eyebrow lifting as his fingers curled beneath the edge near your knee. “Yeah? Then I’ll bite back.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You wanna test that theory?”

Before you could respond, he shifted again—leaning in, eyes narrowing with that smug little glint that always spelled trouble. His knee planted firmly on the mattress beside your hip, the bed dipping under his weight as he braced himself with one hand, the other gripping the blanket in a slow, theatrical tug.

You yelped, twisting sideways like a cat avoiding bathwater, arms flailing uselessly as the last shred of your sanctuary was ripped away in one final, merciless yank. The blanket hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Daryl!” you cried, hands instinctively flying to your now very exposed lower half, curling inward like modesty had suddenly remembered to show up to the party.

For a moment, he just stared—then huffed a laugh so abrupt it punched right through the silence. His head dropped to your shoulder as he shook with it, warm breath skating across your skin.

“Seriously?” he snorted, glancing up at you with pure mischief in his eyes. “You’re shy now?”

You tried to glare, but it didn’t hold. Your cheeks burned and your arms remained stubbornly crossed. “It’s cold.”

He smirked, dragging a lazy gaze over your thoroughly uncovered body. “Ain’t the cold you’re worried about.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, trying—and failing—not to laugh with him.

“Yeah?” he said, voice still thick with amusement. “Well, you look cute all flustered. Might start hidin’ the blankets more often.”

You shoved at his shoulder with a huff, but it was useless. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He leaned in again, brushing his nose against your cheek, still grinning like the devil. “Still got you up though, didn’t I?”

He chuckled to himself, watching the slow, reluctant way you began to stir—shoulders rolling, hair mussed, vest slipping off one shoulder like it had given up trying to behave.

By the time he had shrugged on his pants and done his belt up, you were reaching for your clothes in the crate, which were a combination of both of yours, squinting like a woman who had only just remembered the concept of pants.

“Have you seen my underwear?” you asked at last, tone accusing, as though Daryl might’ve hidden them on purpose. “The soft ones. You know, the non-doomsday granny pair?”

He froze, posture stiffening ever so slightly. Daryl didn’t answer right away. Instead, his body went still—too still—and then, slowly, like a man preparing for a confession or an ambush, he turned his head toward you without meeting your eyes.

“…Might be in my back pocket,” he muttered, voice low and gravel-worn, as if speaking it any louder would make it worse.

You stared at him. Blinking. Processing.

Then, without a word, you leaned in with the kind of deliberate menace only a sleep-deprived woman could channel, your hand sliding around his hip and into the back of his pants. His breath caught—barely—and there it was. Right there. Your missing underwear, balled and tucked into his pocket like some deranged little keepsake.

You yanked them free and held them up in front of his face like you’d just caught him red-handed with a stolen relic.

“Daryl.”

He winced like the word physically pained him, gaze dropping to the floor as one shoulder jerked upward in the world’s guiltiest shrug. “They’re soft,” he said, tone already defensive. “Make good… hand wipes.”

Your jaw unhinged.

“I knew it,” you hissed. “You used them as a rag?”

“Nah,” he said quickly, hands lifting like he was about to be frisked. “Didn’t use ‘em. Just… kept ‘em. Kinda… thought about you.”

“In your pocket,” you said flatly.

He scratched behind his ear, not looking at you. “...They smell nice.”

There was a long, pointed silence, jaw agape.

One of those silences that stretched so far it looped back around to something almost tender. You sat there, holding the damn things, stunned into speechlessness while your brain tried to decide whether this was the weirdest or somehow most oddly romantic thing anyone had ever done to you.

Eventually, with a sigh that contained the weight of every bad decision you’d ever made about men, you shook your head and slipped the underwear on like the whole conversation hadn’t just happened.

“You’re such a freak,” you muttered under your breath.

Daryl stopped buttoning up his vest at that, head jerking up like you just slapped him, “I’m the freak?” 

“You know who steals used underwear and keeps them in their back pocket? Freaks, babe. Losers. That’s you.”

He snorted. “Takes one a know one. You get horny when i fix shit. Don’t think I don’t notice. ”

You stared at him blankly. You searched your brain for a good comeback, but you couldn't find one. “Touché, Dixon. Touché ”

The sink was barely bigger than a dinner plate, wedged into the corner of the cell like an afterthought. The faucet groaned when it ran, and the drain clogged every other day with god knows what, but it was yours. At least, you pretended it was. You and Daryl had staked your claim on this little corner of civilisation with the same stubborn pride that marked every other piece of your shared life.

You padded toward it with a soft shuffle, your bare legs prickling with goosebumps from the morning chill. The hem of your white vest skimmed the tops of your thighs, and with your underwear barely peeking beneath it. The fabric clung slightly from the night’s sweat and body heat, translucent in places, but you didn’t care. Modesty wasn’t your strong suit, and Daryl had a point; if anything, this was overdressed for you as far as pyjamas go.

You reached the sink first, hands bracing against the cool metal rim as you leaned over it and twisted the knob. Water sputtered out, lukewarm and a little rusty coloured, but passable.

Daryl lingered behind you, eyeing your figure with the weary reverence of a man who had absolutely no business wanting you again this early in the morning, but who very much did.

“Move over,” he muttered eventually, stepping up behind you and squeezing your ass.

You didn’t move. Not an inch. If he thought that would do the trick, he had another thing coming.

“I was here first,” you said flatly, cupping water into your hands and splashing it onto your face. Droplets ran down your neck and into your shirt, and you didn’t even flinch.

Daryl pressed in closer, all warm and clean sweat, his hips brushing your backside as he reached blindly around you for the bar of soap. “Yer not even brushing yet. That’s stallin’.”

“It’s a ritual,” you mumbled through another splash. “A sacred, meditative rite. You barging in with your apocalypse man musk is disrespectful.”

He snorted, setting his toothbrush down on the edge of the sink with a little too much force. “The hell does that mean?”

You straightened slowly, turning toward him with a dripping face and narrowed eyes. “It’s that thing where you smell like blood, motor oil, and sex.”

He stared at you. Then shrugged. “Ain’t heard you complain.”

You reached blindly for the towel, but he already had it in his hand. You grabbed it anyway, resulting in a brief, quiet struggle as you both held onto the same fraying cloth, locked in the world’s dumbest game of tug-of-war.

“I need this more than you do,” you hissed, swiping at your face with a corner of the towel.

“I got shit in my beard,” he grunted, yanking it toward him. “Lemme wipe first.”

“You don’t even look in the mirror.”

“‘xactly. So how’m I supposed to know what’s on my face?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and relinquished the towel with the grace of a martyr, turning your back to him again and resuming your sacred splash ritual. Behind you, Daryl muttered something about soap rationing and stealing all the warm water, but you ignored it. The sink hissed and coughed like a dying animal.

And somehow, none of it felt inconvenient. Just part of the rhythm.

You both reached for the shared toothbrush cup—two brushes, one chipped mug—and smacked his hand away gently when he reached for his first.

“I’ve got seniority.”

“You’re younger than me.”

“Exactly. My gums still work.”

That earned you a soft grunt and a barely-there grin as he snatched his toothbrush from the cup in spite of you. Your toothbrush moved lazily between your lips, your hair falling forward as you bent to spit into the sink. Water splashed against your vest, and you didn’t seem to notice—or care. Daryl noticed. God, did he notice.

Just when he thought you were done and about to get ready that’s when 

you decided, quite unrepentantly, that you weren’t. You stood just to the side, lips pursed, tugging a scavenged plastic comb through your tangled hair. The comb had seen better days—half the teeth were crooked, a few were broken entirely—but it got the job done. Kind of. Slowly. Painfully. With lots of dramatic sighing, cursing, and a little bit of praying.

You leaned in close to the metal mirror, still foggy from your earlier splashfest, peering at your reflection as if it might reveal some great cosmic truth. Your arm lifted high over your head to angle the comb through the back, vest rising with the motion, exposing a sliver of skin at your waist and the elastic band of your underwear—his favorite pair, not that he was about to say that again.

Daryl spit into the sink, wiped his mouth on the towel you’d so generously surrendered, then glanced sideways at you as you flipped your hair over and began working on the other side like a woman possessed.

He cleared his throat. Loudly. Then again. 

You ignored him, running the comb through again with all the solemn intensity of a war general preparing for battle.

So he coughed again. Louder this time.

You glanced up at him through your hair, mouth still foamy, looking at him through the mirror. “You good?”

“You done?” he said quickly, voice rough with sleep and barely-concealed amusement, “You already had your turn. Ain’t like you gotta impress anybody out there.”

"Maybe I'm looking for your replacement," you said, not even lookig at him as you were so fixated on detangling your hair.

He shook his head, not even reacting to your dig because of how ridiculous it was, and he knew it. "You look fine,” he muttered, like it wasn’t a trap, like he wasn’t walking straight into the meat grinder. He reached for your hips, nudging you to the side with the kind of half-hearted firmness that said he already knew he was about to get slapped. “Now move over.”

You turned to face him fully, slowly, arms falling to your sides in the heavy, deliberate silence of a woman preparing to wage emotional warfare. “Fine?” you echoed, incredulous. “I look fine?”

He froze mid-motion, toothbrush limp in his hand, the exact expression that bloomed across his face told you everything you needed to know: he’d stepped on the landmine, and it was already too late to run.

“…Shit,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed, chin lifting as you crossed your arms with the dignity of a queen betrayed. “You know what? Keep my underwear. Treasure them. Sleep with them under your pillow. I hope they keep you warm, because it is officially the last time you are ever seeing any of mine.”

He tossed his toothbrush into the cup with a clatter, already bracing. “Didn’t mean it like that, c’mon now—”

“Said what you said, Dixon,” you shot back, taking a single step backward, smirk twitching at the corners of your mouth as you stared him down. “Say hi to your celibacy era for me.”

His gaze narrowed, hands falling to his hips, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself. “Oh yeah? Well, that’s a real damn shame.”

You had barely a second to register the shift in his stance before he lunged, one arm hooking tight around your waist while the other snuck beneath your raised elbow with unsettling precision, his fingers zeroing in on the soft, traitorous patch of skin just beneath your ribs.

A shriek tore out of you before you could stop it, your entire body convulsing with laughter as you twisted and kicked, trying desperately to escape the onslaught, but Daryl only followed, relentless, grinning like the devil himself as he worked his fingers down your sides and under your arm, every touch landing like a spark against kindling.

“Daryl!” you gasped, voice ragged with breathless laughter as you stumbled back against the bunk. “You asshole! OK, I take it back, I take it back—”

“Too late,” he said, utterly unrepentant, his grip tightening just enough to keep you in place without hurting. “Said I don’t get to see nothin’ no more. Made your bed sweetheart.”

You tried to fight back, aiming a loose elbow at his ribs, but he caught your wrist with ease and spun you in with a fluid, practiced motion, pinning you to his chest with both arms wrapped low around your waist. You were flushed and heaving, hair sticking to your face, the thin white vest clinging to your skin where sweat and laughter had soaked through.

Then, without warning, he bent slightly at the knees, hooked an arm behind your thighs, and lifted you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, slinging you up and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You yelped in protest, legs kicking wildly, hands thudding against his back as he adjusted his grip.

“Daryl! Put me down!”

“Sink’s free now,” he said with infuriating calm, and punctuated it by delivering a firm, resounding smack to your ass as he crossed the cell.

“Asshole!” you shouted, trying and failing to sound outraged as you squirmed, your hair falling in your face and your thighs tightening around his shoulder more for balance than in protest.

He dumped you onto the lower bunk with surprising gentleness, manoeuvring easily despite the cramped space and your flailing limbs. You landed in a graceless sprawl across the mattress, still laughing, your vest askew and your underwear flashing like a flag of defeat as you glared up at him.

He just shook his head, already turning back toward the sink, his voice low and maddeningly pleased. 

You groaned, flopping backwards into the cot. “I hate you.”

He chuckled under his breath, toothbrush finally retrieved, and leaned over the sink like nothing had happened at all.

He came back without a word, crouching low between your legs where you sat half-sprawled on the bunk, still tangled in the blanket you’d refused to surrender. His arms looped back around your waist, like gravity hadn’t quite settled yet and he needed the contact to remind him where you were. His forehead brushed lightly against your sternum through the thin fabric of your vest, and for a second, all he did was breathe you in. His hands were warm against your lower back, fingers idly curling like he hadn’t decided whether he was holding you or anchoring himself.

You didn’t lean into him straight away, but you didn’t pull back either. One hand drifted lazily into his hair, brushing through the ends without thinking. The quiet was cozy, familiar. So when his voice broke through it, low and cautious, it felt less like an apology and more like a peace offering.

“You still mad?”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “I’m not mad.”

His brow twitched like he didn’t quite buy that.

You let your fingers trail down the nape of his neck and sighed. “Wouldn’t kill you to say something nice every once in a while, though.”

He shifted against you, just a little. “I do,” he defended, voice slughtly quieter. That earned him a look. Really? that's what your face said.

He squinted, visibly uncomfortable now, and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re always starin’ in that damn mirror. Why I gotta remind you you’re beautiful when you should already know? You got eyes, dontcha?”

You blinked. Then squinted like you weren’t sure you heard him right.

“Did you just—” you sat up straighter, grinning, “—call me beautiful?”

His mouth tightened immediately. “No.”

“You so did.”

“Ya misheard.”

“Daryl Dixon,” you said, hand pressed to your chest, mock-gasping. “I don’t know whether to faint or propose.”

He tried to pull away, grumbling something under his breath, but you caught his arm and hauled him back into your space, laughing as you dragged him down beside you on the bunk.

He took in the lazy sprawl of you—bare legs, bare arms, hair wild and falling in every direction, vest clinging damp to your stomach and slightly translucent now where the morning light caught it. The fabric hung low around the neck, slipping just enough to expose the upper swell of your chest.

That’s when he saw it.

A small, blooming shadow of purple just beneath your collarbone—faint but unmistakable. A bruise in the shape of his mouth. One he’d left there last night, pressed into your skin with the heat of want and the low thrum of mine echoing through his chest. He hadn’t meant for it to mark, but now that it had—now that he saw it standing out so clearly against your soft, flushed skin—he couldn’t seem to look away.

That was his.

You were his.

The thought hit him harder than it should’ve. Not possessive like he owned you, but possessive like he got to have you. In this moment, in this place, when the whole world was still falling apart outside, he got this. You, sprawled out in your underwear, half-smiling and hair tangled and teasing him like it was your calling. No one else got to see this version of you. Just him.

Something in his chest ached sweet and deep. He raised his hand slowly to your vest, pulling it down slightly to get a better look at it.

“What?” you asked softly, blinking at him.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head, eyes tracing the hickey he’d left behind.

You looked down, following his gaze to where the hickey bloomed faintly in the centre of your chest, wegded betweenyour boobs. When you glanced back up at him, there was a flicker of smugness behind your sleepy eyes.

“You got a bit of drool there, babe,” you teased, your voice gentler now, curious.

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip, like he was chewing on a thought he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“Didn’t know I left a mark s’all,” he muttered, voice low and a little rough.

You grinned at him like the devil herself. “Why, Dixon. You embarrassed?”

His fingers flexed slightly against your waist, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Nah,” he said. And he wasn’t. Not even a little. “Just… looks good on ya.”

You raised your eyebrows at that: “I look good with bruises?”

Daryl’s jaw shifted as if he might try to explain it, then gave up. His thumb brushed lightly over your hip, his voice quiet, almost casual.

“Weren’t tryin’ to. I dunno just… kinda like knowin’ it’s there.”

There was no heat in the way he said it—not yet. Just that dry honesty he always carried, slight shyness also, like anything softer might get stuck on the way out. But it was there in the way his eyes lingered on you now. In the way his hand stayed against your waist, grounding himself like you might float off if he didn’t.

And maybe that’s why your chest tightened the way it did.

“Well,” you said, trying for playful but already sinking into breathlessness, “maybe I’ll let you leave another one.”

His mouth quirked—barely. But his hand tightened at your hip.

“…That an invitation?” he asked, tone low and careful.

You lifted a hand to the back of his neck, tugged gently. “Not exactly subtle, was it?”

He didn’t say anything—and he didn’t have to. That look he gave you, unwavering and quiet, said enough. You’d seen it before, thousands of times before.

You leaned into him instinctively, that touch, that heat. Your lips twitched, barely holding back a grin, and your eyes lifted just as his dropped. He was close enough now that your exhales mingled, breath shared in the stillness, and though neither of you moved quite yet, the space between your mouths tightened—so much that when you smiled again, your nose brushed his.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just waited there, calm and heavy with anticipation, like the choice had always been yours.

You grinned fully now, letting the weight of it pull across your cheeks. The sight of him kneeling in front of you like that—hands at your waist, forehead nearly touching yours—struck something warm in your gut. It was stupid how solid he looked like that, like every inch of him was wound up and waiting, held back only by the rough pads of his fingers curling a little tighter against your ribs.

So you leaned in and gave him a kiss. Just a peck. Teasing. A pull-and-retreat that barely skimmed his mouth. He huffed against your lips, exasperated and fond all at once, and when you did it again—one more kiss, just as brief—his hand shifted to the back of your head.

This time, when he kissed you, it wasn't quick.

It was heat and hunger pressed tight, the sound of your breath swallowed into his mouth, his palm cradling your skull as if to keep you still, keep you close, keep you his. Your fingers found the front of his shirt, curling tight in the fabric without even thinking, and your thighs parted around his hips without instruction, just an instinct you hadn’t even registered until he was nudging forward between them.

And still, he didn’t rush. He kissed you like it was the first time again—like the taste of your mouth was something to memorise all over.

But then his tongue slid against yours and your pulse kicked in your throat, and something beneath your skin began to fray, unraveling in soft waves of want.

You’d meant to keep brushing your hair.

You’d meant to start the day.

Instead, your legs spread wider, inviting him in without a word, he shifted forward, body crowding yours as he hovered, one forearm braced beside your hip on the mattress, the other tracing up your ribs, dragging the hem of your vest as he went. His mouth never left yours. His breath was hot and open and endless against your lips, and you felt the exact moment he was about to climb over you completely—

And then you moved.

Your hand slid down to his chest and gave a push—not to stop him, but to turn the tide. You rolled over with him, legs locking around his waist with practiced ease as you did so. Your knees anchored on either side of his thighs, hips snug against his lap, and his hands flew straight to your waist like magnets. That look on his face—the flicker of surprise, the punch of hunger—made the move worth it every time.

He chuckled low against your lips, grinning now as your forehead rested against his.

You kissed him again, longer now, deeper, letting your hips shift against his with slow, aching pressure that made his fingers tighten at your sides. His hands slid beneath your vest, calloused palms dragging up your back as if he had been waiting to do that ever since the last time he did so. You barely noticed when your breath hitched again, or when your body tilted forward, chasing more of him.

“Weren’t you supposed to be on watch this morning?” you murmured against his lips, the words half-laughed, half-mumbled, your arms winding around his neck like you had no real intention of letting him go.

Daryl didn’t answer right away. He just kissed you again with more intensity, hand gripping your waist as if you were water.

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered in between kisses, voice rough like gravel and sleep and something a little more dangerous.

You huffed into his mouth, the sound shaky with a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Liar,” you whispered, though your voice didn’t have a single ounce of conviction left in it.

He grunted something close to a laugh—just breath, really—tugging at your vest. Yeah, this has gotta go. You raised your arms as he slipped your vest off for you. With your nipples now exposed to the chill of the air, they naturally pebbled, making the man lick his lips without even thinking.  Jesus Christ.

You chuckled at the gesture, quiet and breathless, head tipping back as his lips chased down the column of your neck, your breath hitching the second he found that blooming mark again—barely healed, already deepening beneath his mouth.

Your hips shifted, just a little, enough to make him groan into your skin like it physically hurt not to take it further.

He leaned forward and kiss the center of your chest, right above the stuttering thump of your heart, his mouth hot and open and there as his hands slid higher to cup your breasts completely, the weight of his palms grounding you in the kind of safety that felt terrifying.

Finally, he reached your nipple, tongue flicking against it, slow and deliberate. You gasped—not because it was sudden, but because it was real, because it sent a bolt of heat between your legs and your whole body clenched without thinking, because the air around you didn’t feel still anymore, it felt charged, like the room had shrunk to just your breath and his and the way his teeth scraped lightly over your skin before his mouth closed around it and sucked.

. His mouth moved slowly, worshipfully, lips dragging to the other side of your chest where he left another bruise, this one lower, darker, the kind of mark you’d still feel days from now and remember exactly how it got there.

And then he kissed the center of your sternum again. Pressed his forehead there like he needed a second to breathe—like the weight of you, half-naked and trembling in his lap, was something he had to hold with both hands or risk dropping completely. You felt the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over the dip between your breasts as he inhaled deep through his nose and just stayed there for a moment, unmoving, like you were anchoring him to the earth.

His hands were still cupped around your breasts, thumbs stroking slowly across your skin, circling the peaks until they stood tight and aching, the tender friction shooting down your spine like a live wire. He dipped his head again, mouthed at the soft flesh where a bruise was already forming, and suckled lazily—barely any pressure, just enough heat and drag to make your legs tighten where they bracketed his hips, the soft cotton of your underwear clinging damp against you now, useless at this point, soaked with your own need.

The light was slanting through the barred window and the slit in between the curtains and the wall, carving your bodies in pale gold strip and soft shadow, catching on the edge of your collarbone, the curve of your waist, the toning of your abdomen, the fullness of your breasts, the fine hairs on your arm that rose with every brush of his breath. His mouth was open just slightly, lips pink and kiss-bruised, his chest rising beneath you in slow, uneven waves, and you felt it all—every tremor, every shiver, every inch of heat soaked through the thin cotton between your thighs.

Your body had already begun to move without thinking, hips shifting just enough to feel the pressure of him beneath you, not in some deliberate, practiced rhythm, but something softer and more helpless, like the tide coming in, like the ache of touch that couldn’t be undone. His hands steadied you instinctively, fingers tightening at your hips, but there was no dominance in it—no claim. Just contact. Just the grounding ache between you.

Your skin was molten hot where his mouth had already left new bruises blooming along the curve of your neck and across the top and underside of your breasts. You hadn’t even realised how many until he paused to admire them—thumb brushing beneath one with lustful focus, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them in daylight.

“Think I’m startin’ a damn collection,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice hoarse with something unshaped—part awe, part possession, part disbelief that he got to have you like this. He didn’t mean to be greedy. But fuck, it was hard not to be.

You didn’t answer. You just smiled, dazed and blissed and arching softly into his touch, your hips rolling against him with the kind of slow, idle rhythm that wasn’t meant to tease. You were just following instinct, your need humming low and constant, body aching to stay close, to sink into him in every way. You could feel him beneath you, hard and straining in his jeans, and it made you clench on nothing without thinking, made your fingers grip his shoulder and the railing above even tighter just to stay anchored.

“You’re starin’,” you whispered, breath catching when he kissed just below your collarbone again, slower this time, more deliberate. His hand skimmed up your side and cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the peak with maddening softness.

“Can ya blame me?” he grunted into your skin.

Fair enough. You sighed, head falling back as his mouth followed the curve of your breast, his tongue flicking lazily over a spot that made your back arch and your thighs tense around him.

He loved it. The way you looked like this—wild and soft and his—your skin flushed and glowing in the early light, your hair a mess, your breath trembling every time he touched you like you still couldn’t quite believe it was real. And no one else saw you like this. No one else would. That thought did something to him—something feral and fragile all at once.

You murmured something he didn’t quite catch, too far gone in your haze, still absently grinding against him like your body was chasing something without permission.

You were panting—quiet, breathless, not from exertion but from being undone, from every careful, unhurried touch, the way his mouth moved like he had all morning. And when he slipped one hand down—down your belly, past the twitching skin of your navel, across the waistband of your panties, you didn’t speak. You didn’t breathe. You just let him.

Because of course you did.

Because it was him.

His fingers curled over the elastic. He paused. Just barely. And you nodded—just once, barely enough to be seen, but more than enough for him to feel it.

His hand slipped inside.

The first drag of his knuckles against your slick heat made you shudder, made your hips rock helplessly into his palm like your body didn’t belong to you anymore. He groaned into your chest, low and guttural, his free hand gripping the back of your thigh to steady you, to keep you open for him as his fingers slid through the wetness between your folds, slow and careful, the pads of them circling your clit like he was testing pressure, trying to find exactly what made you twitch.

You bit down on your lower lip, head falling forward into his hair, your hands fisting in the fabric at his shoulders as he teased you in slow, gliding strokes, his mouth never leaving your breasts. He alternated between soft kisses and hot, sucking pulls that made your toes curl and your pulse stutter, and all the while, his hand worked you open with maddening patience—never too fast, never too much. Just steady. Just there.

His index finger slid down, pressed at your entrance, then slipped in so easily it made your whole body flinch forward. You let out a broken, whispered sound against his ear, too overwhelmed to name it, your forehead pressed hard to his temple now as your walls clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper. He didn’t push. Not yet. Just eased the finger into the knuckle and let you feel it—let you feel the fullness, the stretch, the dizzying throb of being touched right, being touched by him.

You whimpered his name then—not loud, but so full of breath and ache that it barely made it out whole. His thumb pressed back to your clit, moving in lazy, perfect circles now as he curled the finger inside you, and you swore you saw stars behind your eyes even though they were still open, still locked onto the side of his face where his jaw was clenched and his cheeks were flushed and his lips were wet with you.

He added a second finger.

You gasped, louder this time, hips jerking against him, the heat mounting now in thick waves from your thighs to your chest to the back of your neck, and the only thing grounding you was his iron grip on your hip and the rough rhythm of his breath against your chest.

Your brain was so foggy that you felt your balance sway dangerously backwards, your body immediately tensing up in response.

“‘S alrigh',” he rasped, his free arm wrapping around your back to keep you upright. “Just relax baby, I gotcha.”

You nodded again, but the motion was messy, unfocused, your head lolling against his shoulder as he fucked you with his fingers—slow and deep and so gentle it made tears sting behind your eyes, because it wasn’t about getting off, it wasn’t about friction—it was just about you. About how you looked in his lap, how you felt around his hand, how your legs trembled and your back arched and your skin flushed pink under his mouth.

And it could’ve gone on forever like that.

You could’ve come just like this, in his arms, his fingers inside you, his mouth against your chest, the world held at bay behind that thin curtain and the soft light streaming across the cell block from the barred window and onto your slick body.

“Ahh,” you breathed into him, voice quiet and hazy, already coming apart in the way your body arched and trembled. “Baby, I’m gonna—”

You didn’t need to finish. He could feel it in the way your hips bucked helplessly into his hand, chasing every slow, curling drag of his fingers like the last pull of a tide before it broke. You reached for the bunk railing overhead, fingers gripping tight, knuckles white as your thighs tensed and your head tipped back with a whimper, eyes squeezing shut like they always do in these moments. It was right there—just on the edge—your orgasm blooming in slow, molten waves, so close it made your very bones shake.

And then—

The curtain snapped open.

Light poured in like a slap.

“Hey, you up—”

The voice didn’t even finish before your body locked up with a full-body jolt, the breath in your lungs stalling into a raw, guttural gasp. Your thighs clamped tight around Daryl’s hips, arms flying instinctively to cover your chest as your whole body recoiled—not from him, but from the sudden spotlight. 

You turned sharply away from the doorway, the instinct to hide stronger than the lingering crest of pleasure still rippling through you. But it was too late. Nick had already seen. Everything. Your body bare, flush and glistening, your chest heaving and exposed. He’d seen your mouth open, your face scrunched with pleasure, your spine arched, Daryl’s hand shoved in your underwear as if it paid rent.

Daryl’s hand vanished from your body in an instant, the sudden absence a cruel echo that left your core aching and empty. His entire frame went rigid against you, then he moved. Fast. Fuming. Protective.

The orgasm didn’t stop, but it didn’t land, either—not fully. Not the way it would’ve been if Daryl had helped you through it like usual. Instead, it frayed at the edges like torn fabric, ripped away before it could crest, your entire system crashing into a jagged, breathless shock that left you clinging to Daryl's shirt, mouth open but silent, eyes slammed shut against the flood of adrenaline.

Daryl immediately reached for the nearest blanket the second Nick’s voice came, pulling it over your back in one fluid motion, tucking you in and pressing your body flat to his chest with an arm like a vice. You didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. You curled in, breath ragged and skin burning, burying your red face against him as the last remnants of your kind-of orgasm sputtered out in a broken stutter of sensation that made your eyes sting.

Nick was frozen, like a deer in headlights, one hand half-raised, eyes wide with horrified realisation. He hadn’t meant to—but he had. He’d seen it all. And from the way he stood there, slack-jawed and stammering, it wasn’t just embarrassment. It was pure horror for what came next.

“I—I didn’t know, I swear—I didn’t mean—”

“Get the fuck out!” Daryl yelled, his voice booming not just around your cell but echoing throughout the entire cell block. Hell, the entire prison.

Nick backed up with hands raised, bumping into the wall as he scrambled for the curtain, muttering apologies. And Daryl was already moving.

He lowered you gently, but quickly, onto the mattress like you were glass, hurriedly smoothing the blanket across your hips, making sure your body was covered. Then he stood and was out the door in a flash.

You didn’t look after him. You couldn’t. Not yet. You stayed curled on your side, blanket pulled tight to your chest, one arm tucked under your head as your body tried to come back to itself. The tension still thrummed in your legs like a broken wire, the pleasure unfinished, twisted into something raw and hollow by the intrusion. You blinked, mouth open but dry, breath catching in your throat as you forced yourself to inhale slowly, once, then again.

The sound of the commotion had already begun to ripple through the cellblock as Nick stumbled backwards—hands up, voice tripping over apologies—but there was nowhere to go. The catwalk he stood on ended in cold cement and locked gates. And Daryl was already on him.

His boots were heavy and echoing across the metal grates as he charged the younger man like a goddamn freight train. Nick barely had time to yelp before Daryl slammed his body into the wall with a forearm across his throat, the force of it reverberating through the prison’s ribcage like a warning bell.

“The fuck you doin’ walkin’ into her cell without even knockin’, huh?” Daryl snarled, face so close to Nick’s their noses almost touched. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t mean to—I swear, I thought she was alone—”

To the man’s defence, you weren’t the most obvious couple. You didn’t cling to each other in public, didn’t make a show of affection in the hallways or at the dinner tables. What you had with Daryl existed in the quiet, private spaces— at most, his hand would brush your lower back when no one was looking. The immediate group knew, of course. They’d seen the arc of your relationship unfold from awkward glances to something that now resembled an old married couple. But the newer arrivals—like Nick, the jittery Woodbury recruit now backed up against the wall—didn’t know that until now.

“Should kill ya right here for how you just stood there gawkin’ at her.”

Daryl’s voice cracked through the air like a whip—rough, furious, and loud enough to bounce off the cement walls. It was more volume than most had ever heard from him, and it sent a ripple through the cellblock. Cells opened. Soft footsteps padded out onto the catwalk, tentative and tense. Glenn was the first to appear, eyes wide and alert. Carol followed close behind, tying her jacket as she squinted against the morning light. Rick came next—jaw tight, always ready to defuse a spark before it ignited into wildfire. Hershel moved slower, his crutches tapping softly with each purposeful step.

They didn’t need an explanation. One look was enough.

Nick stood frozen, hands half-raised in pitiful surrender, face pale and clammy. Daryl’s chest was heaving with fury, shoulders tense like a bowstring, fingers clenched in the man's shirt. The curtain that served as your only barrier to privacy now hung limply off one hook—torn aside, half-draped, revealing too much.

And then there was you, peeking out from the doorway to see if Daryl had killed Nick yet, blanket hastily pulled around you, flushed cheeks, and hair tousled from sleep and sex and sudden humiliation. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. Just the sight of you—half-shielded, lips parted in shock, fingers curled tight around the blanket—was enough explanation for the group. Nick had walked in on the two of you.

Glenn had already started moving, trying to intercept, hands raised in that well-practiced pacifying gesture. “Hey—hey, Daryl. C’mon. We get it, alright? Let’s all just breathe.”

Carol lingered, watching carefully. Rick edged down the stairs with quiet authority, his voice low but firm. “Daryl. It’s done. Let it go.”

But he wasn’t listening. Not really. He couldn’t. Not over the roar in his ears.

And then—

“Daryl.”

Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough. It cut through the heat in his veins like a sudden drop in pressure, slicing through the crimson haze behind his eyes and tethering him back to where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. His hand remained fisted in the fabric of Nick’s shirt, shoulders still heaving as adrenaline roared against his ribs, but something in your tone made him turn. No panic. No fear. Just that grounded steadiness he always came back to.

You were standing in the narrow archway of your cell, blanket pulled tight under your arms, your bare shoulders kissed by the dull morning light filtering in through the high-set windows. You didn’t look angry. You didn’t even look embarrassed. You just looked at him — like you always did — with something calm, something knowing, something that stopped him in his tracks harder than any voice ever could.

His jaw flexed once, then again, and without another word he shoved Nick back against the wall one final time — not with the intent to injure, but enough to make him feel how close he’d come. Nick's eyes were wide and wild, lips stammering silent nothings, and though Daryl didn’t speak again, the way he looked at him was enough to bury a warning deep in his bones. Then he turned his back on him completely, like the matter had been settled.

Daryl was on you in three long strides, his movements fast but careful, eyes sweeping you head to toe like he needed to confirm you were still whole. One hand clutched the edge of the blanket where it had begun to slip, steadying it with a firm tug, while the other hovered just above your hip, not quite touching yet—like he was trying to ask without words if he could. You didn’t answer, but you didn’t have to. Your body leaned forward instinctively, and that was all the permission he needed.

He wrapped around you without hesitation, arms bracketing your frame with a kind of protectiveness that felt almost feral. The blanket was still clutched in his fist, but the rest of him was solid warmth and muscle and motion as he tucked you into his chest, blocking you from view as a dozen sleepy, confused faces began to gather at the edge of the catwalk.

It wasn’t a big crowd. A handful of people—ten, maybe twelve—most of them in half-buttoned shirts and mismatched socks, blinking against the light and murmuring to each other, eyes flicking between Nick and Daryl, taking in the image of Daryl using his body to shield you from onlookers with dawning realisation. But it was certainly enough people to make Daryl’s jaw tighten. Enough to make his grip on the blanket hitch a little higher as he folded his arms tighter around your shoulders, like he could physically shield you from the shame of exposure by sheer force of will.

He looked over his shoulder sharply, eyes finding Rick’s without needing to speak. And Rick, sharp as ever, read him immediately.

“Alright,” Rick called, firm and clipped, stepping forward with both hands raised. “Notin’ to see here, people. Go on.”

There was a shuffle of movement—Glenn lingering, motioning for people to go back to their cells before returning to his and Maggie's, Carol giving you a look that hovered somewhere between sympathy and secondhand mortification. Hershel dipped his head politely and turned away, muttering to Nick about lessons on knocking before entering a bedroom shared by a man and a woman.

“You alright?” he murmured, voice raw now, cracked and stripped down. His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, eyes scanning your features like he was checking for damage.

You exhaled a laugh that sounded more like an adrenaline dump. “Mortified, actually. Thanks for asking.”

The response didn’t ease him. Not completely. He gently ushered you further into your cell, away from leering eyes. The curtain whispered closed behind him, the soft slide of fabric shutting out the gawking neighbours and early morning whispers. For a moment, it was quiet—just the two of you in the dimly lit cell, breathing like the air had been knocked out of the room. You stood there in the middle of the cell, still wrapped in the blanket, one shoulder slipping bare as your hand clutched the edge tighter. Daryl hovered a few steps in front of you, all tense jaw and twitching hands, like his body hadn’t decided whether to fight or flee. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look you in the eye. He just stepped closer and reached out, tugging the blanket up where it had slipped, smoothing the fold down along your arm like it would make any difference at all.

His other hand had already begun tugging at the top edge of the blanket, fussing with the way it dipped too low near your chest, adjusting it like a man trying to erase what happened with nothing but his bare palms. You didn’t stop him. You just let him fiddle, watching the pinch in his brow deepen as his mind spun somewhere behind his silence.

He didn’t stop there. His fingers adjusted the corner near your hip, then fixed the hem where it hung uneven, then went back to your shoulder again—as if rearranging a blanket could undo the fact that someone else had seen you like this. You let him, watching with wide eyes and an incredulous twist tugging at the corner of your mouth, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Soooo,” you drawled, voice still airy with leftover adrenaline as you tugged the blanket higher across your chest, “that was horrifying.”

Daryl didn’t answer. His jaw flexed, teeth clenched so tight you could hear it grind beneath the silence. His hands were still hovering like they couldn’t decide whether to let go of the fabric or just bury themselves in it forever. He looked everywhere—your face, the blanket, the wall behind you—like there wasn’t a single spot in the cell that didn’t piss him off.

You cocked your head, hoping humor would crack the tension. “You mad?”

He scoffed, breath sharp through his nose. “The hell you think?”

“Jeez, just checking,” you muttered. “Didn’t exactly leave much room for nuance.”

He dragged a hand down his face, then gestured vaguely toward the door like it still burned. “You were naked. And that little shit just walked in.”

“Yeah, I remember,” you said with a dry little nod. “I was kind of there. Mid-thing, too, if you recall.”

His head jerked toward you like you’d slapped him.

“What?” you said, raising your eyebrows innocently. “You think I go around flashing these on the daily?”

His nostrils flared when you gestured to your breasts, and that vein in his temple did a little jig.

You softened, just a little. “Honestly? I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. We’re living in a prison, babe. Privacy’s basically a myth at this point. Like… dragons. Or chocolate.”

“Don’t make it okay,” he muttered, voice quiet but tighter than barbed wire. It sounded like it physically pained him to say the words.

“No, it doesn’t. But it doesn’t make it some grand tragedy either. It just… happened. I mean it was bound to, we've been playing russian roulette with that curtain ever since we put it up.”

You reached out and brushed his wrist with your fingertips, and he flinched—not like you’d burned him, but like the ease of your touch made him feel worse. Like your indifference hurt more than the act itself.

He shook his head slowly. “How are you so... calm? Why ain't you pissed?”

“Why should I be?” you asked, tilting your chin. “Because someone caught a glimpse of the goods?”

He shut his eyes, like he was praying for strength.

You shrugged, every bit of strength in you was focusing on not chuckling at how little resolve he had when it came to you being naked. “They’re just tits, baby.”

His eyes snapped open, and when he spoke, his voice came out raw, rough around the edges and slightly louder than he intended. “They’re your tits!”

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute. His face flushed pink the second it left his mouth, and his eyes dropped to the floor like he’d just confessed something far too big for daylight.

You stared at him, then let out a short laugh. “Did you just yell about my tits?”

He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face like he wanted to wipe the last ten minutes off the earth. “That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you kinda did,” you teased gently, and your voice had softened now. “And honestly? I'm flattered.”

“I’m just sayin’…” he started, still not looking at you, “…he saw you like—like how I see you. It's messin' with me”

You stepped forward into the space between you, not that there was much; one hand pressed flat to his chest, you felt the way his heart thudded under your palm, as if it were trying to outrun itself.

“What do you mean?” you asked, quieter now. Softer, as if you were worried he'd pull away at your question.

He shook his head again, rough, like he was trying to shake something off—but then he stopped, hands still at your waist, eyes barely holding to yours. When he spoke, it was low. Quiet. Almost like he didn’t want you to hear it.

“Ain’t about what we were doin'… Ain’t about him, even.”

You stayed still. Let him take his time.

“It’s just—” He huffed through his nose, jaw tight. “Ain’t nobody s’posed to see you like that. Just…”

His lips twitched, like he hated the words even as he said them.

“It’s you,” he muttered. “Don't matter if he only got a look. He don't get to see you like that. But now he has and-”

He shook his head again, eyes burning into yours, jaw working uselessly as if there were more he wanted to say but the words kept failing him.

“It’s like he stole somethin’. Even if he didn't meant ta... I fuckin’ hate it.”

The silence stretched. He wouldn’t look at you now—just stared off down at the floor, like maybe that would make it easier.

“Can’t help it, I just… want you all to myself,” he added, soft and miserable, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud. “I get it's selfish, but I do.”

Your breath caught as the space between you changed—subtle at first, like the temperature shifting just before rain.

"Hey," you said quietly, reaching up and cupping his face so he would finally look at you. "Listen to me, if anyone deserves to be selfish... It's you."

Something in the air softened, thickened with the weight of what hadn’t been said but was suddenly everywhere. Daryl wasn’t angry anymore. Not in the way he’d been before. He just looked overwhelmed, like his body was still catching up to the idea that someone else had witnessed something he thought of as his alone. Something sacred. Yours.

"Yeah, well.." he started, eyes darting about your face, looking for some sign of bogus in your face, but it was to no avail. "I dunno what the hell to do with it."

Your thumbs stroked his jaw, brushing the faintest stubble on his cheeks. His skin was warm under your touch, a little clammy, like he’d been sweating adrenaline ever since the curtain had swept aside.

“Well,” you murmured, keeping your voice light despite the intensity coiling in your chest, “I’ve got some ideas what you can do with all that possessive turmoil.”

One of his brows twitched like he couldn’t quite decide whether you were teasing or trying to disarm him again with jokes. You didn’t clarify. You just leaned back a little, head tilting cockily like this was any other casual morning conversation.

“Option one,” you offered, holding up a hand with mock solemnity, “you keep acting all weird and fidgety until we both die from repressed emotional constipation.”

A faint huff left him, barely audible, but there was a glint in his eye now—something bruised but breathing.

“Option two,” you went on, tapping your finger against his chest with exaggerated flair, “you pull your head outta your ass, accept that your stuck with me, and get over it. No returns. No receipts. Lifetime warranty.”

His lips twitched, just a little, but his posture still screamed conflict. Like he wanted to agree but didn’t trust that he deserved to. His hands stayed where they were—hovering, unsure—until you gave him one more nudge.

“And if all else fails,” you added, tone dropping with playful gravity as your hand slid slowly down his chest, “we just fuck until we forget what all this was about.”

That finally got a proper reaction. His head jerked back a bit, eyes wide with something like horror and hunger rolled into one. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then flicked away almost shyly, like the idea startled him.

“You serious right now?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. Ofcourse you were serious. stupid question.

You grinned, shameless. “I mean, we’ve tried talking. Not sure it’s our strong suit.”

His palm dragged slowly down his face, scrubbing over the tension there, and when he looked at you again, his expression had cracked—just a hairline, but enough to see what was beneath it. Embarrassment. Longing. Something ancient and boyish, like a man who’d never been allowed to want anything and was suddenly terrified he might get it.

“Jesus,” he mumbled. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Definetly,” you said cheerfully, tucking your arms around his waist under the blanket. “But it’ll be a fun funeral.”

He shook his head, but there was no real frustration in it anymore—just something soft and shaking loose. His eyes dropped again, his fingers brushing lightly over your waist as if to make sure you were still there, still his. But the touch didn’t stay tentative for long. Slowly, carefully, he let his hand settle. The blanket shifted with the motion, rustling like leaves, and then he was anchoring himself there—thumb stroking just beneath the hem where skin met cotton.

“Don’t wanna share ya,” he said finally, voice so low you almost missed it beneath the thrum of blood in your ears.

You leaned in, brushing your forehead against his, a quiet exhale warm between your mouths. “You don’t have to. I'm yours. That poor bastard barely survived the first glance. I doubt he’s gonna risk another.”

I'm yours. Yourds rang though his head like some symphony. A shaky breath left him then—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—and for the first time since the two of you had been rudely interrupted, some of the iron in his shoulders melted. He rested his brow against yours, hands still firm on your waist like he could keep you his if he just held tight enough.

“Still wanna kill him,” he grumbled, but it sounded more passive than a threat now.

“I know,” you whispered. “But maybe, and just humour me here, how about you… don’t do that.”

His second hand found its way under the blanket, mirroring the first. They weren’t possessive now—just grounding, warm, holding onto something real and alive. You. The moment. Whatever this fragile, messy thing between you had become.

“I’m putting up a sign next time,” he muttered.

You smiled, lips brushing his as you laughed. “Make it big and bold. Maybe add some barbed wire. Paint it bright red n' write ‘If the bunk’s rockin’, y’all best keep walkin'."

He chuckled finally, and this time, when he looked at you, there was no doubt left. No shame. No fear. Just a quiet sort of awe.

His fingers slid up, slow and reverent, tracing the edge of your jaw before curling behind your neck. His touch was rough and gentle all at once, like he didn’t know how to separate the two anymore.

“You’re mine,” he said, not as a demand, but as a confession. Almost like he needed your permission to believe it. As if he were finally coming to terms with it.

You kissed him then—not hard, not fast, but with every ounce of conviction he couldn’t find the words for. “Damn straight,” you breathed into the space between your mouths.

And this time, he didn’t argue. He just held you, as if he finally understood he was meant to.

The kiss was soft at first—slow, anchoring, the kind that hummed low in your chest and made you forget the concrete beneath your feet. His lips brushed yours like they were still apologizing, still making up for every second of distance that had come before. But as always with Daryl, tenderness had a half-life. One moment you were breathing him in through the hush between your mouths, and the next, you were drowning in him.

His mouth took yours deeper, hungrier. Your fingers curled around the fabric at his chest, just to keep yourself upright. The air shifted. Got hotter. Thicker.

It wasn’t fast—god, no. It was glacial in how it climbed, in how his mouth slanted over yours again and again, each kiss drawing more from you than the last, each inhale like it had to be shared. The blanket still clung around your body, wrapped tightly from the earlier debacle, but you could feel it slipping, the tremor in your stomach, the twitch of your thighs under it, every time he exhaled against your lips. Every time his tongue traced the inside of your mouth, like he already knew what you were about to say.

Which, unfortunately, you were about to have to prove.

You pulled back slightly, just a breath apart, his forehead resting against yours. You tried to find your voice, but it came out softer than you’d meant—slightly strained also, like you were trying not to cringe at how needy you felt asking this.

“Hey… u…”

Daryl didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just watched you, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted, like he was enjoying the view of you struggling to speak more than anything else in the world. That smug, knowing bastard.

You tried again, clearing your throat and pressing your palm against his chest. “So… do you think we might, maybe… I mean, only if you want to… It’s just that earlier, y’know, we kinda got cut off—”

His brow arched slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“—and I just… I didn’t exactly, um… get to finish. And you’ve got like—ten minutes or something before watch so I figured we could maybe…”

He still didn’t speak. Didn’t back away. Just stared you down like you were the last meal left on earth, his lips twitching with amusement. Meanwhile, his hand tugged slowly at the top hem of your blanket—just a gentle pull, barely enough to shift it, but enough to send a bolt of heat down your spine. You faltered. Completely.

“I mean,” you blurted, flustered, “we don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to. I just thought maybe if you weren’t doing anything right now or—”

His voice came low, slow, dangerously husky. “I don't now actually. Why dontcha just ask me?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

You felt you were being painstakingly clear in what you were suggesting, but apparently, he was too slow. That or he was being an ass and wanted you to say it. Definitely the latter.

His hand paused at the end of your blanket, dragging it up a fraction, knuckles grazing your thigh. His smirk deepened. “Ain’t followin’, sweetheart. Whatcha want?”

You narrowed your eyes. He was enjoying this. That bastard. The teasing, the way you could barely string together a sentence around him—he was soaking it up.

Ok. have it his way

You tilted your chin, let your mouth fall into an exaggerated pout. “Y’know what? Never mind,” you said airily. “Honestly, I wouldn’t wanna go again either if I were you.”

His smirk vanished like you’d slapped him. The air crackled.

You went on, your tone light as air, as if you were just chatting about the weather. “I mean, s’not like I used to brag about you to Maggie and Carol or anything. Back when you had stamina. That… spark.”

You sighed dreamily, folding your hands over your stomach like a wistful widow. “But I get it. You hit your prime. Happens to the best of ‘em.”

Then, with a devastating little shrug:

“Maybe next time I oughta just finish myself off and save you the trouble,” you said lightly, like it wasn’t meant to wound. Your tone stayed casual—teasing, even—but your eyes didn’t blink. “I mean, no point wastin’ your energy when I’ll just be fakin’ it for the morale boost anyway.”

That did it.

The blanket tore away from your body in one sharp, punishing tug, and for a single fleeting second the air bit cold across your skin—but it barely had time to register. His hands were already on you, rough palms slipping beneath your thighs with a purpose so instinctive it made your stomach clench, like every cell in his body had been waiting for permission to do this. And now that he had it—now that you’d baited him, pushed him, called his bluff—there was no stopping it. No soft return. No patience.

He hauled you up in one swift, seamless motion, as if your weight meant nothing to him, like you belonged there—hooked around his hips, clinging to the warmth of him as your arms locked tight behind his neck. Your legs wrapped around him before your mind caught up, your breath spilling into the crook of his neck as his shirt bunched in your fists and your whole body tensed, trying to keep pace with the shift in gravity.

His stride toward the cot was fast, controlled, driven by something deeper than frustration—something wild and hot and thick with want. His jaw flexed tight against your cheek as he walked, your thighs tightening around him as the world tilted with every step.

“You keep talkin’, baby,” he muttered low in your ear, his voice frayed and hot like it had been dragged through sand, every syllable carved straight from the heat building beneath his skin. “But you ain’t gonna be able to for long.”

And fuck—you believed him. Every word of it. Every heavy step. Every curling, possessive touch.

He tossed you onto the bunk like he didn’t trust himself to hold you another second, like if he didn’t let go he might fuck you standing up against the cell wall. The mattress groaned under you with a dry creak, the rough cotton of the sheet dragging beneath your back, your spine catching against it as you tried to sit up. But you didn’t make it far.

He was on you immediately, arms bracketing your body, his knees digging into the thin mattress on either side of your hips, his shoulders hunched as he loomed over you, not to intimidate, but to claim. His chest heaved with each shallow breath, his mouth parted, gaze raking down your bare form like it hurt him not to touch. His eyes flicked lower, tracking the line of your stomach, the curve of your breasts, the flush already blooming under your skin—and then back up to your face, where your lips were parted just slightly and your lashes fluttered from the weight of it all. You were his, and he was going to show you what exactly that meant.

But even as his weight settled over you, one of his hands gripping the mattress beside your head and the other braced near your ribs, he kept glancing past you, eyes darting to the cell door with every shift in the air. Like he couldn’t help it. Like the memory of earlier still haunted the doorway, a ghost waiting to barge in and ruin whatever this was before it could even begin.

You felt his hesitation in the way his muscles held just a fraction too tight, in the breath he held when the floor creaked somewhere beyond. He’d placed himself over you with purpose—angled just so, blocking you from view, a wall of heat and instinct and possessiveness. If anyone walked in now, all they’d see was him. Just Daryl, hunched over, his back broad and taut, hiding everything he couldn’t bear someone else to touch.

You didn’t blame him for being on edge. Not really. But goddamn, you needed his eyes on you. You needed to be seen—by him. Not watched. Not protected. Seen.

So you reached up, threading your fingers into the scruff along his jaw and tugged, firm and slow, until his gaze dropped down to yours. There was resistance, barely there, but it gave way the second your mouth brushed his.

That was all it took.

His mouth was already on yours again before your breath had even settled from the last kiss, rougher this time—hot and hungry and heady, like something had cracked open between you both and there was no use pretending anymore. Your lips met with too much force, too much ache, teeth brushing and breath catching, hands grasping anywhere they could. His stubble scraped your chin, your cheek, the corners of your mouth, but it only made you pull him closer, tilt your face to deepen the kiss until it stopped resembling anything soft or sweet.

And then his hand was on your hip, steadying you, anchoring you in place as he shoved your underwear down with a single, unforgiving motion. No teasing, no warning—just a rough tug that dragged the fabric over the curve of your ass and down your thighs like it had personally offended him. Which said a lot, considering they were his favourite pair.

You were already so worked up, still raw from what had been stolen moments before, your skin oversensitive and your mind gone blurry, and he knew that, hence the skipping over foreplay. His hands gripped your thighs as he settled between them, groaning as he felt the heat of you, head ducking to mouth at your breast, leaving a wet, open kiss above your racing heart.

Your thighs parted without thinking. His body settled between them, the weight of him solid and anchoring and perfect. You could feel the denim of his jeans catching your bare thighs, scratchy in contrast to the warmth of his hips, and you gasped softly into his mouth, the friction sending a spark through your spine. He grunted in response, hips grinding down once—just once—enough to make your breath stutter and your hands fly to his belt.

“Jesus, baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, lips brushing your cheek now as his fingers cupped the underside of your thigh, pushing it higher against his side. “You’re already—fuck—“

You nodded, breath catching as your hands fumbled at his waistband, desperate and half-shaking. “I mean what did you expect, with earlier,” you whispered, half-laughing, half-panting. “Kinda stuck with me.”

He didn’t answer—just groaned low in his throat, the sound all grit and restraint, his mouth dragging down your neck in hot, open-mouthed kisses that bordered on desperate. His teeth scraped along your skin like he needed to remind himself you were real, here, underneath him, squirming and burning up with need.

Your fingers had barely worked his belt loose before he took over, popping the button and yanking the zipper down in one rough motion. He didn’t bother pushing them off—just shoved the denim low enough on his hips to free himself, cock already straining in his boxers.

But you didn’t wait for him to do the rest.

Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers curling under the fabric and dragging it down just far enough to get what you wanted. He hissed as your palm closed around him—hard, hot, already leaking—and you guided him straight to where you ached, pressing his tip to your slick folds with a trembling breath that made your whole body shudder.

His arms went taut around you, head dropping as he sucked in air through his teeth, and then he looked at you—really looked at you, like you’d just set something off inside him he couldn’t come back from.

He drove into you in one desperate, guttural push, the force of it knocking the breath straight out of your lungs, his hips slamming flush against yours like he couldn’t stand another second not being inside you. The stretch hit deep, sudden and brutal and perfect, your mouth falling open on a ragged moan as your back arched beneath him, every muscle drawn tight with the shock of it.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, searching for anything to hold onto, but he wasn’t going anywhere—he stayed buried to the hilt, chest heaving against yours, forehead pressed to the crook of your neck like he needed your skin to remember how to breathe. He didn’t move, not yet, just hovered there inside you, cock twitching with restraint, like he was trying to get a grip but your body was already dragging him under.

His hand found your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a soft, dazed stroke that betrayed the feral tension in the rest of him. His eyes were screwed shut, jaw clenched like the feel of you was too much—too good, too tight, too fucking real—and you could feel the way he was trembling with it, strung so tight he might snap.

“Tell me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek, voice low and thick like it had been scraped raw from somewhere deep inside.

You blinked up at him, dazed, your mouth already parted from how close he was, how full you felt, how still he was holding himself inside you like he needed something more before he let go. “Tell you what?” you breathed, even though some part of you already knew.

He didn’t answer right away—just kept looking at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like your skin under his palms and the sound of your breath in his ear weren’t enough, not without the words. His hand slid up your thigh, fingers digging slightly into the meat of it, and his hips twitched like his body was starting to move on instinct alone, like the restraint was costing him. When he finally spoke again, it came out quieter, rougher, like gravel dragged across his throat. “Tell me you’re mine. Right now. Say it.”

And maybe you should’ve teased him for it—should’ve made some quip about his sudden need for confirmation—but all you could do was stare back at him, completely undone by the way he was looking at you, like having you under him, around him, wasn’t enough unless he could claim every inch of you in every possible way. You could feel how hard he was still, how hot and heavy he throbbed inside you, like your body was the only home he’d ever known, and it was driving you absolutely fucking insane that he wasn’t moving.

So you said it—not because he needed it, but because it was the truest thing you could offer in that moment, your voice catching in your throat as you whispered, “I’m yours. Always.”

It was fast—god, it had to be—but there was nothing hurried about the way he moved. He drove into you with a rhythm so precise it felt like vengeance, not lust, each thrust carving out the echo of your earlier words like he was determined to prove you wrong with every inch. His forearm stayed locked beneath your ass, keeping your hips elevated, tilted just right, so the cot barely shifted beneath you—but your body sure as hell did. Your legs trembled where they draped over his shoulders, slipping slightly with every deep grind of his hips, and the noise that clawed up your throat didn’t sound anything like language.

You were trying to hold it together, but your nerves were shot, mouth slack, fingers twisted in the front of his shirt like you needed something to keep from floating off. The angle—fuck, the angle—was too much. Every inch of you was stretched tight, pulsing around him, body shaking with every drag of him inside you.

“Shit—” The word barely made it past your lips, nothing but a ragged breath ghosting against his ear. You clung tighter, trembling, brain static and white-hot where it should’ve held thoughts. “Baby—fuck—y-you wanna maybe—Jesus—ease up a little—?”

It came out broken, breathy, more plea than sentence, like even forming the words took more focus than you had left. He was buried so deep you could feel him in your spine, his rhythm relentless, like he was trying to rewire every nerve in your body from the inside out.

It wasn’t a complaint, not really—more a desperate kind of awe, like you were just now realizing what you’d unleashed.

His chest was slick against yours, mouth brushing your jaw, and when he answered, it came low and unbothered, like a man entirely in control even as he split you in two.

“You shouldn’t’ve run your mouth,” he rasped, not slowing, not faltering, just rutting deeper, angling harder, like every word you’d tossed at him earlier was still echoing in his head and he was gonna fuck them all back out of yours.

You didn’t get the chance to answer. You didn’t mean to moan—it just ripped through you, sudden and aching, the kind of sound that broke without warning, clawing its way from your chest before your brain could catch up. Your head fell back like it wasn’t yours anymore, the cry already echoing, too loud in the small space, too raw to take back.

Daryl reacted instantly. His palm slammed over your mouth, broad and hot, swallowing the rest of the sound before it could betray you both. But he didn’t stop. Not even a little. His hips stayed locked into you, deep and steady, grinding into the softest part of you like he didn’t hear a thing.

“Sshhh,” he rasped, low in your ear, the breath of it rough and wrecked. “Y’gotta be quiet, alright? Real quiet for me, baby.”

You whimpered beneath his hand, your thighs twitching around his waist, every inch of you wound up like a wire ready to snap. You didn’t want him to stop. Couldn’t let him. You’d die if he did. You were shaking already, half out of breath, half delirious, hips rising to meet every thick, perfect thrust like you were starving for it.

His other hand slid up your waist, slow and open-palmed, until his thumb brushed the underside of your breast, where you were still flushed and damp from the mouth he’d had there minutes ago. The fresh bruises on your chest jostled with every thrust, rising and falling with the bounce of your breasts, and the sight had him practically drooling—lips parted, eyes fixed, like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you harder or just stare. He looked down at you then, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, taking you in like he couldn’t get enough—like the image of you laid out under him, back arched, legs trembling, was something he’d hoard forever in the deepest part of his memory.

He groaned low, almost a growl, his hand flexing over your mouth as he pushed deeper, chasing the way your back arched beneath him, the way your slick heat clenched around him like a fucking vice. His other arm was still holding you in place—not just to keep the cot from creaking, but because if he let you go, he wasn’t sure either of you would survive the fallout.

“You’re takin’ it so fuckin’ good,” he muttered against your cheek, voice fraying at the edges, hips rolling deep and hard like he meant to ruin you. 

“Mine,” he whispered again, more to himself than to you, voice wrecked. “All fuckin’ mine.”

Your eyes were rolling, your vision shimmering around the edges as you tried your hardest to not make a sound but it was useless, and all you could do was moan against his hand as his cock hit so deep you could feel it in your stomach. Every slam of his hips pushed you higher, tighter, more strung out than you’d been all morning, your hands clawing at his back like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. Your muscles were burning, your toes curling, your body arching off the cot with each snap of his hips until the cot frame itself trembled against the concrete, squeaking just once before he gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip, curling his arm tighter under you, pulling you against him like his goddamn life depended on it.

While his hand stayed firm over your mouth and his arm hooked beneath your ass kept the cot from giving away your rhythm, there wasn’t much either of you could do to muffle the wet, unrelenting slap of skin on skin. The sound echoed low and lewd in the tight space of the cell, rhythmic and obscene, like a metronome counting down how long you had left before someone walked in and found you like this, each sound a filthy, unmistakable announcement of exactly what he was doing to you, of how deep he was buried, of how fast he was moving. Daryl didn’t slow down. Couldn’t. The thought of easing up—of giving you less than everything—didn’t even enter his mind. Not when you were like this under him, writhing, breath hitching against his palm, your legs still shaking where they were perched on his shoulders.

And still, even with his whole body trembling above yours, even with sweat sliding down the side of his neck and his breath dragging raw from his lungs, he lifted his head for just half a second, glanced toward the cell door as if the shadow of earlier still loomed there, waiting.

Though his body never slowed, never faltered, you immediately sensed the shift in his focus—and feared he might stop his blissful motions. Your breath hitched, a desperate sound trying to escape around the edge of his hand, but he was already leaning closer, his chest flush to yours, his pace unrelenting. You could barely speak, but you managed one broken plea—“Don’t stop.”

His eyes snapped right back to yours, but he didn’t slow down, not even for a breath. His rhythm stayed hard and fast, hips driving into you like a man possessed, like the thought of stopping was more dangerous than getting caught.

His mouth was on yours before the words had fully left, not soft, not slow, just hot and open and messy as he swallowed the sound like it fed him. He didn’t pull back, just shifted enough to speak against your lips, his voice so low it vibrated through your ribs where his weight pressed you down.

“Ain’t stoppin’,” he muttered, the words blurred by the kiss, breath pouring straight into your mouth. “Not a chance.”

Your leg slid halfway down his shoulder with the force of his thrusts, too numb and trembling to hold its place. Daryl didn’t miss a beat. He reached down between your bodies without slowing, his hand slipping beneath your thigh, curling around the soft underside as he hoisted you back into place, thigh snug again against his chest, foot dangling behind his back. His other hand braced your hip, holding you down like he knew exactly how much more you could take—and exactly when you’d start to fall apart.

Which, judging by the way your back was already arching, wasn’t long.

You barely got a breath in before he adjusted his angle, tilting his hips and driving deeper—deeper—and your mouth flew open, the noise already clawing its way out before you could even warn him. But Daryl was faster. His palm slapped over your mouth like muscle memory, muffling the cracked, broken moan that would’ve echoed down the cell block if not for his hand.

“Knew it,” he growled, voice thick with pride and sweat and something wrecked, leaning down just enough to speak against your jaw, his breath flooding hot over your cheek. “Knew you weren’t gonna keep quiet.”

You could hardly breathe. You could hardly think. All you could do was feel—feel the sweat sliding down your spine, feel the ache building like a scream in your throat, feel the pressure coil sharp and brutal low in your belly.

Your voice cracked as you tried to speak, a slurred mess of words slipping out in gasps, every thought melting around the thick, rhythmic press of his hips. His cock dragged against that spot deep inside that made your toes curl, your body already spiraling, too gone to be anything but his. Your brain was mush, words sputtering out in muffled whimpers against his palm; “Yours… M' yours… love your dick so much, fuck Daryl—”

That did something to him.

He groaned at that like you’d punched the air out of his lungs, his teeth scraping your cheek as he hissed, “That’s right, baby. Say it all you want. You’re mine.”

You noddded your head franticaly and his chest rumbled with a breathless little laugh, not loud but full of heat, and his mouth dipped to your jaw, then lower, skimming kisses over your cheek, your neck, the edge of your collarbone like he didn’t know where to start with all the places he wanted to worship.

“Yeah?” he murmured, low and lilting, the kind of teasing that didn’t need volume to hit its mark. “That right, baby? Funny… don’t sound like what you were sayin’ earlier. What was it you said? That I lost my edge?”

You moaned in response, not because you meant to, but because you couldn’t help it- the stretch of him was unbearable. The sound shattered somewhere beneath his palm, swallowed by sweat-slick skin and the euphoria of him driving into you again and again, harder now, like he was chasing that sound. Your eyes fluttered open, only to roll back almost immediately, the coil in your stomach drawing tighter, your limbs seizing up like your body couldn’t decide if it needed to run or come undone.

He felt it. Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice vibrating straight into your throat where his mouth hovered at your jaw, tongue flicking the sweat pooling in your skin’s hollows. “There she is.”

Your legs twitched against his chest, trembling messes with no strength left to hold. Your hands clutched uselessly at his wrists, your whole body bucking helplessly beneath him. And still he didn’t slow. His pace was ruthless now, relentless, hips slamming into yours with brutal efficiency, chasing every broken sound from your throat like he was hunting them down one by one.

His hand didn’t leave your mouth. Not yet. You were too far gone, your thighs shaking, your stomach tensed, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as the pressure grew unbearable. He knew. He could feel it. And he wasn’t stopping until he ripped it out of you.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” he panted, rough and reverent, the rasp of it shaking against your jaw as he pushed deeper. “Yeah? I feel it, pretty girl. You’re right there—c’mon. Give it to me.”

You couldn’t respond. Couldn’t even think. Your words broke into nothing behind his hand, your nod frantic and shallow as your body seized up beneath him, everything inside you narrowing to the brutal rhythm of his hips and the unbearable pressure building between your legs. Your spine bowed hard, thighs drawn tight and locked over his shoulders, heels pressed into the small of his back, clinging like it might keep you anchored as everything inside you began to come apart.

And then it hit.

Your orgasm crashed into you like a freight train, sharp and deep and catastrophic—an electric snap through your core that hollowed you out with the force of it. You clenched around him, pulsing hard, your whole body locking up, chest stuttering as you tried to scream and couldn’t. Your head jerked back against the mattress, mouth opening under his palm with a muffled sob as your legs spasmed and your hips jolted beneath his grip.

It was too much—too full, too intense, too fast—and still, he didn’t let you breathe. He kept moving through it, dragging it out, every stroke driving impossibly deeper, grinding hard into the aftershocks until your body shook with overstimulation and your nails clawed helplessly at his back, his shoulders, his hair. Your toes curled tight, your chest shuddered, your tears spilled down hot and silent from your temple, and still he held you there, thumb stroking your cheek, murmuring low against your skin like a lullaby in the chaos.

“There you go,” he whispered, barely audible through the haze, watching you unravel like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, baby. Just like that.”

He was close. You felt it in the way his rhythm stuttered, not from fatigue, but from the sheer effort of holding on, of staying inside you just a little longer, like his body couldn’t decide whether it needed to finish or fall apart trying. His hips rocked forward in messy, uneven thrusts now, sloppier than before, like he’d been wound too tight and the coil was starting to snap. His breath hitched with every push, pouring hot and desperate against your shoulder as he buried his face there, one hand fisting the blanket beside your ribs, the other gripping your thigh so hard you knew you’d bruise.

“Say it,” he choked out suddenly, the sound barely a whisper, more breath than voice. “Fuck—say it again, baby, I—” His words faltered, teeth gritting like the effort to speak was pulling him apart. “Please. Jus’—please, I need—need to hear it—can’t—shit—.”

You blinked hard, body twitching beneath him, barely coherent through the noise in your skull—but God, the sound of him like this, all broken up and pleading, shot through you like a live wire. He was still pumping inside you, grinding deep with every stroke like he was trying to chase the echo of your orgasm, but now it was different—now it was for him. For the release, he couldn’t reach without you.

You reached up and cupped his face, thumb dragging along the flushed heat of his cheekbone, trying to find your breath in the chaos of his. His voice cracked open against your jaw like it was the only thing holding him together, and your lips curved, wrecked and breathless and just a little smug.

“I’m yours, baby,” you rasped, the words frayed at the edges, half-laughing through the ruin of your throat.

Your lips were barely moving now, wrecked and shaking against the damp skin of his jaw, every syllable catching on a breath you could barely hold.

“Fffuck—just do it,” you gasped, the sound trembling up from somewhere deep, raw. “Make me yours, big guy. You know where I want it”

The words hit him like a lightning strike straight to the base of his spine. You felt it—the full-body shudder, the way his hips stuttered mid-thrust, a guttural moan spilling from somewhere between his teeth like he hadn’t meant to let it out. His forehead dropped hard to yours, sweat-slick and flushed, mouth trembling open like he needed to breathe you in just to stay conscious.

“G-gonna—fuck—fill you up, baby,” he gasped, the words barely hanging together, all breath and desperation, “gonna—shit—gonna stuff you full, m-make it—make it stick—prove you’re—”

His breath caught, teeth clenching like the pleasure hurt. His whole body twitched.“M-mine—fuck—mine—m’fuckin’—mm-mine—”

His whole body jolted like he’d been struck by lightning, every sinew pulled taut as his spine arched and his forehead slammed down against yours, pressing so hard it almost hurt, like he needed the contact just to hold on. The sound that tore from his throat was ragged and broken, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, low and guttural and utterly undone. His hips snapped forward once—deep and punishing—then again, grinding in tight as his whole body seized, and then he was spilling into you with a full-body shudder so violent it felt like he was coming from somewhere deeper than just his cock. You felt him throb inside you with dizzying force, pulse after pulse of hot, thick release flooding your cunt in heavy, desperate spurts that left you raw and gasping. It was relentless, obscene, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to—his hips jerking in short, helpless thrusts as his cock twitched and kicked deep inside, filling you so full just like he said that the mess started to drip out around the base, your slick mixing with his and running down between your thighs in slow, warm trails. His breath hitched sharp against your cheek, his voice breaking on a cracked, guttural moan as he stammered something incoherent—nothing but shattered syllables and praise and filth spilling from his mouth just as fast as he emptied himself into you.

His breath came shallow and high and still—still—he didn’t stop. The rhythm slowed, sure, but it never ceased, his hips rolling in tight, sticky circles that rocked his softening cock deeper into your slick, swollen heat. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop, not when you were still fluttering around him like that, when your thighs were starting to shake again and your mouth was parting like you were about to fall apart a second time.

“Shit,” he panted, forehead resting against yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You—fuck, baby, you gonna give me another one?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with your lungs knotted and your thoughts frayed, not with the way your body was already coiling again like a live wire in his arms.

And he knew it. Knew your tells—how you twitched under him, how your breath caught, how your hips tilted even when you were already wrung out. His hand moved on instinct, sliding between your bodies with effort, fingers slippery with both your slick and his come as he found your clit again, thumb circling with maddening care while his hips gave one more shallow thrust, then another.

He was spent. Too sensitive, too soft, every grind of your cunt around him making his whole body jerk with the ache of it—but he kept moving anyway, fucking you through the overstimulation with soft, deliberate thrusts like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

“C’mon,” he whispered, breath hot and broken against your ear, his voice wrecked but worshipful. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Gimme one more. You can do it, pretty girl. That’s it.”

You whimpered. That voice—that voice, warm and cracked and coaxing—went straight through you. It made your eyes sting and your thighs quake, made your chest cave in on itself like you could melt just from hearing him say your name like that. Your clit throbbed beneath his thumb, hypersensitive and slick with both of you, and every lazy thrust dragged your walls tighter, overstretched around the length of him, making your whole body twitch like he was rewiring your nerves one spark at a time.

Your head tipped back, breath ragged and thin, and you felt it begin to crest again—your second orgasm pulling free from the mess of trembling muscle and too-hot pleasure, blooming sharp and dizzy behind your ribs like it had been building from the moment he started whispering to you.

It wasn’t something you chose—it was something your body did in rebellion, wrung loose from the mess of pulsing nerves and soaked flesh and the dizzy haze clouding your brain like static.

It started with a gasp that never quite made it out, your mouth dropping open but no sound escaping—only a shudder that ripped through your ribs like a second heartbeat detonating in your chest. The pressure hadn’t been building steadily—it had been lurking, low and forgotten, smothered beneath the burn of overstimulation until the moment you saw him unravel, chasing his own release with blind, stuttering thrusts. That image alone—Daryl fucking Dixon wrecked and helpless above you—shoved it loose without warning, exploding like a bomb behind your navel and seeping through your body with a force that made your teeth clench and your legs seize.

Your cunt clamped around him so hard it was borderline painfull; it made him moan, a ragged little noise that barely registered over the roar in your ears. Your thighs twitched violently against his chest. Your hips bucked once, then again—your body fighting it even as it surrendered, unable to choose between pulling him in or shoving him away.

The pressure that had been coiling deep inside you exploded like a fuse blown clean, your head dropping back against the thin pillow as your spine bowed, your mouth opening on a gasp so sharp you couldn’t even make a sound. You convulsed around him, your walls clamping down in helpless spasms that dragged another shattered moan from his throat, the overstimulation painting white-hot streaks of pain through pleasure so thick you almost couldn’t tell the difference. His cock was still twitching inside you, still thick and spent, and you were so fucking full, the heat of him seeping out even as he stayed buried.

And all the while his thumb kept circling, slower now, but firm—like he wanted to feel it all, wanted to help you ride it all the way through. You sobbed into his shoulder, the overstimulation turning everything sharp, every pulse of pleasure edged in pain. It felt like too much—too much pressure, too much heat, too much him—and yet you never wanted it to stop. You were crying again and didn’t even know it, your fingers tangled in his hair, your nails dragging down his scalp like you couldn’t bear to be tethered and yet couldn’t stand the idea of being let go.

Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, still hooked high around his shoulders, still wide open and straining, the angle so deep you could feel him in your gut. The contrast of his jeans against your skin, the cold metal of his belt buckle brushing your hip—only made it more visceral, more real. Your whole body was slick, wrecked, shaking beneath him, and you didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe too deeply in case it shattered the fragile, feral stillness of the moment.

Daryl didn’t move either.

He was still slumped over you, panting through the open heat of his mouth against your cheek, dazed and flushed and entirely undone, his heartbeat hammering against your chest in a rhythm that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with surrender. His hand lifted, trembling, to cup your face—thumb brushing your cheekbone like he still didn’t believe you were real—and he blinked slowly, like coming back to his body was the hardest thing he’d done all night.

He barely had the strength to hold himself up, but the second he felt your body shake beneath him, really shake—something sharp and jagged, the kind of tremor that didn’t come from pleasure alone, he snapped out of it.

Your thighs were still locked high against his chest and slung over his shoulders, trembling hard, your whole body slick and spent and shaking like the air had been knocked clean out of you. You weren’t breathing right—your chest was rising too fast, too shallow, like your lungs didn’t know how to catch up, and Daryl’s heart just about dropped out of his chest.

“Hey—hey,” he breathed, voice still rough with the echo of everything he’d just poured into you, but laced now with something quieter. Steadier. Concern. “S’okay, baby. Look at me.”

He eased your legs down first, one at a time, careful with the back of your knees like he knew they ached. You whimpered from the stretch, and he whispered a soft apology, kissing your calves as he eased them down, hands smoothing down your thighs in apology. His touch stayed slow, grounding, reverent.

You couldn’t answer. You were trying—your mouth opened, jaw slack, chest stuttering—but the breath wouldn’t come right. That terrified look hit his eyes for a second, just a flicker, and he leaned in quick, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing sweat-soaked hair from your temple.

“Breathe with me, alright?” he murmured, forehead touching yours. “Just like this. In—real slow.” He inhaled, slow and deep, exaggerating the movement so you could follow. “Now out. You got it.”

You tried. Failed the first time. But he didn’t move, didn’t rush you. Just stroked his fingers through your hair, guiding you again. And again. Until finally your lungs caught—stuttering, then settling—your breath easing out in a shudder that broke something inside him.

“There you go,” he whispered, brushing his lips to your cheek, to your jaw, then finally to your mouth. “Atta girl.”

You melted beneath him, limbs too heavy to move, heart still rattling somewhere against your ribs like a trapped bird. His body was still flush against yours, dick soft now but still buried, your bodies locked together by heat and slick and everything they’d just endured.

He stayed right there. One hand on your hip, gently rubbing warmth back into your skin. The other cradled your face like you were something breakable—and maybe you were, just a little. He kissed you then, slow and soft and unhurried, nothing like the frantic heat from minutes before. His lips moved over yours like a promise.

You whimpered against him—this time from the weight of emotion, not overstimulation—and he caught it in his mouth, swallowing the sound like it was sacred.

He didn’t move far—just enough to slide his hand down between your bodies and gently ease himself from you, hissing softly at the sensitivity, his other hand still stroking slow circles into your hip. You winced, breath hitching as the emptiness hit, sudden and raw, the wet heat of it slicking down your thighs like a reminder of how deep he’d been, how much he’d given you.

“Easy,” he murmured, all gravel and reverence, like the moment had burned the growl out of him.

His hand kept stroking slow along your sides, fingertips trailing through the sweat that cooled faster than you could stop shivering. Every so often he’d press a kiss to your temple, your cheekbone, your jaw—never in the same place twice, like he was trying to ground himself with the taste of your skin.

He looked down to look over your body again, and that's when he saw the flush of red, high along the inside of your thighs. Angry friction-burn streaks that bloomed deeper in patches, painted into your skin by the hard grip of his belt, the denim that hadn’t fully come down, the relentless drag of his hips when neither of you had been able to stop. They stood out stark against your skin, wet and raw, already darkening with the threat of bruising.

He stilled completely.

One hand, the one still curled at your hip, loosened its grip, the tension leaving his fingers like the guilt had drained it from him. He glanced up at your face again, searching for the shift—the furrow of your brow, the wince, the sharp inhale that usually came when the comedown set in. But it wasn’t there. You were still gone. Still floating.

You didn’t know what he’d done to you.

And that was what made his gut twist like he’d been sucker-punched.

It would’ve been easier if you had noticed—if you’d hissed through your teeth or shoved at his chest, if you’d blinked hard and looked at the red blooming down your thighs and said What the fuck, Daryl. But you hadn’t. Because you trusted him. Because even wrecked and trembling and strung-out, your body let him do whatever he wanted without question, without fear. Because you’d gone so pliant for him, so soft, that you hadn’t even noticed he’d left marks behind.

Still breathless, still fogged from the comedown, you reached for him anyway—your hand brushing gently across the back of his neck, threading into his hair as if that might anchor him.

But he was already sliding down.

Carefully, reverently, he shifted his weight away from your chest, his palms moving slowly down your outer thighs, thumbs stroking softly over the trembling skin, until he could cradle one of them completely in his calloused grip.

Then he dipped forward.

His mouth found the inner seam of your thigh with no hesitation, and he kissed it—slow and warm and deeply apologetic, like he thought the softness of his lips could undo the imprint of his roughness. He didn’t stop there, either. His head tilted slightly as he kissed lower, then higher, then pressed his mouth directly over one of the deeper bruises forming near your hip. His lips lingered there, barely moving, just resting against your skin as he exhaled, slow and uneven, like he could feel the ache blooming in your flesh and wanted to take it into himself.

You felt his breath stutter against your thigh—hot, humid, remorseful—and your stomach pulled tight, not from pain, but from the sheer gravity of his tenderness. The contrast made your throat close. The same man who’d just been wrecking you into the mattress now held your legs like something breakable, his body curled low and close as if to shield you from the mess he’d made. You watched his brow crease against your skin, watched his jaw flex like he was chewing on guilt he didn’t know how to name.

“Daryl,” you whispered, or maybe whimpered, fingers curling tighter in his damp hair. Your hips twitched, still faintly overstimulated, and his hands smoothed over them without thought—grounding you, soothing you, even as he kissed the other thigh with just as much care, just as much quiet reverence.

“…Shit, baby I’m sorry,” he muttered quietly, eyes raking ouver your coloured skin.

You blinked, breath stuttering in your chest as your brows pulled together. “What?”

His arms tightened around you just a little, and his next breath came slower, but rougher, like it scratched on the way out. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing soft beneath your ear.

“Was too rough,” he muttered. “Got riled up. I—I didn’t mean to push you that hard. You were shakin’ like a damn leaf, couldn’t even breathe right at first, and—” He swallowed, nose brushing yours as his eyes dropped closed.

You smiled before you even meant to, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, because you could feel the guilt blooming under his skin like heat—could feel the ache in him, that quiet fear he’d broken something delicate.

You blinked slowly, eyes still hazy as your fingers found his jaw and gave it a lazy little tap. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, voice low and hoarse but smiling all the same. “Don’t go soft on me now, Dixon. You rocked my damn world.”

He didn’t open his eyes. Just let out a rough breath like he wasn’t sure whether to believe you.

You nudged your nose against his, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “I mean it,” you whispered, each word deliberate. “That wasn’t too rough. That was—shit, that was perfect. You didn’t push me too hard.” Your thumb stroked along his jaw, grounding him as your voice dropped to a low, tender murmur. “I wanted it. All of it. I always do.”

You felt him watching you, brow furrowed like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to believe you—so you leaned in just a breath closer, your lips nearly touching his, and finished, “And that’ll never change. Ev-verrr.”

That got him. The faintest huff of a laugh escaped him, cheeks flushed under the scruff as he buried his face deeper into your neck, arms curling tighter around you like he couldn’t stand the idea of letting you go.

And then, quieter: “You sure?”

“You always do this,” you added, your voice softening as your nails scratched lightly at his scalp. “Start mopin’ like I didn’t just get the best dick of my life."

“Newsflash, lover,” you murmured, voice still wrecked and lazy as your fingers idly traced the sweat-damp line of his jaw, “if you didn’t fuck me that good, then I’d be upset.”

He let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, like your words knocked the wind right out of him. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, nose brushing yours again as he tried to hide the pink dusting his cheeks—but you felt it. Felt the way his whole body softened at your words, the tension melting out of his spine as you pulled him back into your arms like he was home.

You tilted his face up with a hand to his cheek, kissed him slow, real slow, until he stopped breathing like he’d broken something. He blinked, brow twitching, mouth twitching too.

“You—” he started, but you didn’t let him finish. Just leaned in and kissed him slow, mouths sliding together with the kind of lazy confidence that only came after being thoroughly fucked and adored.

His protest died under your lips, swallowed whole as your mouth moved against his—soft and unhurried, your tongue brushing his in slow, drugged sweeps that left him shivering. His stubble scraped gently against your chin, grounding you in the raw, lingering friction of everything that had just passed between you. You could feel the heat radiating off him still, his breath catching every time you shifted, your bare chest pressed to the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples sensitive and swollen from his earlier attention.

And God, the warmth. The weight of him. The heat still trapped between your thighs, the slick mess where your bodies joined, the faint ache starting to curl in your belly—it all just made you kiss him harder.

When you pulled back, your grin was crooked, eyes half-lidded but bright.

“You really showed me, huh?” you whispered against his mouth, and then let your nose bump his. “Next time I doubt you, you’ve got my full permission to prove me wrong again. As long as it is exactly like that.”

A short huff of laughter escaped him—relieved, grateful—and he dipped his head, hiding his smirk in the curve of your neck.

He didn’t pull back. Didn’t shift. Didn’t check the door again. He just melted downward, letting his full weight settle over you like a human blanket as the last of the tension drained from his limbs, muscle by muscle, breath by breath. His arms slid low around your waist, wrapping tight beneath the arch of your back, holding you so close your ribs ached from it—but you wouldn’t have traded that pressure for anything in the world.

Your skin tacky with sweat, your legs splayed boneless and wide, too worn out toyou. do anything but let him cocoon. You felt every inch of the difference between you—his worn denim jeans scraping lightly against your thighs, the cool fabric of his shirt sticking to the slick between your bodies, while you lay there in nothing but your own skin, flushed and raw and claimed. He was fully dressed, save for the undone fly and the mess smeared low between you both, and yet somehow he looked more undone than you’d ever seen him.

He buried his face in your neck, arms locked around your back so fiercely you almost couldn’t move. Your own arms curled up around his shoulders, fingertips smoothing beneath his collar, tracing the lines of muscle beneath fabric and sweat and heat.

“You ain’t gonna suffocate me, are you?” you mumbled against the top of his head, though you made no effort to shift. Your fingers drifted toward the scruff at his jaw, nails gently grazing over the stubble like you were testing its sharpness.

“Nah,” he said, voice gravel-thick and slow, muffled in your throat. “You’ll pass out long before that.”

He didn’t move for a long time. Just laid there, blanketing you completely, your skin fused together by sweat and everything that had just passed between you. His breathing was low now, heavy and even, and every time his chest rose, it nudged your ribs in a way that made your body relax even more deeply beneath him. His arms stayed wrapped around your middle, keeping you close, possessive without pressure, his weight grounding you like a promise you didn’t need to hear out loud.

Eventually, his mouth started to wander. Not with any urgency—just the soft, reverent sort of drifting that came when he didn’t quite know what to do with all the emotion still buzzing inside him. He kissed your neck first, then your collarbone, then lower, brushing his lips along the curve of your shoulder like he couldn't get enough of the taste of you, one freckle at a time. His lips weren’t searching for anything; they were just loving you the only way he knew how—with his mouth, with his silence, with his hands splayed warm across your back.

You sighed, content, your fingers already lifting to his hair by instinct, weaving slowly into the strands at his nape. You didn’t even have to think about it. Just like breathing.

A few strokes passed before you started doing what you always did—absently curling a small section around your finger, letting it spring free before twisting it again. Except this time, your fingers didn’t stop at idle. They got ideas.

A lock near his temple caught your attention, and you gathered it gently, twisting it into another. Then again. A few moments passed, and he shifted slightly, pressing a lazy kiss just over your breast before mumbling into your skin, “You doin’ weird shit to my hair again?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, way too pleased with yourself. “Braiding it.”

“Thought so,” he grunted.

“Your hair was begging to be played with,” you defended with a smile. “You’ve got Viking hair now, baby. You should be proud.”

“Shit,” he muttered into your chest, but it wasn’t angry—just that low, gravelly grumble that meant he was tired and content and pretending to be grumpy because the alternative was admitting how much he liked being doted on. His voice vibrated against your sternum as he shifted, one arm pulling tighter across your back while the other anchored itself beneath your ribs, locking you against him like he didn’t plan to let you out of his hold till noon.

You smiled into his hair, fingers carding through the dark, damp strands now curling messily at the nape of his neck. The braid you’d twisted near his temple still held, wonky and loose but unmistakably yours. You couldn’t help it—you started tracing the shape again, teasing another tiny coil into place.

He groaned quietly, shifting against you, face still buried between your breasts. “Swear to God, you braid one more piece, I’m gonna end up lookin’ like a damn horse.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you murmured, kissing the crown of his head.

He sighed, loud and theatrical, like a man forced to carry an unbearable burden—his girlfriend’s affection. But he didn’t move. Didn’t stop you. If anything, he nuzzled closer, arms winding tighter around you like he was folding himself into your skin.

“You braid it again,” he mumbled, tone flat and unimpressed, “’m cuttin’ the whole damn thing off.”

You snorted. “Sure you are.”

He didn’t even argue, just buried his face deeper into your neck to hide his blushing face, sucking and kissing like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that he was supposed to be annoyed.

“You leave your hair long and expect me not to braid it?” you teased, voice honey-sweet. “That’s unrealistic.”

He groaned. Not from discomfort—just the resigned groan of a man whose fate was sealed and knew it. “Never gonna hear the end of it, walkin’ around with your damn arts and crafts hangin’ off my head.”

You giggled, nuzzling your nose against his temple. “You’d still wear it, though.”

His silence was telling. He just grunted, a sound that somehow meant shut up and fine, maybe at the same time, arms squeezing tighter like he was too tired to fight you—or maybe just didn’t want to.

“Don’t make a thing of it.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely gonna make a thing of it.”

His breath huffed against your skin, his fingers flexing at your spine. You could feel the smile he tried to hide, crooked and soft and buried beneath the pretence. For all his gruff talk, he was clinging to you like he might fall apart if he let go. The contrast made you ache—his fully clothed body wrapped protectively around your bare one, jeans still open, belt hanging loose, and not an ounce of distance between you. You could feel his heartbeat in the cage of his ribs, every breath pressed close, every shift of his hips pulling you deeper into his hold.

You let your fingertips play through his hair again, slow and tender, twisting another lazy braid just behind his ear.

“Love your hair long,” you said softly, lips brushing the side of his head. “It’s hot. Rugged. Kinda feral.”

 He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt the tell—his shoulders stiffened for a beat, breath catching just slightly before he huffed a quiet, grumbly “Mm,” like maybe if he kept his face buried in your neck long enough you wouldn’t notice the heat crawling up the back of his ears. His arms tightened around you subtly, and when he finally spoke again it was muffled into your skin, short and blunt and just a little too defensive to be convincing—“Stop it”—which only made you smile wider, fingers slipping back into his hair, twisting a slow braid near the base of his skull while he sighed through his nose and tried not to melt at the way you held him, every stroke of your touch sinking deeper than he’d ever admit, each word making his chest pull tight in that soft, stupid way it always did when you said shit like that and actually meant it.

“Gonna get you all kinds of attention,” you murmured, lazy with affection, your lips brushing the top of his head as your fingers continued threading through his tangled hair.

He snorted—low, unimpressed, muffled somewhere against your sternum—and for a second you felt him go a little still, his breath stalling just long enough to make you smirk. Then came the scoff, rough and dismissive, like the very idea physically repulsed him.

“Yeah, right.”

“No, really,” you went on, grinning now, dragging it out just because you knew exactly how much it made him cringe. “You keep walkin’ around like this—lookin’ all broody and hot and apocalypse-dirty—gonna have a line of women throwin’ themselves at you. All fluttery lashes and damp panties and oh no, mister Dixon, I twisted my ankle—can I lean on your weirdly toned forearms?”

That got him. You felt it—his fingers, already splayed warm across your back, dug deeper into your spine like he could anchor himself in you and disappear altogether. He shifted slightly, nose brushing your collarbone, and mumbled the words like they hurt to even say out loud.

 His hands flexed around you, just a small twitch, but enough to feel it down your spine, and you didn’t miss the small, frustrated puff of air that broke against your skin.

“Ain’t interested,” he grumbled, a little lower now. “Only woman I see.”

You hummed, pleased, but you weren’t done—not even close. “Mm, sure, sure,” you mused, stroking slowly through his hair again, your lips brushing his temple as he buried further into your neck. “But y’know, I’m just one woman. One chaotic, loudmouthed, occasionally homicidal woman. Wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to play the field a bit—see what’s out there. I mean, maybe there's someone out there that don’t steal all your jerky or gaslight you into thinkin’ that shirt's always been hers.”

His groan came first, muffled into your throat, followed closely by a kiss—, pressed with purpose to your skin like he could shut you up with sheer proximity. You felt the heat of his breath when he spoke next, right against your skin, low and frayed and curling with something a little too serious to be just a joke. “Tempting,” he murmured. “Like I said, ain't interested." You smiled, smug and deliriously warm, tilting your head just enough to catch his mouth when it dragged higher toward your jaw, your hands sliding down to cradle the nape of his neck like maybe, if you held him just right, you could keep the whole damn world at bay.

“You’re gonna have to beat ’em off with a stick,” you murmured, still petting through his hair like he was some wild thing you’d tamed. “All them ladies seein’ you in your rugged, road-worn glory, stridin’ through the cellblock with that broody lumberjack energy and your little braid glintin’ like a mating signal—phew. Honestly, I might get jealous.”

Daryl didn’t answer right away. Just let out a long breath against your skin, like he was trying to decide whether to entertain you or just smother himself in your chest until the teasing stopped. His thumb stroked absentmindedly at your waist, slow and steady, like he couldn’t not touch you.

You pressed a kiss to his temple, still grinning. “I mean the least you could do is flirt a bit, babe. I mean, why waste all this hotness on me?”

That’s when he shifted, just a little—just enough to glance up at you through the mess of hair you’d been playing with, his eyes half-lidded and soft but still sharp enough to cut through your bullshit.

You were smirking, ready to lob another tease, but he beat you to it.

“Yeah, well… you’re it for me,” he muttered, like it was obvious, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that could stop a heart mid-beat. His voice was low and scratchy, lips brushing your collarbone as he said it, almost like he hadn’t meant to speak at all.

Just a fact. Just… truth.

You blinked, breath catching stupidly in your throat as your fingers stilled in his hair.

He nestled back into your chest like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just said the one thing that could flatten your entire nervous system in a second.

“That so?” you managed eventually, your voice a little higher than before, a little breathier, as if your lungs were still trying to remember how to work.

You smiled so wide it hurt, your cheeks aching with the kind of giddy warmth that only ever came from this—him, wrapped around you like a human blanket, too tired to tease, too soft to let go. You hooked your legs back around his hips like a smug little octopus and felt the weight of him shift, arms sliding beneath your back, pulling you tighter until your chest was pressed flush to his. He didn’t even pretend to mind. Just melted into the shape of you like it was his natural form, head buried in the crook of your neck, the warmth of his breath fogging against your skin as sleep tugged at the edges of him.

“Mhm,” he mumbled simply, his voice thick with sleep and something quieter, heavier—the weight of everything he didn’t say out loud but always meant.

You let your forehead drop gently to his collarbone, your grin still glued to your face like it had nowhere better to be. “You sure?” you whispered. “’Cause I’m kinda messy.”

He didn’t lift his head, didn’t even flinch—just grunted, low and blunt against your throat. “Uh-huh. You’re my mess.”

“I talk a lot.”

“That’s how I know you’re still breathin’.”

You snorted at that, clearly proving his point. “I leave bobby pins and hair ties everywhere.”

He let out a warm breath, all smug and lazy where his face was still tucked against your temple. “That’s your callin’ card,” he mumbled, voice slurred with sleep, “helps me track you down… so i can do this-” Then, without shifting more than a fraction, he dipped his head and closed his teeth gently around the shell of your ear, nibbling right where he knew it’d make you twitch. You jolted beneath him with a startled squeak, laughter bursting from your chest before you could stop it, and he just hummed, pleased as anything, arms cinching tighter to keep you from wriggling away. He didn’t even lift his head again—just stayed buried there, smug and exhausted, clearly proud of himself for ruining the moment and making it better all at once.

You barely had time to breathe before continuing, your words slurring softly against his mouth. “I steal the blanket.”

“You’re always cold,” he muttered, not the least bit annoyed. “Deal with it.” Another kiss, this one against your cheekbone, rougher with the scratch of his stubble.

“I snort when I laugh too hard.”

His response came fast, simple. “Yeah. ’S cute.”

“I always want sex.”

That earned a pause. Then, muffled against your neck, a lazy, unimpressed, “…And?”

“I use your toothbrush sometimes.”

“Knew that.” He exhaled slowly. “Been usin’ yours back.”

You gasped in mock betrayal, and he chuckled sleepily.

“I have RBF. Everyone thinks I hate them.”

“Good. Means they don’t talk to ya. Saves me the trouble.”

“My boobs are weird.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. Weirdly fuckin’ perfect.”

You huffed out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering. “My boobs make you almost kill people.”

“Damn right they do,” he said, still buried in your neck, not even trying to sound sorry.

“You nearly murdered a man ’cause I was walkin’ around with no bra.”

“Wasn’t murder if I stopped.”

There was a beat.

“...Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he echoed, gruff.

“All my bras were in the wash,” you added, defensively. “It wasn’t like I wanted to start something.”

“Wear whatever you like,” he murmured, voice gone all gravel again. “Or don’t. I can fight.”

You giggled so hard you felt your ribs ache.

“I change my mind every two seconds.”

He shifted slightly, not enough to open his eyes, just enough to press a kiss to your jaw. “You ain’t changin’ your mind ’bout me, though. That’s all I care about.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, your smile trembling now in the most dangerous way.

You grinned. “My thighs are too big.”

His hand slid down without thinking, landing right on said thighs, as if to prove a point. “They’re perfect,” he muttered. "Don’t talk dumb.”

“I keep knives in stupid places.”

“That’s why I love sleepin’ next to you,” he said, deadpan. “If someone breaks in, you’d kill ’em with a butter knife in your bra.”

You snorted again, full-bodied and loose and gleeful, and felt him smile against your skin in that tired, crooked, entirely-in-love kind of way.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine.”

That shut you up. Only for a second—but long enough for him to press a kiss to your smile like he wanted to live inside it. His breath warmed your skin. His thumbs stroked your back.

You hummed, dizzy with the kind of joy that sat low in your belly and high in your throat. "Oh well. Guess it's you n' me. Doesn't sound so bad.”

He didn’t lift his head, didn’t open his eyes—just exhaled slow and deep against your neck like every inch of him was made to rest right there. “Could be worse,” he mumbled, lips brushing your skin. “Could be just me.”

And then, after a beat—so quiet you almost missed it:

“Wouldn’t be much of a life, though.”

You felt your heart thump hard beneath his cheek, the weight of those quiet words slipping beneath your ribs like a secret. It caught something tender inside you—something raw and aching and soft all at once. Your arms curled tighter around his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair as if to tether him even closer, even though there was nowhere left to go.

You didn’t say anything. Just kissed the crown of his head, slow and lingering, like a vow made flesh. Your smile was barely there, but it curled into your skin anyway—low in your belly, warm in your chest—settling into place like it belonged.

You stayed there in silence for a while. Just the hum of early morning noise outside the block, the creak of pipes and distant murmurs of life moving on beyond the curtains.

The knock came just as Daryl had started to slip toward sleep, that heavy, boneless kind of doze that only happened when every muscle had been wrung dry and every ounce of tension had bled out into the sweat-slick skin beneath him. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath rising and falling steady against your collarbone, and your arms were still wrapped around his shoulders like they were made to be there.

The door creaked open anyway.

“Daryl?” Rick’s voice drifted in, casual, half-distracted. “Hey, we’re switchin’ towers. You’re needed at west now. East’s covered.”

Daryl didn’t lift his head. Just grunted low in his throat, the sound muffled into the warm curve of your neck.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Y’ mind givin’ us a minute?”

Rick took a few steps in, still not looking too closely. “Hershel’s talkin’ with Nick, by the way. Might want to keep an eye—”

Then he stopped.

You felt it—that moment when Rick’s eyes landed on the way Daryl’s body was blanketing something—or someone, rather. His mouth paused mid-sentence. His posture changed just slightly, not quite shock, not quite embarrassment—more like a man slowly realizing he had walked straight into something he didn’t have the clearance for.

The realisation landed all at once—Daryl’s dishevelled hair, the way his shirt was bunched at the back, his jeans hanging low on his hips. And more damning than anything: your very bare legs hooked around him like vines, your arms wrapped up around his neck like you’d grown there. His whole body was draped over yours like a damn tarp, arms banded around you like the bars of a cage, your legs pinned comfortably beneath his.

You offered no mercy.

“Heyyyy Rick,” you chirped from beneath the tangle of muscle and denim, voice warm and just a little too smug.

Rick blinked. “Shit—didn’t even see you there.”

You grinned into Daryl’s hair, arms tightening around him like you were proving a point. “Yeah, I’m a good hider.”

Daryl groaned again and finally stirred enough to lift his head a fraction, glaring toward the door with all the enthusiasm of a man two seconds from pretending this was a fever dream. One of his hands shifted over your thigh, casually pulling your leg higher to make damn sure there was nothing for Rick to accidentally notice.

“Rick. Get out, man,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded, voice hoarse and sleep-soft but edged with that quiet Daryl don’t-fuck-with-this tone that got the message across.

Rick coughed and turned on his heel. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t see anything. Just west tower. That’s all.”

“Good,” you called after him, loud enough to carry. “You may wanna shut the curtain before you see something that scars you for life.”

It shut instantly.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Just lay there with his full weight pressed into you, his arms tightening slightly, like maybe if he held you hard enough, time would bend to his will and Rick would forget all about that west tower.

But eventually, with a reluctant grunt and another warm brush of his nose against your throat, he shifted—just enough to kiss your collarbone, then your jaw. His hand slipped down your side in a slow, grounding stroke before he finally eased his weight off you, propping himself up on his forearms.

You frowned. “Wait—what’re you doing?”

He stood, tucking himself back into his jeans like it was nothing, adjusting his shirt as he muttered under his breath about being late. His belt clinked softly as he fastened it one-handed, the other dragging through the tousled mess of hair you’d braided earlier, fingers pausing for a second at the little plait like he was debating whether to take it out—then didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

You blinked up at him, stunned. “You’re leaving?”

His boots scraped against the concrete as he bent to grab the knife from beside the cot, slipping it back into the sheath on his hip with the kind of fluid, practiced ease that came from years of muscle memory, though his limbs still moved like he was underwater—slow, loose, reluctant.

His eyes drifted back to you, drawn like gravity to the mess he’d made of you, still sprawled exactly where he’d left you, your skin flushed and dewy with the afterglow, one knee tipped outward in lazy surrender. The inside of your thighs, bare and parted, were marked with the dusky bloom of friction burns, smeared with the sheen of both of you, glistening in the low light like some kind of proof. His breath caught before he could help it. That small, unguarded ache flared behind his ribs—guilt, awe, possession—all tangled up in the sight of you laid out and pliant like that, completely fucked-out, hair wild and lips kiss-swollen.

He swallowed hard and dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight. The urge to crawl back on top of you and lose himself all over again hit sharp and sudden.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose and looked over his shoulder, deadpan.

“Yeah. Got watch, remember?” he muttered, but his voice was hoarse, his face still turned slightly like he didn’t quite trust himself to look at you again just yet.

“You literally just railed the soul outta me and now you’re off to do security like it’s a nine-to-five?”

He shrugged, “Can’t exactly call in horny.”

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, hair a mess, thighs still sticky, blanket barely covering anything, and scowled at his back as he did up his belt like he hadn’t just ruined you six ways from Sunday. “Wow. Not even a pat on the ass. You’re really leaning into the whole hit-it-and-quit-it thing, huh?”

Daryl didn’t even flinch. Just glanced back over his shoulder with that aggravating little smirk of his, like he knew exactly how wrecked you were and liked it that way. “Ain’t quittin’ nothin’. You’ll still be here when I get back.”

You scoffed. “You don’t know that. Maybe I’ll pack up and elope with someone who doesn’t abandoning me after rearranging my guts.”

He tugged his shirt into place with all the urgency of a man late to brunch, not post-coital bliss. “Ain't abandoning no one. Besides, you’d get bored in five minutes.”

You grabbed the nearest sock—his—and threw it at his head. Missed.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, slumping back against the pillow with a dramatic huff.

He lingered at the threshold, one hand braced against the frame like it might collapse under the weight of his hesitation. His back was half-turned, but you could still see the tension in his shoulders, like he was trying to walk off a tether that wouldn’t snap.

“You know I don’t wanna leave,” he said, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “But it’s what we do. One of us goes, acts like nothin’ happened. Other one waits. We always come back.”

You turned your head into the pillow like the act of looking at him might physically wound you. “Fine,” you muttered, loud enough to carry but muffled just enough to be petty. “Go on, then. Abandon me in my time of need.”

That earned a low scoff from across the room. “Your time of need?” he repeated, and even without looking, you could hear the smirk forming.

You didn’t dignify it with a response. Just curled a little tighter, clutching the edge of the blanket like it might save you from this tragic betrayal.

You felt the shift in the air before the cot dipped under his weight, and then suddenly—an arm snaked around your waist. You squealed in protest, trying to writhe away, but he was already dragging you backwards against the heat of his chest, locking you in tight.

“Daryl—” you tried to snap, but then his mouth was on your temple.

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing another kiss just below your eye. Then one to your cheekbone. Then the tip of your nose. “This is what you get.”

“For what?” you demanded, breath catching as he kissed the corner of your mouth with the kind of smug, lazy persistence that always made your brain melt.

“For actin’ like I ain’t gonna miss you,” he muttered, nudging his nose into your hair. “Tryna guilt-trip me into stayin'.”

You twisted, squirming, kicking a bare foot at his shin, but he caught your chin and kissed you straight on the mouth—slow and smug and so soft it made your teeth ache.

“Stop it,” you mumbled against his lips.

“Nope,” he muttered, already kissing down your jaw like it was his goddamn mission. “You started this.”

You tried to roll again, but his arm just cinched tighter, pulling you right back into his grip.

“You are so annoying,” you huffed, though you were smiling so hard your face hurt.

“Get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and worn soft around the edges. His hand skimmed gently down your side, grounding rather than possessive. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, your lips barely twitching around the grin you tried to suppress. “You say that like I’m not already devastated.”

That earned a quiet chuckle—more breath than sound—as he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, and lingered there for a second longer than necessary, like your skin might convince him to stay.

He finally pulled back with a low groan, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it gently over your body like he was tucking in something precious. His palm smoothed it over your hip, fingers pausing at your thigh for one last squeeze, one last touch to anchor himself before he left.

He was halfway through the curtain when your voice followed him, warm and dripping with amusement.

“Uh, Dixon?”

He paused with a hand on the edge of the fabric, his head turning slightly, the curtain still clutched in his fingers.

You were propped up on one elbow, buried in the blanket except for a bare knee poking free—just enough to keep things questionably decent. Your chin rested on your palm, gaze sharp with affection and something smug curling at the corners of your mouth.

“…You forgettin’ something?”

He blinked once. Then again. Brows pinched.

“…Uh.”

You lifted both brows and waited, giving him nothing.

He stepped back into the room slowly, like you were some kind of puzzle he hadn’t been briefed on—his eyes scanning you, then the floor, then the table in the corner, as if he might be able to track down whatever vital thing he’d missed.

“…Thought I said I’d be back,” he tried, cautious.

You rolled your eyes, groaning softly. “Not what I meant.”

Daryl looked down at himself like a man running a mental pre-flight checklist. Belt? Buckled. Shirt? On. Knife? Holstered. Boots? Laced. Gun? Holstered.

Still nothing.

You snorted under your breath and shook your head. “Unbelievable.”

And that’s when you saw it—the flicker of clarity breaking across his face like dawn creeping over the mountains.

“Oh,” he muttered, sheepish now, and crossed the room again in a few quiet steps.

You thought he’d make a joke about it. Thought he’d grumble or say whoops or my bad or something equally Daryl. But instead, he reached for your face, cradling your cheek with one rough palm, and leaned in to kiss you. Not a quick peck. Not a teasing brush. A proper kiss. Slow and deep and full of everything he didn’t always say out loud. The kind of kiss that made your breath hitch even though your thighs still ached and your body was already wrecked from him.

He pulled back just enough for his lips to hover against yours, his breath warm as he murmured, “Love ya.”

You blinked. Then grinned, a little dazed. “Aww. I love you too, baby.”

A pause.

“…But I meant your scope, you actual dumbass.”

He froze.

Then glanced over his shoulder, following your eyes to where the long, matte-black rifle scope sat forgotten on the crate beside the bed.

“Shit.”

You were practically beaming now. “Real romantic though.”

Daryl shook his head, scooping it up and slinging the strap over one shoulder with a muttered curse. He was already halfway back to the curtain when your voice trailed after him, sing-song and gleeful:

“Can’t believe you almost strutted outta here half-cocked and scope-less.”

But his shoulders were relaxed, that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again.

And he didn’t even bother pretending not to smile as the curtain slipped closed behind him.

[rookiesbookies]

The boys catch their ladies reading smut, originally this had the books I was basing this on in them but I hadn't got the time to read the books so I remove the book titles and authors. I hope you enjoy <3

Price: Yeah, she’s younger than him. This book is like 100% just breeding kinks. So she was reading this book about a man breeding his young woman and being super obsessive and clinging… while sitting in their living room… with her fuzzy, super obsessive, newlywed husband. “What are ya readin love?” He said, swiftly snatching the book from her grasp as he sat down on the couch next to her. He kicked his feet up on the couch and laid so his back was against her shins under the blanket she was bundled in. “Nothing important! But you really should give it back!” She panicked, reaching for it. “Holy bloody Jesus, love. This is a casual read for you?” “... yeah.” He wiggled his eyebrows while looking up to see her. She put a hand in his face and took her book back. “You almost made me lose my page.”

Soap: Being bent over and defiled by a hot Scotsman in a kilt? Oh hell yeah. How could you refuse?

“Jesus, Bonnie, why are ye readin about this shit when ya could get the real thing with me?” He chuckled, flipping through the book she had poorly hidden in her nightstand. “My kilt is in the closet, give me less than 10 minutes to get me socks and straps on and I’ll rock yer world harder than some words on a page ever could. You’ll see, donnae worry.”

He did indeed rock your world harder than pages ever good.

You claim and cry that you want to finish it for the plot, he says you can only read “that filth” when he’s away on deployment.

Says its a waste if you have a real heavy, hairy, and thick Scotsman at your disposal on the daily.

Ghost: Reading a story about a man whose face was painted like death and has charm that causes hormonal riots? Sounds exactly like her Simon. She lay on their shared bed as he packed up for their walk to the park. Her legs kicked up in the air as she read. 

He raised an eyebrow at what could have her so giddy so he effortlessly snatched the book and was met with a nasty surprise when he looked over the words. “Take it you’d rather stay home than go to the park,” he mumbled with a smirk before bending down to kneel in front of her now with a red face. 

“No- no I think a walk in the park will be fine.” She nervously chuckled.

Konig: Hot giant caveman dragging a woman away to have his way with her? Basic Konig when he comes back from missions.

Grabbing his sweet girl and pulling her into the dark cave that is their bedroom, only letting either out once he’s had his way with her and showing her just how much he’s missed her.

His face was red flushed as he read over her shoulder though.

“Oh meine gut, Schatz."

The scream she let out even made him fall back.

“Don’t scare me like that!”

He pressed a kiss to her temple in apology. 

“This book made me horny, can we fuck?” She asked straight up, knowing Konig preferred her blunt. She didn’t need to ask him twice.

Gaz Hot british guy? Her standards were so low for her choices in literature as long as it was someone she could imagine her Kyle as. Hmmm easy.

So when she was leading her walk with her audio book in her headphones she was more than busy. When he got a hold of one of her airpods while at the gym and she forgot he had the other one, he looked over at her with wide eyes. He texted her, “I didn’t realize you were interested in being folded like that.”

[theywereafairy]

party 4 u

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Wordcount: 5,2k

Part 1 (you’re here!) | Part 2 | Part 3

Had this idea while listening to “party 4 u” by Charli XCX, hihi ⋆˚࿔ Summary: You threw yourself a birthday party for one reason only: to make sure Joel Miller had no choice but to show up. He broke it off a month ago—said it couldn’t happen again. But you’re not over it. Not even close. And tonight might be your last chance to remind him why he never could stay away from you.

⋆˚࿔ Warnings: Age gap (not specified) • mutual obsession • secret relationship • oral (f receiving) • PIV (unprotected) • slight dom!Joel • “daddy” kink (light use) • backseat sex • dirty talk • possessive tension • necklace symbolism • rough tenderness • messy emotions • soft aftercare • reader has friends who are nosy as hell • birthday cake

⋆˚࿔Author’s Note: Hi besties 🥹 this is the first fanfic I’ve ever published, and I’m both excited and terrified to put it out there! I’d love to hear your thoughts, reactions, screams, analysis, freak-outs—literally anything you wanna tell me. Your feedback means the world, so feel free to drop an ask or a reblog with tags. Thanks for being here 💗 (hope anyone even reads this lmao)

Nervous wasn’t quite the right word for what you were feeling. No. What curled in your stomach, tight and sharp, was closer to despair. The kind that clings. Embarrassment too, maybe. And a little self-loathing, dusted over everything like powdered sugar on something too sweet.

People were trickling into the bar you’d rented, a grungy little place with flickering lights and sticker-covered walls, each one a memory someone left behind. You said it was for your special birthday. Twenty-five. A number that sounded important if you said it with enough conviction.

Your brother had given you a look when you made the announcement. Quiet, but questioning. He didn’t say anything, just sipped his drink like he was waiting for the punchline. You’d never thrown yourself a party before.

Across the room, Nico and Riley were tucked into a corner booth, their heads tilted toward each other like a secret. The light above them buzzed softly, catching just enough of their faces to make it look like a stage. Like they were performing being young and happy. You should’ve been over there too. Laughing. Pretending to be carefree. But instead, your eyes kept drifting back to the door.. You stared like it might open for you if you just put your mind to it hard enough.

Like he might walk through it.

A hand landed on your shoulder, jarring you out of it. Too hard. Too warm.

“Kiddo,” your dad said, offering you a beer. Cold enough to make your skin flinch. “Having a good night?”

You forced a smile, wide enough to fool someone who loved you too much.

“Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I’m so glad everyone came.”

Well. Everyone didn’t come. 

He hummed, draped an arm across your shoulder. For a second, it felt like being five again, when the world was small and soft and safe.

Then you said it. Quiet and casual. “Did you invite Joel?” You took a sip to hide the way your mouth twisted when you said his name.

“Yeah,” he replied, not noticing. “Hope that’s alright with you. Figured I needed someone who drinks at my pace. Can’t keep up with you young folks anymore.”

He nodded toward the crowd, downing shots like they were racing death.

You laughed—dry, polite. If your dad knew, if anyone knew, that this entire night, this birthday, this guest list, this location, had been stitched together just to get Joel Miller into a room with you again…

Well. They’d probably send you somewhere with padded walls.

And maybe they’d be right. Because even now, with all this noise and warmth around you, all you could think about was the last time you saw him. The way he stood in his doorway, arms crossed, mouth tight. The way he said it couldn’t happen anymore. The way you begged.

Pathetic.

The way he said you had your whole life ahead of you, and he’d already lived his. The way he never looked back.

“Sure you’re alright?” your dad asked, voice dipping into something softer. “You seem kinda… far away.”

You blinked, smiled again, this time with teeth. “I’m fine. Just really happy. And maybe a little tipsy.”

You added a giggle on top, like a cherry.

Then you kissed his cheek and slipped toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you like a final note.

You pressed both palms to the edge of the sink, bracing yourself like the floor might give out. The mirror in front of you offered no comfort, just your own face, too aware of how carefully you’d prepared for this night.

The dress was the one he liked. He told you once, offhandedly, that it drove him crazy. Said he worried all the “boys” would trip over their own feet trying to stare.Your lips curled at the memory, though it hurt.

Nico had done your makeup. Nothing too loud, just enough to make your eyes look bigger, brighter. Like a version of yourself you could almost believe. A single tear slid down your cheek, catching your mascara on its way down, leaving behind a delicate black streak. Like a special effect in a Hollywood movie. The kind where the girl falls apart beautifully. You wiped it away with the edge of your thumb, careful not to smudge the rest.

Heartbreak wasn’t new. You’d had college flings, boys with kind smiles and forgettable names. But none of them had ever looked at you like Joel did.

No one had touched you like he had, hands firm, reverent, like your body was a song he didn’t want to forget the words to. No one had kissed you slow, full of guilt and wanting, like he did when the door was locked and the world was far away.

And no one had ended it like he did either.

You still remembered the last time. His front door already cracked open, his jaw tight. The way he rubbed his face like he was trying to wake up from something.

“This has to stop,” he’d said. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You begged. You didn’t even try to hide it.

Asked why.

He said the words you already knew: the age, your dad, the life you were still building and the one he’d already spent.

You could still feel the echo of that moment in your ribs.

And now here you were—at a birthday part you didn’t want, in a dress you picked for a man who said goodbye, trying to hold your body together in a bathroom that smelled like beer and old soap. You dabbed at the corners of your eyes one last time and forced yourself to breathe. Then you opened the door.

The noise hit you like a wave—laughter, clinking bottles, bass thrumming low through the floor. Your father was waving at someone near the entrance, half-shouting over the music. “Look who finally showed up!”

But you didn’t need to look. You felt it. The air changed. He always did that—shifted the atmosphere like some kind of storm front. You turned, slow, and there he was.

Joel Miller.

That flannel—his flannel—was the one you’d picked out for him once, at some small store on a rainy afternoon. He wore it like he didn’t even realize. Like he wasn’t still wrapped in the memory of you. He didn’t look at you at first. But you could feel his eyes—skimming the room, skipping over you, then circling back. Your throat tightened. Like you’d swallowed a stone. One of those heavy ones that lined the edge of your dad’s backyard pond.

Still, you moved. Like prey too stunned to know it was walking toward the hunter.

He stepped forward, finally meeting your gaze. And you could see it, something behind the eyes. Regret, maybe. Or worse: want.

“Hey, kid,” he said, soft. “Another year older, huh? Happy birthday.”

He held out a hand like you were strangers meeting at a dinner party.

You took it. Shook it. A nod was all you could manage.

“I uh—got you a present,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s out in the truck. You got a second?”

He scratched the back of his neck. He couldn’t look at you when he said it.

Joel Miller, nervous. What a sight.

You wanted to scream. To tell him no, that you didn’t need whatever apology-shaped object he’d left on his passenger seat. That you were doing fine, thank you very much. That he could go live his grown man life and leave you in peace.

But instead, you nodded. “Sure.”

He turned, walked through the crowd. You followed—threading your way past your friends, smiling too hard, touching shoulders like you belonged, like you weren’t unraveling at the seams.

—

Outside, it was quiet. Not peaceful, just still. A hoot echoed in the distance. An owl, or whatever fucking kind of bird thought it was a good idea to sing its heart out in the middle of the night. The gravel crunched beneath Joel’s boots—slow, steady, heavy. Not once did he glance back to check if you were following. Not once did he slow down.

So you trailed behind him, obedient and ridiculous, like some loyal dog too stupid to realize it had been left behind weeks ago.

His truck was parked in the back lot, tucked between two tall trees like it didn’t want to be found. Finally, he stopped. Turned. Looked. So you did the same. Stopped. Turned. Looked. Like two strangers in a standoff, unsure of what to say now that the war had already been lost.

“You’re bein’ distant,” he muttered. No soft greetings, no dad-approved handshakes, no pretending this was casual.

He had that voice again, the one he used only with you. Lower. Quieter. Trying to sound gentle, like you were a thing that might break. And god, you hated it. Or maybe you didn’t.

“Am I?” you snapped, arms crossed over your chest like armor. “Guess I didn’t notice, what with all the life I’ve been so busy living lately.”

It was early autumn, the kind of cold that seeps through your dress and sinks straight into your bones. You hugged yourself tighter, trying to hold in the warmth, or whatever scraps of it were left.

Joel stepped to the side of the truck and popped the door. Without a word, he pulled out one of his jackets. He walked over and laid it over your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You should’ve shrugged it off. You should’ve told him to fuck off. But it smelled like him. Smoke and cedar and wood shavings. Like safety. Like the last place you’d felt wanted.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

He nodded once, jaw working.

“So what?” you asked. “You drag me all the way out here just to tell me I’ve been weird? Because newsflash, Joel, getting your heart broken a little tends to do that to a girl.”

You turned, ready to head back. Ready to reenter the noise and neon and pretend like you hadn’t just stood wrapped in his scent like some sad little footnote.

But then—his hand. On your wrist. Gentle, but firm. A tug, not a pull.

“Wait.” His voice cracked, soft. “Please. Just five minutes. That’s all I’m askin’. Please. Baby.”

You looked up. His eyes were wide, glassy. Begging. And goddammit, those eyes. You hated how easy they made it.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like the word hurt coming out. “You think this past month was easy for me? You think I liked avoiding you like I was made of stone? I think about you all day, every day. First thing in the morning, last thing before I sleep. And every time, I tell myself it’s wrong. That I shouldn’t. That I can’t.”

He laughed, humorless. Rubbed a hand over his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to make the world stop spinning.

“But still,” he continued, voice raw, “your face shows up. Everywhere. I see your eyes when I close mine, baby. I hear your voice in my head when things get quiet. I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”

You didn’t think. Just reached for his hand, the one still half-hiding his face. Slid your fingers into his, gently lowered both to his chest. He let go. Just long enough to pull you in.

His arms wrapped around you like they’d never let go again. Tight, like he thought someone might come rip you away if he wasn’t careful. His face buried in your hair. Your cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his shirt, the beat of his heart steady and real beneath it.

Maybe you imagined it, but it felt like yours was flipping, twisting, leaping in your chest. Like it recognized something. Or someone. Maybe it was love. Or maybe it was a car crash you were finally letting happen.

You stood there for god knows how long.

There was a brief flicker in the back of your mind, someone might come looking. Nico, maybe. Or your brother. But the thought passed, unimportant.

Maybe it would’ve been easier if someone did see. If they caught you like this, wrapped in his jacket, pressed to his chest like something sacred. Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. It would be out, and the world would just have to deal with it.

Joel let go first. Again. He stepped back, rubbed the back of his neck like he was stalling for courage, then ducked into the truck. When he reappeared, he was holding a small box. Wrapped. Badly. Like he’d tried. Like he’d started, stopped, tried again, given up halfway through but still finished because it had to be done.

He held it out to you like it weighed something more than it should. You took it carefully. 

Bit by bit, you peeled away the paper, slow and precise, revealing a silky green box, inside a delicate silver necklace. A small green stone shimmered in the center, soft and earthy, like a forest in spring.

On the back, an initial. Your initial.

“Joel…” your voice caught in your throat. “This is—this is beautiful.”

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, your eyes filled with tears. This time, you didn’t bother wiping them away.

He took the chain from your fingers, stepping behind you. One hand reached up, brushing your hair gently to the side. His fingers skimmed over the back of your neck, and every hair on your body stood up like it had been waiting for that exact moment. Goosebumps bloomed beneath his touch. He leaned forward, carefully clipping the clasp behind your neck. His fingers were steady. Gentle. Familiar.

Then, just as gently, he guided your hair back into place, like it was something he’d done before, like he already knew the shape of you by heart.

“I made it,” he said softly, voice low near your ear. “Made it whenever I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you. When nothing else would get you outta my head, I worked on this. Just kept imagining what it’d be like—giving it to you.”

It didn’t matter anymore. Who might see. What it meant. How much worse this would make the ache.

You couldn’t help it.

You turned—fast, reckless—and kissed him.

At first, it was soft. A whisper of lips. A question. He didn’t respond right away. Just stood there, frozen.

But then, something in him snapped. His hand shot up, fingers sinking into your hair, the other gripping your cheek like he needed to anchor himself to the moment. He kissed you back, open-mouthed, desperate. Sloppy in a way that made your knees weak. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was need. Hot and raw and a month too late.

He walked you backward, mouth never leaving yours, hands roaming your sides like he couldn’t remember where to start. Hips, waist, thighs. He pressed into the soft skin beneath your dress, thumbs brushing the hem of your underwear, knuckles dragging across your bare skin like he couldn’t help himself. The dress rode up with every step. And just before your back could hit the cold metal of the car, he opened the door, fast and smooth, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You fell into the back seat, breathless. The leather stuck to your skin, warm now, suffocating. You barely had a second to register it before Joel climbed in after you, mouth crashing against yours again like he was trying to memorize the taste.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered between kisses, voice hoarse. “I missed you. I fucking missed you.”

His lips moved down to your neck, biting softly, soothing the sting with his tongue. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric of his flannel. You felt him everywhere. His weight, his breath, the grip of his hands tracing your thighs, your ribs, the place just under your chest like he couldn’t pick what he wanted to touch most. His hips pressed into yours, slow, deliberate, like he wanted to feel the exact shape of you again. Like he was trying to remember what it felt like to have you wrapped around him, pulling him apart.

“This isn’t right,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, hands still running up your thighs like he couldn’t stop. “But I don’t care. I can’t stay away from you. I tried. God, I fucking  tried, Baby. My Girl.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him back to your mouth.

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t try anymore.”

The windows had already started to fog.

Joel was above you, heavy breaths warming the space between your lips. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped your hips, like he was holding back from devouring you whole.

You reached up, brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to—”

But he cut you off, voice gravel-dark.

“I want to.”

Then, slower—deeper. “I need to.”

He kissed your inner thigh first. Just above your knee. Then higher. Then higher again. Every touch was reverent, like he was making up for lost time. Or maybe punishing himself for the month he spent trying not to think about what you tasted like. When he got to your panties, he breathed in. Breathed. Like your scent knocked the breath from his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, dragging them down with one hand while the other held your leg open, gently but firmly, like he wasn’t taking chances this time.

“You’re already so wet, baby. So wet for me, pretty girl.” he muttered, like it hurt him. “So fuckin’ sweet…”

And then his mouth was on you. No teasing. No slow build. He buried himself between your thighs like a man starved, like he hadn’t touched anyone in the time he was gone because there was only you. Tongue flat, wide, dragging through your folds like he wanted to live there. You gasped, head hitting the seat back, one hand scrambling for the fogged window, the other sinking into his hair.

Joel groaned—groaned—like the sound of your moan alone made him harder. He doubled down, tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth, messy and obscene, the wet sounds echoing in the tight heat of the car.

“F-Fuck—Joel—”

He grunted against you, holding your thighs wide open, almost shaking with restraint as he devoured you like something holy. Like your pleasure was the only thing that existed.

You looked down at him, breath hitching, and when your eyes met, he held your stare as he licked a slow, thick stripe from your entrance to your clit again. Then—again. And again.

“You taste like a fuckin’ dream,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “My fuckin’ dream.”

You whimpered, hips bucking against his mouth. He growled and pushed them down, holding you still, not letting you move—he was in charge here, and he was going to ruin you on his tongue.

“Daddy—” The word slipped out. Not planned. Just felt. Joel froze. Just for a second. Then looked up at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. A slow smirk spread across his lips, chin slick with you.

“Say that again.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

“Daddy, please…”

That was it. He lost it. His mouth was back on you, harder now, rougher, devouring your clit with filthy groans that vibrated straight through your core. His fingers joined his mouth, sliding inside you, two thick ones, curling in just the right place, dragging moans from your throat like confessions.

It was overwhelming. Hot and wet and frantic. Like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And you didn’t want him to stop. Your body tightened, muscles trembling, orgasm building fast—too fast.

“Joel—I’m gonna—”

He didn’t let up. Just pinned your hips, looked up at you with fire in his eyes, and growled:

“Come for me, babygirl. You can do it. I got you sweet girl. Come for me now..”

And you did. Your whole body arched off the seat, thighs shaking, moans spilling past your lips like prayer, like ruin. He didn’t stop. Kept licking you through it—into it—drawing every last wave from you, humming softly against your clit like he wanted you to feel his pleasure too.

Only when your body slumped, boneless and wrecked, did he finally lift his head.

“You always taste this fuckin’ good?” he muttered, voice low and raw. “I fucking forgot what it felt like to be alive.”

The air inside the truck had gone heavy, thick with heat and breath and the weight of every second spent apart.

Joel sat back on his heels between your thighs, chest heaving, hair a little wild. He looked ruined already, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. Your dress was still bunched at your waist, his jacket falling off one shoulder. The necklace he made you rested just above the swell of your chest, glinting in the dim cabin light. He looked at you like it hurt. Like you were too much and not enough all at once.

“I missed you,” he said, almost a whisper. “I missed you so fuckin’ bad it made me mean.”

You reached up, cupped his face, your thumb grazing that little crease beside his mouth. “Then do something about it.”

His eyes flickered, something bright, something dangerous. Then he moved.

He crawled over you, slow, like he was savoring it. The way your body opened for him. The way your knees spread wide, trembling, eager. He kissed you again, this time unhurried, deep, almost lazy. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. His cock pressed hard against your thigh, hot and heavy. You reached down to wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, loving the way his breath hitched in your mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breaking the kiss. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“No,” you whispered, guiding him lower. “Just bring you back to life.”

Joel braced one hand beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, dragging it around his waist. You felt the thick head of him nudge your entrance—hot, solid, perfect.

He didn’t push in yet. Just stayed there.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice hoarse. “Tell me to do it.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, breath shaky. “I want it. I want you. Please, Joel. Please just fucking make yours again”

That was all he needed.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open in a way that made your eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. He was big. He always was. And you felt every single bit of him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “You feel even tighter than I remembered.”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into fabric and skin as he bottomed out, hips flush with yours. He stilled there, letting you adjust, forehead pressed against yours.

The silence stretched. Breathless. Electric.

He started to move. Slow at first, dragging his cock out until just the tip remained before slamming back in with a groan that made your whole body throb.

“Joel—”

He growled into your ear. “You gonna take it all, babygirl? Gonna take everything I give you? Fucking you with my big dick that you’re taking so well?”

You nodded helplessly, back arching, legs wrapping tighter around him as he started to fuck you in earnest. Rough, deep, steady. Every thrust deliberate. No teasing now. No games. Just months of need finally boiling over.

“Fucked my hand for weeks thinkin’ about this pussy,” he rasped, biting down on your neck, licking over the mark he left. “But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.”

You whimpered, voice breaking. “Joel—please—harder—”

He obliged.

The rhythm turned punishing, his hips slamming into yours, the seat creaking beneath you, the windows fogged with sweat and heat and sin.

“Such a dirty fuckin’ girl,” he muttered. “Gettin’ fucked in the backseat like this, lettin’ Daddy make a mess of you. While everyone else is inside waiting for the birthday girl. She’s underneath me like a pretty little slut. This is probably the only birthday present you wanted huh?”

You moaned at the magic  word, loud, needy, and he smiled against your throat, feral and proud.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Say it again.”

“Daddy—”

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, holding you in place as he drove into you harder, deeper, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot that had you writhing under him.

“You like that, don’t you?” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Being Daddy’s little fucktoy. You gonna let me fill you up?”

You choked out a sound, half sob, half moan—nodding frantically. “Yes—fuck, yes—please, I want it. Wanna feel you inside me. Making me feel so good”

He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it fast and rough, just the way he knew you liked. You were close, so close, your whole body coiling tighter, slick and soaked and made for him.

“I wanna feel you come, baby,” he grunted. “Wanna feel this pretty cunt milk my cock while I fill it up. Show me how much you missed me.”

That was it.

You shattered beneath him, crying out his name, whole body locking up as your orgasm crashed through you, leaving you shaking and gasping. Joel cursed, low and filthy, and then came inside you with a broken moan, cock pulsing deep as he held you tight, like he could press his heart right into your chest. He didn’t move. Just stayed there, breathing hard, face buried in your neck, whispering your name like a promise.

The truck was quiet now. Not silent, there was the sound of rain tapping softly on the roof, the distant hum of late-night traffic somewhere beyond the trees. But inside, the noise had stilled. Joel sat beside you, one hand resting on your thigh. His touch was light, absentminded, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. His thumb stroked in lazy circles over your skin, slow and steady, grounding. Your dress was rumpled, pushed halfway down your hips, his jacket still hanging from your shoulders. The air smelled like sex and sweat and his cologne.

You leaned your head against the window, skin cooling, breath finally evening out. Neither of you spoke.

The moment didn’t ask for words. It just was. Heavy and warm and full of something unspoken. You looked down at your chest, fingers finding the delicate silver chain. The necklace still sat there, the green stone catching the soft overhead light. Your initial pressed against your skin like it belonged there. You ran your fingertip over it, slow, thoughtful.

Joel saw. He didn’t say anything right away, just watched your hand, watched the way you touched something he made for you. Something he'd thought about while pretending he didn’t care.

Then, softly, almost like he was afraid the words might scare you away, he said, “Happy birthday.”

You looked at him. You smiled, small and real, the corners of your lips curling..

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He gave a small nod. Barely a movement. But he didn’t look away. Not this time. And you didn’t push. Didn’t ask what this meant. Didn’t ask if things were different now. You just sat there, legs tangled, his jacket around your shoulders and his come still inside you, and knew.

He was here. And he wasn’t going anywhere, not tonight.

—-

You stepped out of the truck first, legs still a little unsteady, dress sticking to your skin in places, hair slightly mussed from Joel’s hands, his mouth, his body. The air outside had cooled even more, autumn crisp and still. You inhaled, deeper than you meant to, like the moment needed anchoring. Joel came around the side of the truck and pulled the door shut behind him, eyes scanning the ground for a second before they lifted to meet yours. His face had softened, not entirely, but enough that you saw the shift. Something in his expression you hadn’t seen in weeks. A quiet, wordless promise: I'm here.

Neither of you said anything as you started walking back toward the bar. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes again, the low hum of music getting louder with every step. You adjusted his jacket around your shoulders, still warm from his body, and smoothed your fingers once more over the necklace resting just below your collarbone. The stone felt heavier now. Important.

Inside, the bar was just as loud and golden and smoky as you left it. The party hadn’t missed a beat. People were laughing over half-empty drinks, a group were now playing darts and heckling each other mercilessly, and your brother was waving a sparkler around in the corner with two girls you didn’t know. But as soon as you crossed the threshold, the attention shifted.

“There you are!” someone called from across the room. Riley, of course. Loud and nosy and already half a bottle deep. “Where the hell did you disappear to?”

You froze just slightly, lips parted, heat already rushing to your cheeks. Joel brushed past you then, moving through the crowd with a casualness that only just masked the tension in his shoulders. His hair was a little wild, his shirt untucked at the back, and there was still the faintest pink at the tips of his ears.

And then Nico joines. He took one look at Joel. Then at you. His eyes narrowed. Slowly. Like a cartoon villain putting two and two together. And then he screeched.

 “OH MY GOD—”

Your head snapped toward him, a hand shooting up, eyes wide. “Shut the fuck up.” You said it with all the fake venom you could manage, but the smile curling at the corner of your mouth betrayed you instantly. Riley’s mouth dropped open like she was about to explode, but she held it in, barely, eyes twinkling like she’d just been handed the juiciest gossip of her life. And she probably was.

You slipped past her quickly, cheeks burning, pretending to busy yourself with a forgotten drink someone handed you. Then the music changed, softened into a rhythm you recognized too late.

A cake appeared out of nowhere, glowing with too many candles. Someone dimmed the lights, and then, everyone was singing.

Happy birthday to you…

It was out of tune, too loud, voices competing for attention, but there was something warm and wonderful about it anyway.

You turned slowly, laughing through your mortification, hands half-covering your face, and then—

You felt it.

Joel’s hand.

Sliding around your waist from behind, slow and deliberate, fingers resting just above your hipbone. Not claiming. Not possessive. Just there.

Steady.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. You just leaned back a little, just enough that your shoulder brushed his chest, and let yourself exist in the moment—cake and candles and noise and his hand on you like maybe, just maybe, the space between you two didn’t need to be hidden anymore.

Happy birthday, dear you…

The song ended in applause, laughter, someone accidentally knocking over a beer. You didn’t hear much of it.

You just closed your eyes for a second. Smiled.

And felt the weight of his fingers tighten, just slightly, at your waist.

TL 🏷️: @fallout-girl219 , @glitterspark

[thef1diary]

Oops, it's getting late and I had an overactive brain. Mafia!danny in which he fucks the lawyer prosecuting him 🤭🤭🤭

Live, laugh, lobster

-🦞

— nonnie gimme more of your overactive brain plz cuz as a future lawyer…yeah this got me 😵‍💫😩 18+ content below

Daniel wasn’t the type of man to beg. He wasn’t the type of man to answer to authority, either. He was the authority. So, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let some prosecutor ruin everything he’d built. He was untouchable—or at least, he had been until you came along.

The moment he stepped into your office, he had every intention of scaring you into making you drop the charges against him. A little intimidation, a few well-placed threats, maybe even a bullet left in your desk drawer for good measure.

But then he saw you.

And fuck, that changed everything.

You weren’t some grizzled old prosecutor who’d spent years clawing their way through the legal system. No, you were young, yet carrying yourself like you belonged here. You were all sharp edges and tailored perfection, your blouse tucked neatly into a fitted skirt that hugged your curves in a way that had no business distracting him.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he drawled, standing by the door, smirking. “Charging me for half a dozen crimes? You must have a death wish.”

Your head shot up from the contract you were meticulously reviewing, eyes narrowing the moment they landed on him. The weight of his presence filled the room instantly—too tall, too broad, too confident, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the damn place. Your fingers tightened around the pen in your hand, but you didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other as you met his gaze with an unwavering stare, your voice cool and precise when you finally spoke.

“And you must also have a death wish, walking into a prosecutor’s office like you belong here.”

His grin widened, stepping further inside and shutting the door behind him. The click of the lock made something sharp curl in your stomach.

He stood in front of you as if he’d already won. Like he wasn’t moments away from going on trial.

You had spent weeks gathering evidence against him. Witnesses were silenced. Paper trails were scrubbed clean. But you were relentless. You had worked too hard to let a man like him slip through the cracks.

Daniel tilted his head, eyes dragging over you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t looking at you like a man about to be convicted. He was looking at you like a man assessing his next target.

“I should have known they’d send a pretty little thing like you after me,” he mused, voice thick with amusement. “Smart. Dangerous.”

You crossed your arms, keeping your expression neutral. “Mr. Ricciardo, unless you’re here to turn yourself in, I suggest you leave before I call security.”

He shook his head, an amused expression on his face. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice slow and thick. “We both know security ain’t comin’ in here. And if they did? You think they’d get me out before I put a bullet in that pretty little head of yours?”

You swallowed but didn’t back down. “So you are here to threaten me.”

Daniel sighed dramatically, striding closer towards you with a lazy confidence. “Was gonna. Had a whole plan, too. But then…” He let his gaze drag over you, slow and deliberate, lingering on the curve of your hips, the way your blouse stretched over your chest.

Your skin prickled, heat curling low in your belly.

“Then what?” you pressed, forcing your voice to stay even.

His grin widened. “Then I saw you. And now I’m thinkin’ I’d rather fuck you than kill you.”

A sharp laugh left your lips, and Daniel raised an eyebrow.

“You think I’d ever let that happen?” you scoffed.

He chuckled. “Oh, darlin’… you’re gonna let it happen.”

You knew you should’ve been scared. You should’ve been reaching for your phone, pressing the emergency button under your desk. But instead, heat pooled between your legs, your breath quickening.

You tilted your chin up defiantly. “You really think I’d ruin my career for some lowlife criminal?”

“Lowlife? Wow, sweetheart, you wound me,” he spoke with a hand held over his heart. “But no, I’m not telling you to ruin your career.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I came here to make a deal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A deal?”

His smirk widened. “Yeah. I’m gonna fuck your pretty little pussy and you’ll drop the case.” Another step forward. “And in return…” His fingers grazed the edge of your desk. “I won't make you disappear.”

Your pulse spiked, but you held his gaze, refusing to let him see even a sliver of fear. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

Daniel exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was disappointed. “See, that’s the problem with women like you. Think you’re untouchable.” His fingers suddenly wrapped around your wrist, dragging you up until you were nearly chest-to-chest. “You aren’t.”

You gasped, but before you could wrench free, his other hand slid up your throat—not squeezing, just holding—forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You’re shaking, sweetheart.” His lips curled. “Maybe you are scared.”

You swallowed, refusing to give in. “And maybe you want me to be.”

Daniel’s grin darkened, his grip tightening just enough to make you swallow hard. His thumb brushed along your jaw, the touch deceptively gentle.

“You got a real mouth on you,” he mused, tilting his head. “I like that.”

Your pulse hammered in your throat, but you refused to let him see the effect he had on you. He smelled like expensive cologne and smoke, like sin itself, and every nerve in your body was telling you to push him away—to fight back, to remind him that you were in control here. But control felt like a slippery thing when he was this close, when his heat sank into your skin and his gaze made you feel like prey.

You forced yourself to smirk. “And you’ve got a real problem with authority,” you countered, voice steady. “I suppose that’s why we’re here.”

“You want this,” he murmured. “I can see how tense you are. All that fight, all that righteous bullshit you spew in court—deep down, you want a man like me to ruin you.”

Your cheeks burned, but you gritted your teeth. “Go to hell.”

Daniel just laughed. “Darlin’, I’m already there. Might as well make myself comfortable.”

You should have pushed him away. You should have fought.

Instead, you clenched your thighs together.

Daniel smirked. “I definitely like knowing you’re wet right now.”

Your breath hitched. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purred. “That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

“I should throw you in a cell for this,” you hissed.

“Only if you’re there. Naked.”

Then he spun you around and bent you over your desk. Papers scattered to the floor, forgotten.

With one swift motion, he flipped your skirt up over your hips, exposing the soft lace of your panties. He groaned low in his throat, his fingers teasing the thin fabric.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmured. “Never thought I’d say this about a prosecutor, but I think I just found somethin’ worth keeping.”

You tensed as his fingers pushed aside your panties, running through your folds with lazy confidence.

“You’re wet,” he taunted. “Bet you’re ashamed of that, huh? Gettin’ off on being bent over your own desk by the man you’re tryin’ to lock up?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, but your body betrayed you, hips shifting against his touch.

Daniel chuckled darkly, unbuckling his belt with one hand, the clink of metal making your stomach flip. He didn’t waste time—he yanked his cock free, lining himself up and pressing the thick head against your pussy.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “This is gonna be fun.”

“D-Daniel—”

“Shhh,” he cooed, sliding his cock through your folds. “I don’t have time for your little power trip, baby. I have court soon, remember?”

You tried to push up, but his hand held your throat from behind, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“Go on,” he murmured, teasing your pussy. “Tell me to stop.”

Your pride screamed at you to fight. To tell him to get the fuck off you.

But instead—

“Don’t stop.”

Daniel groaned, “that’s my girl.”

With one brutal thrust, he buried himself inside you, stretching you open around his thick cock. A strangled moan escaped your lips, your nails clawing at the wooden surface of your desk.

“God, you feel fuckin’ perfect,” he growled, setting a ruthless pace. “Takin’ me so well for someone who hates my guts.”

Your walls clenched around him, and he grinned. “Oh, you like that,” he mused. “Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this before. Not one of those uptight lawyers you work with.”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Daniel wasn’t having that. He tangled a hand in your hair, yanking your head back so his lips were right against your ear.

“Say it,” he ordered. “Tell me no one’s ever fucked you like this.”

A shudder wracked through you. “No one’s—” You cut yourself off with a whimper when he thrust particularly deep, brushing against that spot that made your vision blur.

“That’s what I thought,” he purred.

His free hand slid down your front, fingers finding your clit and circling it roughly. Your body tightened, the pleasure too much, too fast.

“I should be pissed at you,” he stated, bringing his palm back before slapping your ass, jolting you harshly towards his fingers on your clit. “You’ve been making my life real difficult, baby.”

Tears welled up in your eyes due to the sudden pleasure, and you moaned loudly, forgetting about where you were.

Daniel continued his relentless torment on your cunt while smacking your ass every now and then. “But I’m a reasonable man. I’m willing to forgive.”

“Please—” a moan tore from your lips, cutting your sentence.

“Gonna come for me, prosecutor?” he taunted. “Come all over the cock of the man you’re tryin’ to put in prison?”

Your body betrayed you. The orgasm hit you like a violent wave, stealing the air from your lungs as you clenched around him. Daniel cursed, his pace stuttering as he slammed into you a few more times before spilling inside you with a guttural moan.

For a long moment, the only sound in the office was the ragged pull of your breaths, your bodies still tangled together in the aftermath.

Finally, Daniel pulled out, adjusting his pants while you remained bent over the desk, your legs weak.

He leaned down, pressing a lazy, mocking kiss to the nape of your neck.

“You’re gonna walk into that courtroom in ten minutes,” he murmured, fingers sliding between your legs to collect the cum dripping from your pussy before pushing it back in. “And you’re gonna act like you don’t have my cum dripping from your pretty cunt.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. “And you’re gonna sit there in cuffs, knowing the only reason you’re not going to rot in a prison cell is because I’ll let you walk free.”

Daniel’s smirk widened, something dark flashing in his eyes. He slid your panties back in place, trapping his cum inside.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured, finding your clit through the fabric and pinching it sharply as a warning. “I love a woman who plays dirty.”

want more mafia!daniel? send me an ask with your thoughts—filthy or not—and I’d love to write you a little drabble <3

[kenwio]

Joker's kid reader: Joker's kid first friend

Route: recovered dove

Author's note: Connected to this ask (finally did it ^-^). Another author's note will be in the end.

Warnings : Grammar, fluff with hints of hurt/comfort.

Your day began pretty normally: Alfred woke you up, saying that breakfast is ready. After you managed to wash your face and brush your teeth, you walked in the kitchen, only to witness your family being tired and for lack of a better word, restless. They all seemed bothered by something, and you couldn't really understand what. Tim and Bruce were looking at the screen of bat-tablet (yeah, they totally have bat-tablet), Dick was thoughtfully chewing on food, stopping occasionally so that he could tell Damian to stop death staring Jason, who looked pissed. When Alfred walked in again, you noticed little leaf stuck to his usual attire.

- Master Bruce, our little guest is still acting aggressive, even after watering.

Now you looked confused. Guest? Being watered?

- It's all your fault, Todd - Damian said harshly

- Oh, for the love of God! - Jason snapped - you were there when that thing fell on me! How in hell were I supposed to know it would take my helmet!

- Still - Damian started, but he was quickly interrupted by Dick

- B, Timmy, any luck finding out what is.... that thing?

- No - answered Bruce, not looking up, while Tim only shook his head

- What thing? - you inquired quietly. On your question, Jason and Damian answered at the same time.

- The thing that stole my helmet!

- The thing that Todd trapped and can't get out.

- well, uh alien-plant? - Dick chimed in

- All of above - Tim added - we can't find out what is until we get it out of Jay's helmet

- Can't we just slash helmet? - Damian asked

- Hey, it's can hurt it! - Dick defended

- it will hurt my helmet!

As they continued bickering, you chewed your food, and after some thoughts, you asked

- Can I see it?

---------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ----------------------

So there you were, in the batcave with your brothers (Bruce wanted to join in, but he had a meeting in Wayne Enterprise). You were looking at the little creature that was in the helmet of Red Hood. You couldn't really see it, but you didn't want to blind it by lightning it with a flashlight. You were looking at it, until you saw that shiny dark eyes of the creature looked at you back, you felt like it's eyes touched your soul, as if you and this little one had a connection

- Oh, they are hiding - you noted quietly

- well, duh, Sherlock, we can see it - Jason answered

- and they are scared of you

- They? - Dick asked, and you just nodded in response.

As you looked at little plant creature, you couldn't help but feel like you understood the creature. It was afraid, just like you, when you were first taken in. You gently reached out your hand, showing that you wanted to, he don't have to be afraid of you. It let out a strange noise, after which he touched you. It moved a bit, and you saw a little wooden humanoid creature with emerald colored leafs poking out of his different parts, which was looking at you curiously. Seeing that you didn't move and was looking at him kindly, he climbed in your hands, making little creaking sound, and you understood what he was saying.

- they like hats - you translated for your brothers.

Your brothers looked eyes widened, and all of them looked at you as if you had just changed some basics of the world like it was nothing. They did not understand how you understood this creature.

- You can understand this thing - Jason voiced first, sounding shocked

- Yep. And they liked your helmet. He likes hats. - you stated, taking little creature closer to you

- So, can he tell you what they are? - Tim questioned, his curiosity returned quickly. You looked at little creature, who answered to you with his little creeking

- They don't really know. They are too little, they don't even have a name - you answered, looking at creature sadly. You remember times when you didn't have a name, too.

- You know, since they like you, maybe you could help him choose name - Dick walked up to you putting his hand on your shoulder, smiling at you and at creature. You nodded.

- Chlory? - you said quietly, quickly adding - short for Chlorophyll - on your words creature creaked happily

- Tt, how original - Damian said, he was faced away, his arms crossed, his face tinged with forced indifference

- I am Chlory! - creature creaked happily, trying to mimic your speech, making all of you surprised.

- Seems he likes the name, good job (your name)! - Dick cheered you up, patting your head, and chuckled, looking at Damian - Don't sulk, Dami

---------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ----------------------

From the moment Chlory climbed in your hands, he was glued to you, refusing to climb down from you. Since you were the only one who understood that little creature, you were the one who was taking care of the little plant alien since you were the only one who could understand it. And since Chlory didn't want to get down for you, you were the one who was taking care of it, but soon, your family noticed that the way your routine changed for them was healthy.

Yes, in the beginning, Alfred and Bruce were suspicious. Bruce knew his children had a knack for befriending aliens (and you befriending this little one just proved that tendency), but it still made him worry. What if this little one will hurt you? But you yourself asked Bruce to keep them, and it surprised him, since you almost never asked for anything, so he couldn't deny this one request (you were too cute). So he had to keep his eye on you and Chlory, making sure your little duo would be just fine. As for Alfred, he was utterly surprised with decision to keep this alien, but seeing that Chlory could help him with garden, he made his peace with it, and started helping you to take care of Chlory. But as long as you seem happy, Alfred wouldn't mind.

Since Chlory needed being watered, while consuming it, they made you drink water with them. Sine Chlory needed sun, you had to take walks with them. But other then that, when Chlory noticed that you need to eat, Chlory made sure that you ate, by constantly creaking "I am Chlory" that translated in "you are hungry", and you weren't sure if Chlory made you believe that you are hungry or stated the fact. Chlory even tried to eat your food, and drink your drinks on several occasions, though Chlory just chewed your food and they also didn't enjoy hot tea you usually drink with Alfred, and never touch your steaming hot cup if tea after one bad experience. Sometimes, when you were washing your face, Chlory would jump in open water, so you had to drag them out of it, and drying him up with towel from time to time, yet it was fun and cute, they reminded you cat that tried to play with water tap in videos Tim and Damian showed you.

Thouse little experiences with Chlory became part of your daily life, and one that was quite comforting, one that reminded you you weren't alone anymore. Oftentimes, you could hear Chlory creeking happily, and this sound helped you not to zone out. I'm dark corners of your memory, reminding you yet again that nightmare of your previous life was over.

Surprisingly, Chlory helped you to learn how to speak up. For example, one time you were reading a book Jason told you about, you felt how Chlory were tugging onto your sleeve repeating "I am Chlory" that translated in "Read to me" over and over. You weren't sure you could do it right, but you tried, mentally recalling all the times Jason read to you. Chlory were happy to hear you, and those sessions of reading outloud to them lead you to being complimented by Jason on how good you read and pronounce things now.

Also Chlory forced you to tell you what you were doing and what you were doing. Chlory liked when you talked, and you had to talk more, and one time you were commenting how you were trying to put together puzzle, Dick was a quiet witness of your interaction. He couldn't help but smile at the scene and be proud that you were actually talking. And of course he joined in just a bit later, having cute conversations with both of you.

While Chlory was too attached to you, Tim knew that sometimes you just needed your space. He remembers that you told that Chlory like hats, and since he couldn't really sneak vigilante gear in your room (he tried, yet Alfred advised against it) he began quest of finding best hat for Chlory that also can be just a little bed or shelter for them. So Tim, you and Chlory (more Tim and you, who were searching for approval of Chlory) began researching into hats, trying to find a perfect model of it. Chlory seemed interested in berets, and now you three bought a few (just in case Chlory wanted to change them).

Watching your interactions, Damian can't help but feel a slight pang of jealousy, but he would never admit it. It was good enough that many of the animals he took care of sometimes liked Drake and Grayson more, but now you were the only one who could get along with that's creature and not him?! How come! He didn't voice it, of course, but it seems like you got the idea yourself. So when you were holding Chlory while explaining to Damian how he needed to act. He needed to be even more calm and more gentle than he is when he was with Titus when he was a puppy. You didn't expect it, but you and Damian would bound about taking care of little friends. Yeah, friends, because outside of the family, Chlory is your first friend.

---------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ----------------------

Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your opinion and have a good day 💖

---------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ----------------------

Tag list :

@socially-embarrassing , @leovergurl , @deathbynarcisstick , @cryptic-arr0w , @lynns-cornerr , @cxcilla ,  @charlotteking23 , @ninihrtss , @lillycore , @pix-stuff , @tfamidoingwithmylife , @linoalwaysknows , @00hellohello00 , @lilithskywalker , @bagofrice , @lenaisaloser , @devilslittlehelper , @camilo-uwu , @l3v1us , @eyeless-kun , @stargazingbutgayer, @wpdarlingpan , @weirdothatreads , @maybea1 @mel-viper-wayne @amber-content @lizzyzzn

@dearlawdimasimp  (My appologies for not adding you sooner)

if i forgot to add someone to the tag list, please let me know, and i will add you to the next part

---------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ----------------------

Author's note : My break is over (unfortunately Т^Т), so I would have a little to no time, BUT! I will try to post at least once a week!!!

[sunrizef1]

imgonnagetyouback

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fem!singer!reader

Warnings: Cursing

Authors note: I guess I lied about the Lando thing… this songs just so Lando I can’t explain it and I’m actually obsessed with this song rn. You probably have to at least know the premise of the song to understand the second half of this.

INSTAGRAM

yourusername

📍New York, New York

liked by maxfewtrell taylorswift and 13,998,887 others

yourusername hello, New York!

tagged: taylorswift

Load comments…

user1 my fav

user2 love her

user3 so pretty 🤩

taylorswift 🩵

yourusername 🤭💋

user4 welcome to New York, so real

user5 I miss Lando

user6 hi queen!!!

user7 new music when

user8 “I love NY not you” lmao Lando get up

user9 now why in the world did max like this

user10 and now Lando will post an Instagram story of him partying with some random girl to prove he’s having more fun than y/n is, we know how this goes

user11 you can not tell me they don’t miss each other

sabrinacarpenter pretty 🤩 🤩 🤩

yourusername no u 💋

user12 I just need a video of her English ass trying to navigate new York please and thx

maxfewtrell hey bestie!

yourusername oh my god get out of here

user13 wtf is max doing 😭😭

gracieabrams I ❤️ u

yourusername 🥰

oscarpiastri hi

yourusername hi?

———————————————

landonorris added to their story

user14

Now wtf

user15

user10 was right

user16

Alright ig

oscarpiastri

oh okay

MESSAGES

INSTAGRAM

yourusername added to their story

oscarpiastri

Still can't believe you convinced me to do that

yourusername

You'll be fine, ill get you concert tickets

can't even tell its you either

oscarpiastri

fine

they better be vip

yourusername

Dw they will be

—————-

maxfewtrell

???

yourusername

Dw its just Oscar

maxfewtrell

Jesus i cant believe you

yourusername

He started it. This is the first time I've included a guy in my posts, landos been doing it for months

maxfewtrell

you're gonna be the death of me

yourusername

💋💋💋💋

maxfewtrell

take care of yourself though y/n

yourusername

I am

Thx tho max 🫶

maxfewtrell

Yeah yeah 🙄

——————————————

yourusername

📍Paris, France

liked by charles_leclerc oscarpiastri and 21,008,771 others

yourusername I can tell when somebody still wants me

load comments…

user17 oh yay they're gonna sneak diss in their Insta captions again

user18 I miss dad ☹️

user19 she's so pretty omg

maxfewtrell oh wonderful we’re doing this now

yourusername leave

user20 lando its your turn

user21 IM IN LOVE WITH HER

charles_leclerc I'm amused

yourusername congrats

user22 they're so messy I love them

oscarpiastri great he's about to drag me into doing something stupid because of this

yourusername that is not my problem

user23 I sense new music coming along

user24 I do genuinely think he still wants her lowk

user25 they want eachother, don't lie. Its defo mutual

user26 😍😍😍

taylorswift 🤩

yourusername 🥰

jackantonoff 🤪

liker by yourusername

user27 why is jack here???? New music???

————————————————

landonorris

liked by maxfewtrell martingarrix and 12,008,998 others

landonorris I have what I want

load comments…

user28 oh… yay

user29 🤩🤩🤩

user30 say what you want about their shitty personalities but they sure do know how to make an aesthetic post

user31 the shade is immense

maxfewtrell im nauseous

landonorris 👍

user32 they’re so into each other it’s actually insane

user33 OH MY GOD WE GET IT YOU MISS EACHOTHER

user34 🤩🤩🤩

user35 he’s so fine

user35 LANDO-

user36 now what’s y/n gonna do

user37 how long until they both apologize and get back together… these are not the posts of people who have healthily moved on from their previous relationship

user38 fine as hell lowk

oscarpiastri this is 100% the most healthy way to handle this

landonorris I didn’t ask

user39 all of their friends are so annoyed and it’s so funny

———————————————

yourusername added to their story

maxfewtrell

Is this a song where you admit you’re still in love with Lando so you both can finally get over your emotional immaturity???

yourusername

kinda

maxfewtrell

Oh fr?

I thought you’d just be mean to him for the whole song

yourusername

Uhhh-

——————————————

yourusername

liked by sabrinacarpenter taylorswift and 21,000,111 others

yourusername imgonnagetyouback out now 🩶

Load comments…

user40 IM GONNA GET YOU BACK

user41 oh my god it’s so good

user42 LANDO GET UP

user43 THE CAPTION FROM PARIS WAS A SONG LYRICCCCC

user44 oh so she’s still in love with him

user45 “you were never not mine” 💀

user46 I CAN FEEL IT COMING HUMMIN IN THE WAY YOU MOVE

user47 PUSH THE RESET BUTTON WERE BECOMING SOMETHING NEW

user48 SAY YOU GOT SOMEBODY ILL SAY IVE GOT SOMEONE TOO

user49 EVEN IF ITS HANDCUFFED IM LEAVING HERE WITH YOU

user50 “I’m an Aston Martin” okay lance strollll

oscarpiastri “I’ve got someone too” no you do not 💀

yourusername oh my god shut up

user51 she’s still in love with him dhmu

maxfewtrell when I asked if this was going to be emotionally healthy and not a diss I can now see why you were conflicted…. Bit of both tbh

yourusername 🫶

maxfewtrell 👎

user52 told my friends I hate you but I love you just the same 😭

user53 SO GOOD

user54 WHETHER IM GONNA BE YOUR WIFE????

——————————————

landonorris added to their story

maxfewtrell

…

what does this achieve

landonorris

What do you want

maxfewtrell

Mate come on

you’re still obviously in love with her

and the song litteraly shows she’s still in love with you

all you’ve done is post a thirst trap of yourself with song lyrics on top

landonorris

It’s not a thirst trap

maxfewtrell

I hate both of you

text her mate

you’re happier together

And I’m tired of both of you annoying the shit out of me

landonorris

Fine

Maybe I will

maxfewtrell

Thank god

It’d be the first time you listened to me

—————————————

MESSAGES

INSTAGRAM

yourusername added to their story

maxfewtrell

That better be Lando or so help me god

yourusername

Calm your tits

It is

maxfewtrell

YEAHHHH

Finally

I can stop playing matchmaker

yourusername

😒😒😒😒

————————————————

oscarpiastri

Oh so this means you’ll both stop dragging me into your dumb shit

yourusername

🖕🖕🖕🖕

oscarpiastri

🫶

———————————————

TWITTER

INSTAGRAM

landonorris

liked by yourusername maxfewtrell and 13,001,881 others

landonorris told my friends I hate you but I love you just the same

load comments…

user55 YEAHHHHHHH

user56 Y/N LIKED WE’RE SO BACK

user57 my favs

user58 my parents are back together 😭

user59 unlike your real ones

user58 woah???

user59 🤷‍♀️ it’s the truth

user60 I missed them so much 😭😭😭

user61 admitted you love your ex-gf on main, this is self-improvement

yourusername pick your poison, babe

landonorris I’m poison either way

user62 I appreciate the repeating lyrics at each other because it is cute but those are not the kindest lyrics to be repeating 😭

user63 who knew that shit-talking your ex in a song could get him to re-admit his love for you

maxfewtrell took you long enough

landonorris legitimately who asked you

maxfewtrell I’m the reason this even happened in the first place. Watch your tone.

landonorris thanks i guess

maxfewtrell “I guess” @/yourusername this is how happy he is to have you back

yourusername landoooo

landonorris sorry. Thank you so much max, I’m so grateful you brought the loml back to me.

maxfewtrell you’re welcome ☺️

—————————————

yourusername

liked by landonorris maxfewtrell and 20,887,991 others

yourusername got you back

load comments…

user64 she got him back 🥹

user65 YEAHHHHH LFG

user66 awwwww

user67 I love them so much

user68 sleeping on the highway tonight 🫶

oscarpiastri 🥳🥳🥳

liked by yourusername

user69 these pictures are so cute oh my god 😭

user70 IM GONNA GET YOU BACK

landonorris you decided wether you’re gonna be my wife or smash up my bike yet?

yourusername still not sure… maybe both 🤔

user71 BOTH?????

user72 YEAH YEAH THATS FUNNY AND ALL BUT SHE JUST SAID SHE’D MARRY HIM

maxfewtrell congratulations nerds

yourusername thanks mate

user73 I’m in love with both of them

user74 they’re both so much happier together I really hope they stick this time

user75 and when she releases a love album then what

landonorris ily 🫶

yourusername ily2 🫶

user76 Jesus Christ they’re such teenagers 😭 USE FULL WORDS 😭😭😭

user77 no I get them. I wouldn’t post full love confessions in an Instagram comment section either lmao

user78 they got each other back 🫶

———————————————

Taglist: @casperlikej @evie-119

[pigfacedbitch]

The Price of Promos

summary : Percy is obsessed with you, but people ship you with Jason. what's worse is you two take advantage of it on certain situations.

word count : 0.9k

pairing/s : Percy Jackson x Daughter of Nyx! Reader (Kinda?), Jason Grace x Reader (It's just for show)

warning/s : does lying for free stuff count as one? Percy is a little unhinged.

here's my masterlist!

Note : I, too, would like free stuff.

Perseus Jackson doesn’t hate Jason Grace.

I mean, how could anyone?

The guy is basically a walking PR campaign for heroism— selfless, kind, responsible, and so absurdly noble. They all had their tragic backstories, but Jason?

The guy was literally sacrificed as a toddler. Meanwhile, Percy at least had a childhood (albeit featuring Smelly Gabe and an absentee sea god for a dad, but still— memories were made).

Let’s not forget the sheer unfairness of Jason’s looks: golden-boy Roman features, electric blue eyes, six-pack abs (which Percy totally never stared at), and that conveniently attractive scar that made people swoon like he was the protagonist of a tragic romance novel.

If they only knew he got that scar from trying to eat a fucking stapler.

Jason could’ve been an entitled jerk, taking advantage of his powers, his authority, his stupidly good genetics. But no. He had to go and be a great person. Patient, understanding— the human equivalent of a therapy dog, if therapy dogs could shoot lightning and fly.

How could anyone hate that?

So yeah, technically, Percy couldn’t hate him.

But sometimes... Percy wants to yeet him into the ocean and never let him out.

Why?

Because of you.

The only demigod of Nyx.

You, the one demigod that somehow made Camp Half-Blood look like it had something to prove.

You weren’t rude, per se. Just… too unbothered, like someone who had already seen way too much crap to care anymore.

A walking badass, terrifying in the way that made people question their own survival skills.

Like when a monster asked, “How will you sleep at night after everything you’ve done?” and you deadpanned, "Like a baby, motherfucker." before slicing its head off.

You, who casually sipped a drink after saying, "Gods are the funniest to torture. They don’t die. They can’t beg for death if it never comes."

Or the time you casually dragged a monster into Tartarus instead of fighting it because "Ugh, this is taking too long! I have plans."

Half the camp was terrified of you. The other half idolized you. There was no middle ground.

And Percy? He is obsessed.

It wasn’t a secret either. His friends roasted him constantly about it.

They have a running joke about how the literal savior of Olympus could barely ask you out without causing plumbing disasters.

It was either you were oblivious, or you were just waiting for him to, as Leo so eloquently put it, grow some cojones and finally make a move.

So technically, you weren’t his. Yet.

He is working on it, okay?

But what made his blood boil was how everyone kept shipping you and Jason— the golden boy and the dark, dangerous femme fatale. Oooh, forbidden love! The perfect aesthetic! Percy couldn’t care less.

At first, you and Jason laughed it off. But then—

Sales. Discounts. Promos.

And suddenly, Percy was living in hell.

Because the moment a deal was on the table, you and Jason leaned into the "couple" act so fast it gave Percy whiplash.

That’s when Percy’s casual irritation turned into full-blown homicidal intent. Towards Jason, of course.

The first betrayal happened at a café.

A barista, way too chipper for Percy’s liking, smiled at you and Jason. "Are you two a couple? Lovebirds get free drinks today!"

Percy watched in horror as you and Jason shared a look.

Free drink, (Y/N)?

Duh, idiot.

And with synchronized, Oscar-worthy smiles, you both turned to the barista. "Yes, we are."

The barista squealed. "You’re like night and day. So cute!"

Jason, fully committing, threw an arm around you. Percy was this close to turning that café into an aquarium.

His hand inched toward Riptide.

He could make it look like an accident. Right?

Instead, he settled for stabbing his blue cupcake with enough aggression to count as a felony. He, of course, paid full price for it.

Unbelievable.

The next time, it was at a shopping mall. You were all just supposed to get supplies. Simple. Harmless. Until a saleslady smiled brightly at you and Jason.

"You two are adorable! Are you dating?"

"Oh, we’re n—"

"Couples get a 50% discount per purchase. To keep the love alive!"

"—totally dating! Right, Jason?"

Percy felt his soul leave his body.

Jason, grinning, sealed the betrayal with a playful peck on your cheek.

Percy lunged. Annabeth and Grover had to physically hold him back.

"I can make it swift. Jason won’t feel a thing—"

"No." Annabeth and Grover said in unison.

And then there was the movie theater.

The old vendor, all kind smiles, handed Jason a snack box. "For you and your girlfriend. Enjoy the movie, kid."

Jason, with those perfect teeth, turned to you. "Love, come here."

You complied. He puts an arm around your waist and pressed multiple kisses on your cheek. "Isn't my boyfriend the sweetest?"

Percy nearly exploded on the spot.

Jason Grace. Cause of death? Choking on excessive buttered popcorn and blue Coke.

At the end of the day, Percy knew it was all for the freebies.

Logically, he got it.

But that didn’t stop the irrational rage whenever he saw you two act like a couple.

It looked too good. Too natural.

Like you were actually in love and not just two chaotic demigods scamming capitalism.

So, eventually, like a normal human being? He snaps.

"Are you SERIOUS? AGAIN?" He practically yells during another fake dating stunt.

Everyone stops. You and Jason blink.

Percy throws his hands in the air. "Oh my gods, just date Jason already if you love scamming the universe so much!"

You tilt your head. "Or… you could just ask me out already?"

"...That's a better option. Come on, let's leave this stapler-eating nerd." Percy grabs your hand and pulls you away. "Fly home, Jason!"

"I drove us here, though?" Jason murmurs, confused.

You just laugh, intertwining your hand with his.

And Percy? He just smirks, finally tasting victory.

[sunsburns]

GONE GONE / THANK YOU — variant!mark grayson

⟢ synopsis. you’ve never wanted to fight mark grayson, but the universe has a way of twisting your arm, and now you're forced to reckon with it.

⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x reader, evil variant!mark grayson x reader (but not the way you think), serious injury, death, gore, violence, major angst, no happy endings here, oliver locks tf in.

⟢ wc: 5.6k+

⟢ author’s note. do not be fooled, this is a tragedy. there is no romance here.

You remember, vaguely, back when he still worked for Cecil and trained with the Guardians. When you were teammates, rookies with too much adrenaline and not enough experience. Mark Grayson used to ask you to spar like it was a game.

You always turned him down.

It was always him asking, too—never Cecil. Sometimes, Rex would try to coax you into it, just for fun, by placing bets with Bulletproof like it was a pay-per-view event. “Come on, just once,” he’d say, “I got twenty bucks on you getting tossed into a wall.”

It wasn’t like you’d stand much of a chance—or at least, that’s what you told yourself. You weren’t helpless, sure. You could fly, move faster than most. You had telekinesis, strength just barely above the average hero’s. You could throw a car without touching it and take a punch that would hospitalize most people. But you couldn’t split the sky open with a single blow. You couldn’t level a building by accident.

Mark could.

He was much stronger than you. You knew that. But he always swore you were the only one on the team he’d ever have a fair fight with.

You remember him saying it once, voice all boyish and sincere as he watched you hurl a semi-truck into a monster that crawled out of Hell with nothing but a wave of your arm. Or that time you tackled him midair to shield him from a laser blast—one that left you burned and stumbling, but still standing.

Back then, he was new to this. Sloppy. Hopeful. Moved like he was wearing his dad’s boots and still trying to grow into them.

Maybe back then, you could’ve taken him.

Maybe it would’ve been fair.

You’d always brushed off the sparring sessions he suggested, hiding your nerves behind a smirk. He’d flash that stupid grin, eyes too bright to take seriously, and you’d wave him off like it was nothing. “What, so I can lose in front of you? No thanks.”

You never said what you really meant: I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even want to know how to.

Looking back, it was kind of embarrassing how quickly you’d grown fond of the new superhero.

“Oh, c’mon,” he’d beg, hovering beside you in the sky, similar to some overeager golden retriever, “it’ll be fun! I’ll go easy on you.”

You remembered the way he’d grin when he said that, like he meant it. You remembered the way he used to chase after you mid-flight on your off days, shouting challenges through the wind when all you wanted was to fly in peace. You’d mentioned craving Caribbean food in the Caribbean once—offhand, totally casual—and next thing you knew, you were midair, scrolling your maps app while Mark kept pace beside you, claiming he just wanted to “smell the sea air or whatever.”

Yeah, right.

You knew better. He just liked being near you. (Or at least that’s what Eve told you later, when you brought it up and she rolled her eyes like you were the last person on Earth to get the hint.) And when it came time to carry the food back, he always helped without you asking.

He was kind like that. Earnest. The kind of guy who matched your pace, who never minded when you stopped flying to rest on a rooftop or circle over a new city just to take it all in. He kept you company. Slowed down for you.

But he also liked to annoy the hell out of you.

He had a talent for pushing your buttons—prodding, teasing, egging you on just enough to make you want to hit him. Not in the playful, shoulder-shove kind of way either. You’re talking a real punch. One that might actually break his nose.

He’d say stuff like, “What if you just threw stuff at me?”

You blinked at him, mid-hover. “Throw stuff at you?”

“Yeah. Like, I don’t know—trucks? Cars? Big, heavy stuff. No combat. Just toss things.”

You’d laughed. “No combat? Why? You think I’d beat you in a real fight?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Probably, yeah.”

And he meant it.

You were better at combat than Mark. Everyone knew it. He had raw power, sure, but he fought like he was still learning where his limbs ended. He was always a little too reckless, too eager to win fast, to fight them and leave, always charging in when he should’ve taken a second to think or hear out whoever he was fighting this time. He always let his opponent push him onto the back foot. Unfortunate because Mark only knew how to block with his face.

Which sucked, because he had a very pretty face.

“I don’t want to fight you, Mark.” You said it because it was true. Because even if it was just a playful team match, even if the stakes had only ever been bragging rights, you’d seen what he could do. Just a glimpse of it—enough to leave you rattled for days.

You didn’t want to feel helpless under him. You didn’t want to see him like that.

“Train with me,” he corrected you.

You arch a brow. “We already train together.”

“Spar with me, then.” He rolled his eyes, like you’re being deliberately difficult.

It made you laugh, escaped before you could stop it. It almost makes you cave. His voice, the slight pout in his tone, the way he gets when he wants you to meet him in the middle.

“What would I gain from this if we do?”

“You’d know my weaknesses.”

“I already do.”

“Fine. You’d know what to do in a fight with me. A real fight.”

That made you pause.

You glanced at him, really glanced, and saw the honesty in his eyes. It sobered you.

“If I ever try to fight you, Mark,” you murmured, “I must be the craziest person on the planet.”

And maybe that was the problem.

Somewhere, in the quiet corners of your mind, the part of you that didn’t speak often, you understood what he meant. You saw the logic. It wasn’t about wanting to fight. It was about being prepared for the possibility. That one day, something might happen—someone might twist his arm, or his mind, or the world might just break wrong—and you’d be the only one left to stop him.

Just like he was the only one who could stop his dad.

But it was Mark.

You couldn’t picture it. Couldn’t even begin to shape that version of reality in your head. A Viltrumite? Sure. Maybe. But not Mark. Not the one who flew slower just to stay beside you. Not the one who remembered where you liked your food from or made you laugh just to hear the sound.

A Viltrumite, sure. But never Mark.

It always surprised you that Cecil never forced the issue. That he never pulled you aside, never handed you a file full of fail-safes and protocols for some contingency plan. Never demanded you run a one-on-one simulation, just in case. Not even after Anissa.

Maybe he was too busy moulding Mark into a weapon. Focused on teaching him how to dodge the hit instead of what it would mean to land one. Maybe no one really wanted to imagine a world where Mark Grayson needed to be stopped.

But now?

Now you wish you’d said yes.

You wish you’d tested yourself. Learned his rhythms, his tempo, the way his shoulders moved before a strike. You wish you’d paid closer attention. Memorized every tell. Every blink. Every breath. Every violent twitch in his body.

Should’ve known what it’d feel like when one punch hit you for real.

When he hits you for real.

“Why won’t you fucking die?!”

The voice is his, but wrong.

It curdles in your ears: guttural, unhinged, warped by something deeper than rage.

You’re weightless—thrown midair like a ragdoll. For a single, surreal moment, there’s a strange comfort in it. Suspended high above the wreckage, the sun kisses your skin, and a breeze slips across your face.

Up here, the sky is still beautiful. A stretch of blue that hasn’t yet been stained by smoke or scorched by heat. Far enough from the screaming and all the noise. Far enough to forget what’s happening on the ground.

But you can’t breathe.

Your lungs seize, your eyes snap open, pupils blown wide as your body remembers the pain.

You barely register your own gasp before a blur of blue and black cuts through your vision. Fast and close.

Your body shudders violently. Instinct claws at your nerves as the blur sharpens.

He’s coming. Again.

Faster than before.

Faster than you can think.

Gravity slowly claws you back down. You’re dropping.

You don’t even get the chance to scream before two boots slam into your stomach.

Your body folds inwards with a crunch—sick, absolute. Something inside you gives way. Ribs, maybe. Or your will.

The air vanishes from your lungs.

And then you’re falling.

Plunging faster than you can think to pull yourself up again.

The wind whips past your ears, colder now, biting at torn fabric and skin. Your suit peels away in places, edges fused with blood and grime. It soaks through the fabric, your blood. It clings like glue.

You hit the ground like a meteor and concrete craters beneath you.

Your spine strikes first, a bolt of blinding white-hot pain rippling through every inch of you, from the tips of your ears to your toes. And then your body goes limp, twitching in the dust.

You heave; a short, broken breath. Once.

Twice.

Then blood rises up your throat like a tide. It fills your mouth, thick and choking. You cough, gag. Swallow a bit without meaning to. The taste is iron and fire and fear.

Your nose is shattered, and has been since the second time he hit you; it’s not getting any better—just a wet, twisted mess that sends pain knifing through your face with every shallow breath. Blood seeps from the split at the bridge of it, more of it rolls out to coat your lips. You try inhaling through it, and it’s like dragging air through broken glass.

Your vision pulses. Static edges. Fireflies at the corners of your eyes. The sunlight above you flickers like it’s behind dirty windows.

Everything burns.

You’re vaguely, bitterly grateful to discover that you can take a punch or two from a Viltrumite.

Even more grateful to realize he still gets frustrated when a fight drags on longer than he wants.

He’s always had a temper. That little crack in his armour. That flicker of impatience just before he stubbornly decides to end things.

Funny how that trait sticks. Across dimensions. Across versions.

Across Marks.

You try to move.

You know he’s coming again.

You fight to make sense of where you’ve landed—what part of the city this is, how far the damage might’ve spread. The world tilts wildly when you try to sit up. Every muscle screams. Every joint trembles under the weight of your own body.

Your fingers dig into dust and rubble. Arms shaking, elbows buckling when you roll over.

Somewhere past the ringing in your ears, a footstep echoes.

Not his. Too light. You freeze. Your body goes rigid with fear.

Then you see a child.

Shit.

A girl runs past, tripping over debris, breath coming in broken sobs. Your heart lurches.

She stumbles toward a crumbled wall, where a hand reaches out from a narrow crack in the broken concrete. A voice calls softly, a little desperately. She throws herself into someone’s arms, and the space swallows her whole. Hidden. Safe.

You meet someone’s eyes inside the dark. Just a flash. Then a whisper.

“Is she okay?”

“Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

However, your blood goes cold because you don’t hear him land. You feel it.

A tremor shocks the ground beneath you. Dust kicks up into your throat. Something inside you screams at you to run. But your legs won’t listen. Your body doesn’t move.

A shadow twists along the edge of the crater, slow and crawling, swallowing the light around it. You watch, frozen, as the figure nears, closer with every heartbeat, every rasping breath that burns your lungs. Your chest is caving in under the weight of fear, the panic a raw, wild thing clawing up your throat and getting stuck. You barely move.

Your instincts take over before your mind catches up—what little you can summon lurches to life, and a thin, violet barrier flares to life around you.

It glows dimly, trembling in the air like it’s afraid too.

Then, the first strike lands.

You flinch as a violent crack echoes through your shield. His fist hits it again, harder this time—shockwaves rippling outward, shaking the ground beneath your knees. You collapse backwards, knees buckling beneath you, your limbs no longer listening.

And now, you see him.

The colours of the suit are the same. Black and blue. Familiar. Too familiar. It’s his jawline, his mouth, the slight crookedness in his lips—only this time, there’s no smile at all. No warmth. Just something brutal and cold in the lines of his face. It’s haunting, how much he looks like your Mark.

His fists don’t hesitate. They don’t tremble. They don’t stop. He slams them again and again into the shield, and you know it’s not to knock you out. He’s trying to kill you.

Your vision blurs, not from the impact, but from the emotion cracking inside your chest. It’s like looking into a mirror, someone shattered and glued back together in all the wrong ways. His jaw clenches, tighter than you’ve ever seen on Mark. And he shouts and screams at you like rage has him by the throat.

His suit is covered in blood. Not just stained. Soaked. You know Mark bleeds more often than not and carries his wounds to prove it. This isn’t that. This isn’t his blood. These are other people’s. It drips from his fists. Smears across his shoulder. There’s a tacky smear along his jaw.

And then you notice the difference: his hair is tucked beneath a tight, blue cowl, pulled back out of reach. It’s smart, almost too smart. You’ve seen people grab Mark by the hair mid-fight, use it to throw him off balance. This version, this thing pretending to be him, has made sure that won’t happen. Even so, a few strands of inky black hair have broken free, fluttering in the wind, familiar enough to steal your breath.

It’s that hint of recognition that almost costs you everything.

His fist crashes into your barrier again, and this time, it shatters and you feel it crack down your spine.

There’s no time to think. You throw yourself upward with a burst of raw energy, launching into the air, limbs screaming in protest. You don’t look at him. You look past him toward the building where the civilians are hiding, where you felt their fear.

Get away from them. Get him away from them. That’s all that matters now.

You’re gasping, your lungs pulling in air like they’re drowning. Your hands are trembling so hard you can barely summon the force again. Your vision is swimming. Blood sticks to your side, to your lashes, to the inside of your mouth.

And you’re scared.

You barely make it a few feet into the air, just high enough to feel the wind stir through your hair, when he grabs you by the throat.

The momentum dies instantly.

His hand clamps around your neck like a vice, fingers cold and unyielding, and you’re yanked backward through the sky with brutal force. Your body jerks in the air, and you choke on a scream as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. A ragdoll. A thing.

You claw at his wrist, nails scraping, scrabbling, legs kicking beneath you, wild and useless, searching for something, anything, to find leverage. But there’s nothing. Your lungs seize, scream for air, and your chest caves in with the effort.

“M-mm…” It slips out, a little pathetic. A strangled, broken moan choked on blood and bile, laced with panic you can’t swallow down.

Tears finally break. They spill hot and fast over the curve of your cheeks, over the cuts already weeping there. You can’t stop crying—it hurts too much to cry, but your body doesn’t care. Everything is on fire. Your ribs ache where they’re cracked. Blood drips down your chin from your split lip. Your shoulder pulses where you hit the ground earlier. It all bleeds together in one screaming pulse of pain.

The variant grins. Wide. Delighted. His teeth are strangely white, and there’s something sickening in the shine of his eyes you can see through his goggles. He brings you closer, so close you can smell the blood caked beneath his collar. So close your lips brush the edge of his ear.

“Sorry, what was that?” he murmurs. His voice is casual, almost amused, like he’s not slowly squeezing the life out of you. Like he’s enjoying this.

You try to speak again. Try to push past the pressure in your throat, the blood in your mouth, the trembling of your jaw.

“Mmar—muh—”

He laughs. Laughs.

“Muh-muh—come on, you can do it. You know my name. Say it.” He’s mocking you, voice all sweetness and cruelty. His grip tightens just slightly, and it sends a new spike of agony ripping down your spine.

Your face crumples.

You’re sobbing now, really sobbing, even though it hurts. Even though every broken breath feels like it’s digging your grave faster. You collapse inward, deeper into his grip, your weight sagging against his hold as your feet dangle uselessly beneath you. Blood smears down your neck, thick and warm, mixing with the salt of your tears. It leaves tracks on your cheeks. You don’t think you’ve ever been this afraid.

He shakes you once, sharp and jarring.

A cry slips out of you, louder this time.

“Say it,” he demands again. “C’mon. At least beg a little.”

Your lips part. It hurts. But you do it.

“Mark—please. Please.”

He hums like he’s enjoying it, cocking his head.

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“Please, Mark. I don’t—I don’t wanna…”

Your voice breaks again. Trails off into something too small to hear. You meant to say die. But it catches in your throat, and you’re not even sure if that’s the truth.

Because you don’t want to die at his hands.

You don’t want to die looking at his face.

You don’t want to die thinking this is the last version of him you’ll ever see.

You squint through the blood stinging your eyes, searching—anything. A broken pipe, a shard of metal, a loose brick. Something you could use before he chooses to tear your head from your body or snap your neck like a twig. But your brain blanks. He could do anything to you. You’ve seen him do worse.

“Hm,” he hums, tilting his head like you’re a puzzle he already solved. He pushes you away, just slightly. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight—”

A jagged chunk of broken concrete comes hurtling through the air behind him. It slams into his back and crumbles instantly, like dirt hitting steel. It doesn’t hurt him, but it makes him falter. Just for a second.

It’s enough.

You land a shaky kick to his stomach. It barely moves him—he grunts, more annoyed than wounded—but it’s enough to loosen his grip on your throat. His hand slips, and you drop like dead weight, gasping as air stabs back into your lungs.

You’re in the air again before you hit the ground, desperate to put distance between him and the civilians hiding in the building nearby. You knew you wouldn’t get far. You just needed space.

But he’s faster.

His hand snatches your ankle mid-flight, yanking you down so hard the air tears from your lungs again. Panic hits like ice in your chest, he could rip your leg clean off. You brace for it. But it doesn’t happen. You’re more durable than you give yourself credit for.

He must realize that too because he pauses. And in that pause, a car slams into him from the side with a scream of twisted metal, sending him skidding across the air. The vehicle shatters around him like glass against a god.

You hover in the air, staggering, breath ragged. Run. You burst away. But it’s like he never left. A blur of movement, and he’s on you again. The wind trembles around you as he grabs the back of your suit, lifts, and throws.

You crash through a concrete wall like a bullet, debris exploding in every direction. The force slams you into the tiled floor of the building behind it, breaking the ground beneath you as you skid across it. Each bounce against the cracked floor sends more shards of pain ripping through your ribs, your spine—until your body then slams into another wall, cratering the surface.

Your ears ring.

You blink rapidly through the haze and spot them. Movement. Figures, crouched in the corner of the room. Wide eyes. Shaking hands. Trying to stay quiet. Shit, you need to get out of here.

Then you feel him.

“—You little shit.” His voice is right there. Hot. Furious. His goggles have broken, and you can see his eyes. You feel sick when he looks at you, and you realize he has the exact same eyes as the Mark you know.

Hands seize you, claws in your skin, and you flinch, scrambling weakly, but there’s no time. Icy fingers dig into your face like meat hooks, one thumb gouging dangerously close to your eye as he yanks your head forward and smashes it back against the wall.

Once.

Twice.

He does it again. And again.

Your skull slams into the concrete until the plaster splits—until the wall peels back like wet paper and your head strikes the raw metal beam embedded beneath it. The sound is sharp. Hollow. Like a bell rung for the dead. The metal dents and bends to the shape of your skull.

“Fight back,” he snarls, saliva spraying across your cheek. His grip tightens. “Fight back, coward.”

The building groans around you. Cracks crawl like veins across the walls. Dust sifts down from the ceiling like ash from a burning sky.

Still, you don’t move.

Because your hands, shaking and soaked in your own blood, remain limp next to you. Fingers splayed, twitching, and glowing with desperate violet light. Your force field is fragile now—no longer the confident, humming barrier you’ve conjured in countless fights. This one sputters. Fractures along the edges. It buzzes with instability, as if your own heartbeat is the only thing keeping it alive.

Through it, the civilians cower in the corner. A young girl sobs into her mother’s chest. An older man clutches his chest, gasping. Blood trickles down someone’s temple. One of them meets your eyes—just for a second.

They’re depending on you.

You’re the wall between them and a god gone mad.

Even as blood pours freely from your nose, leaks from your ears, and chokes your throat, you hold the shield.

And he sees it.

His gaze flicks from your face to the trembling light shielding the survivors. Then he turns. Slowly. The glow reflects in his eyes like a glint off polished glass.

He sees them. The people you’re breaking yourself to protect. The reason you’re not fighting him back.

“Oh,” he breathes, realization flooding his face like bile. “That’s what you’re doing.”

There’s no humour in it. No mockery. He stands up. Steps back just enough to leer down at you. Then he nudges your leg with his foot, light, almost lazy.

“Am I not worth your full attention?” he spits, voice low and venomous.

You manage to lift your head just slightly, breath rattling in your chest.

That’s when you see it—the sudden flick of movement. His leg tensing, rising, snapping downward.

The stomp hits your knee. Hard.

A flash of pain rips up your thigh. Your force field flickers. Cracks splinter across its surface.

He sees that too.

And then he lifts off the ground. Just slightly. Hovering. Charging his weight.

“No—” you croak.

But it’s already too late.

He comes down full force, heel slamming directly into the joint of your knee. You hear the wet pop before your body processes it.

“Wait—”

Crunch.

The sound is sickening—like splintering wood wrapped in muscle. Your femur caves, bone shearing beneath his strength.

You scream. It rips from your throat with raw, animalistic agony. A sound born from every nerve in your body, catching fire.

But he doesn’t stop.

He stomps again.

Your leg gives entirely. Another crunch—louder this time. Bone bursts through skin, blood pooling fast and dark across the tile. Flesh torn. Tendons snapped.

You try to crawl away, sobbing, your fingers scraping uselessly against rubble, but he pins you with a single hand, heavy and uncaring. Whimpers slip past your lips. Your body trembles. Tears return—hot, relentless.

Still… you hold the shield.

Or try to.

Your hands flutter now, weak and slow. The violet glow dims, sputters, and flickers. You feel it dying.

You let out a choked sob. “No— please—don’t—”

He doesn’t even look at you.

Just kicks your side and shoves you down to the floor with a dull, wet thud. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. You taste blood again. You bite your tongue to keep from blacking out. Your world is sideways.

He steps over your body, shadow stretching across the floor.

“You wanna play hero?” he says, voice thick with disdain. “Then try and stop me.”

The force field fails.

The whine that comes with it is soft. Pathetic. Like a dying heartbeat. The light vanishes.

And then he moves forward.

You hear it first. The civilians scream. A cacophony of fear and hopelessness, and panic. Feet scramble across the floor, slapping and slipping in the dust. Bodies scatter like bugs when a rock is lifted, rushing to corners that won’t save them.

You try to look away. But you can’t.

Tears stream down your bloodied face, your vision blurring, every nerve screaming.

“No—please—stop—”

You watch as he grabs one by the throat, fingers sinking into flesh with a sickening wet crunch, and slams them into the ground hard enough to collapse the tile and crater the concrete beneath.

Bone shatters. The body twitches once. Then doesn’t move again.

Another screams before she’s hurled across the room and hits a concrete column so hard her spine snaps with a sound like cracking ice. Blood sprays in a wide arc, painting the pillar in a bright red fan. What’s left of her folds in on itself like meat dropped from a rooftop.

A third runs. Tries, anyway.

They don’t make it two steps before the variant is on him, driving his fist into the back of their skull like a sledgehammer. The head doesn’t just break. It bursts. A wet, explosive noise followed by silence.

You cry again. All you can do is cry, helpless and shaking. Because you can’t do anything. Can’t crawl. Can’t protect them. Can’t stop it.

All you can do is lie there, twitching, crying, blood in your mouth and dust in your eyes, your own leg bent backwards beneath you like a snapped twig, ribs stabbing sharp into your lungs every time you breathe.

The room shakes. Then goes still.

The screams stop. The begging stops. Everything stops. Except you. You’re still breathing. Barely.

And he sees that.

The Mark who isn’t yours. Who wears his face but none of his soul.

He turns, eyes raking over the ruined bodies, the cracked walls, the crimson streaks painted across your cheeks and neck and chest.

Then he walks away.

He doesn’t even kill you.

He doesn’t even care enough to anymore.

He just leaves you here. A pile of meat and power and broken promises. Like you aren’t even worth finishing off.

The world sways. Tilts. Cracks. You’re not sure if it’s the building or your skull. Everything blurs at the edges, the colours too red, too dark. The air is too hot.

Your ears ring—sharp, high-pitched, like a scream still echoing inside your skull. You can’t tell if it’s someone else’s or your own.

The walls are split open like ruptured flesh. The ground is thick with dust and blood and the sickly stench of offal. Light flickers from a shattered fixture above—rapid, dizzying pulses that make your stomach lurch.

What’s left of your forcefield gutters across the floor like dying embers. Violet flickers catch the blood, the bone, the ruin. Cast soft light on glassy eyes staring up from broken faces.

Some of them look like they were trying to run. Some tried to hide. One looks like they were shielding another.

None of them made it.

You should move. Should crawl to the window. Should drag yourself somewhere someone might see you. Maybe he’ll see you. The real Mark. If he’s out there.

You don’t move. You can’t.

Your leg’s twisted beneath you, a grotesque knot of blood and shattered bone. One arm lies limp across your stomach, fingers twitching without purpose. You think something’s wrong with your ribs—sharp edges press against your insides every time you try to draw in a full breath. So you don’t.

The sun begins to sneak through the crumbled wall, golden light stretching over the carnage like a lie. It touches the broken bodies. The cooling blood. Your face.

And you lie there. Unmoving. Unseeing.

Because what’s the point?

Your hands are burned from your own force field. Still faintly glowing. Still trying.

You’re alone in the ruins of hope.

The concrete groans once more, something shifting far above. A soft cascade of dust falls like snow.

But otherwise—nothing.

No rescue. No sound. No light.

Just the stench of blood. The sting of smoke. And you, barely holding onto the thought of staying awake. Not because you want to. But because something in you still refuses to close your eyes.

Even now.

Even when there’s nothing left to save.

And help arrives too late; a sound, distant, frantic, pierces the silence.

Footsteps. Heavy. Rushed. A younger voice screaming, raw with something deeper than rage: “Die! Die! Die!”

Your heart clenches. That voice. You know it. That high, stubborn pitch. That little face, purple and wide-eyed and brave in a way only a child could be.

Oliver.

But then… silence again.

That silence terrifies you more than anything. He was here. You heard him. And now you don’t.

You start to cry again. Weak little sobs, more breath than sound. It hurts too much to make noise. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe your brain, desperate and failing, conjured him to spare you from dying alone.

Then at first, it’s just a crunch. Soft. Careful. The sound of wind shifting through broken glass. Your ears twitch—what’s left of your hearing, catching the shift in air, the gentle thud of shoes landing on broken tile.

Your ears twitch, catching it through the sharp ringing that’s made a home in your skull. Another crunch. The delicate movement against the air.

Approaching.

Your vision swims in red and static. But you see it—a blur of violet streaking in from the jagged hole in the wall. It flies crooked, clumsy, like it’s too fast for its own balance. It shouts your name.

Not your hero name.

Your real name.

The sound cracks through your chest. A sob tears up your throat.

He lands too hard. Hits the ground with a gust that kicks up glass and bloodstained dust. Then he’s on his knees beside you.

“Oliver?” you whisper, the name catching on something wet in your lungs. The word barely makes it out. A cough wracks through you, sharp and tearing. But it’s something.

Your eyes flicker toward him. He’s breathing hard. Shaking. His fists are covered in blood—not just his, you think dimly—and there’s a long scratch across his cheek that’s already scabbing over. His eyes go wide when he sees you. So wide they look like they might spill over.

“You… you shouldn’t be here,” you croak.

Oliver stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. His mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again, trembling.

“I should’ve been here sooner,” he says.

You try to breathe, but it’s shallow. The weight in your chest doesn’t budge.

He reaches out, but doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t know where he can.

“I saw him,” Oliver whispers, “I saw what he did. I thought you were holding him off—I thought—then I couldn’t see you anymore, and I—I stopped him. I got rid of him—”

His voice cuts off. He blinks too fast.

You try to move. Your fingers twitch, scraping weakly against the rubble. You don’t know if you’re reaching for him… or for the people you couldn’t save.

Oliver sees it. And he starts to cry.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, urgently, scooting closer. “It’s okay. I’ve got you now. Just—just stay awake, alright? Stay with me. Please.”

He’s a child. Still a child. And he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t see this.

“You have to go,” you rasp, barely audible. “Mark... he’ll be looking for you.”

Oliver shakes his head. “Mark’s fine. You’re not. I’m getting you out of here. I’ll take you to Mom. You’ll be safe with her. She’ll know what to do.”

He says it like it’s a promise. Like it’s fact. But you know better. You feel it in your bones—what’s left of them. You’re not going to make it that far.

You close your eyes for a moment. Just a blink. Just to rest them.

You let the words settle into you like warmth in a cold room.

Maybe that’s enough.

[cultkinkcoven]

Things for beginners to know before starting demonolatry or demonology practices

1. The classifications of demons were written by humans, not demons.

Different occult schools of thought will have different understandings of the Hierarchies of Hell, whether Hell even exists, and what attributes are associated with each demon. In some sects Lucifer reigns supreme Emperor of Hell, in others it is Sammael, Moloch, or Baal. It all depends on the perspective of the practitioner. All of these models are equally correct and incorrect. Documentation of de(a)mons were often written by right hand practitioners who saw them as evil, therefore their negative attitudes are emphasized. Other times devotees have documented the same entity as being very kind and affectionate. It is incredibly important to take into account who is speaking whenever you read about demons. No single book or author can deliver to you the most **objective** facts about these demons or the model of reality, if they claim to, they’re lying to you. You as the practitioner must discover and decide what reins true in your reality. Teachers and gurus may influence you but ultimately you must make the decision for yourself.

2. Assume all spirits are multi dimensional

Lucifer, the light bringer, is also the spirit of darkness. He is the sweet prince and the adversary, he is a devil and an angel. It is extremely rare that you will encounter a spirit that is only one thing. There is a little bit of truth to everyone’s interactions. To a Luciferian, Lucifer is a guide, a companion, and a positive presence. To a Christian he is an adversary, a tempter, liar and bringer of evil ; and there is an entire rainbow of other experiences that contribute to the understanding of “Lucifer”. Demons are not all good nor are they all bad, trying to paint them in only one light will only lead to disappointment and confusion. It is just as foolish to assume that a so called angel will always be pleasant and nice, as it is to assume a so called demon will be terrible and mean. Every energy interacts with every person uniquely.

3. Scary and intimidating doesn’t automatically mean “evil”

Nice and pleasing doesn’t automatically mean “good”

If you’re interacting with demons or spirits associated with death, it shouldn’t be very surprising that they’re dark, mysterious, or have a frightening appearance. If you’re dealing with demons or spirits of sex and lust, it shouldn’t be very surprising that they’re alluring, attractive, or beautiful. This doesn’t mean that the scary demon is going to kill you, and this doesn’t mean that the sexy demon is going to fuck you. There are very likely going to be times when your demons will scare you. This doesn’t mean that they’re going to hurt you or possess you (they shouldn’t be frightening you to the point of constant paranoia, but seeing some “disturbing” or strange imagery isn’t out of the norm when you’re contacting a de(a)mon).

If you enter a deep dark cave looking for a bear, don’t be surprised when you see sharp teeth. Demons of violence may summon gory imagery. Demons of death my feel cold and distant. A large part of demonolatry is understanding your fear and overcoming it.

4. Yeah, it’s intense.

Okay. This is hard for me to explain. Infernal spirits and angels alike are entities that force you to confront your innermost self and change. It’s not always spooky and scary and whimsical. Sometimes it’s losing your dead end job, having a serious breakup, losing toxic friends, or having a personal epiphany. When I say it’s intense, I don’t mean that I’m levitating and seeing gnarly gory shit and summoning demons while covered in blood all the time. I have dreams and experiences of course, but seeing a demon work is not about the theatrics. Are you ready to confront the things you rrrrreeaaaaalllly don’t want to think about? Your trauma, the lies you tell yourself to get through the day, and the toxic cycles you comfort yourself with?

Lord Lucifer has made me cry many MANY times. But it was never because he hurt or scared me. I’ve seen many demonolaters refer to Lucifer as a therapist and I couldn’t agree more. He not only changes your understanding of yourself, but others and the world. Through this understanding you can change yourself, and others, and the world.

5. You as the practitioner need to be able to withstand the symptoms of your demonic relationships

Being in a relationship with Lilith or Asmoday is not an excuse to develop a porn addiction. Being in a relationship with Lucifer does not give you the right to psychoanalyze all of your friends, being in a relationship with Eligos is not an excuse to destroy all of your relationships or be cruel towards others. Demons represent energies and concepts that are unfavourable to the masses. When working with Astaroth I will feel more lustful, just by being in her proximity. That is not justification to cheat on my partner or force myself onto him. As much as demons like Lucifer for example can inspire us to be wise and sharp, he can also influence us to be vein and narcissistic. We must always be aware of these effects and resist them, working with demons and shadows does not mean becoming the worst version of ourselves, quite the contrary. Interacting with these negative aspects is meant to show you how to overcome them.

6. Demons cannot and will not replace your relationships with humans

I am very pro godspousing and having friendly and affectionate relationships with demons and spirits. Having said that, as much as our spirits may love us and care for us, they will not be the ones to text you good morning. They will not make you soup when you’re sick, or buy you flowers after a hard day. Demons are guides and companions, but they are not people. Trying to use demons to solve your loneliness will only lead to heart ache. You very much can have a sincere relationship with a demon or other spirit, but be aware that that relationship will not mimic your relationships with humans, and it shouldn’t. Gods and demons are not humans, therefore your relationships with them will not feel human.

7. There’s always more to learn

Devotion to any spirit is an endeavour that can take years or even a lifetime. Your work is not done because you read 3 books and browsed the Occult Wiki for an hour and a half. Become very dedicated to learning about your demons of interest and the culture that surrounds them. Yes, this means boring, tedious research.

8. No, ______ is not mad at you. Please talk to them

You will at some point inevitably do something wrong, especially if you are freshly initiated. Demons understand that we are human, we make mistakes. Instead of becoming paranoid and avoiding your demon out of fear of consequences, put on your big boy pants and confront them directly. Understand what you did wrong and learn from your mistake. There may or may not be consequences, every demon is different. But making yourself sick thinking they’re going to smite you down doesn’t make anything better. I guarantee you that talking to them about it will serve you a million times better than running away.

9. You need to know your boundaries BEFORE you reach out

As important as it is to research your demons, it is equally important to research yourself. You need to have strict boundaries that you will not negotiate. These boundaries should be outlined in your contract if you have one. If blood magic is uncomfortable for you, don’t allow any demon or spirit to coerce you into giving it until you are ready. If you’re a minor you’re more than allowed to not do sex magic. This relationship belongs to you as much as it does your demon(s). If it doesn’t serve you, simply refuse it.

10. On that note, demons can and will reject you. You can and will reject them as well.

On many occasions I have approached spirits who did not want to work with me at the moment. Sometimes they end up showing up later in my life, other times they never do. Oftentimes this is because of an incongruency on an alchemical level, we just aren’t meant for each other. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re doing anything wrong. Sometimes you are, but your demon or deity will usually make that clear to you in some way. Don’t force it. If I’m already terribly preoccupied with life or other spiritual relationships, I’m within my right to reject another demon trying to enter my circle. That isn’t a rude thing to do. I’m within my right to deny a ritual I don’t have the energy or resources for. We can put it on the back burner for now.

Likewise, if a demon or spirit is repeatedly overstepping my boundaries or harming me in any way, I can (and should) leave that demon. If I’m not doing enough or causing insult, that demon can leave me. As binding as devotional contracts can be, we are not trapped with each other if we choose not to be.

11. Protection shouldn’t only be against spirits. Be very aware of your surroundings and the people around you

Learn the power of secrecy. As a Luciferian living in an extremely conservative area, I have to be extremely careful about when my pendants are visible. I have to be careful when entering certain places because I don’t want to be hate crimed or harassed. Yes, being out and proud of my demonic relationships is very important to me, but it is not worth risking real danger from bigots, or risking my employment. When I go to work, I have to leave my Lucifer ring at home, not because my work is discriminatory, but because I don’t know when I’m speaking to a christofascist grandma who would make a complaint to my boss because she saw my devotional ring. I don’t know which of my coworkers would make my life more difficult if they knew about my practice. If you are visible, people will approach you and make comments. Now, there are those of us who don’t give a fuck, and on most days I don’t. But for those of us who are vulnerable to that kind of discrimination, please be aware.

12. Self mutilation is not demonolatry

If you choose to offer blood it should be no more than a few drops. You should be using safe tools like a lancet, and disinfecting the area you extract from. This should be done in the least harmful manner possible. Devotional markings or tattoos should be done by a professional.

13. This stuff takes time. Relax

These relationships don’t develop in 24 hours. It takes a tremendous amount of repeated effort to gain the favour of a demon or spirit. If you’re not getting the results you want, take a break, reevaluate your methods, and try again later.

[whereserpentswalk]

Thinking about how well Worm handles disability, especially compared to most other things in its genre. The way lifelong injuries are treated as a normal part of being a cape. The fact that Taylor is blind for awhile and it's not treated as a tragedy, and how when it's healed by scapegoat it's not treated as some sort of redemptive miracle, but just a thing that happened. Defiant's wounds still being something that effects him even though he has tinker magitech. Kid Wind having adhd and being helped by meds but then having to go off them due to side effects. Taylor seeing paralysis as a fate worse then death being seen as a her thing and not an objective fact (and probably being from trauma during the leviathan fight). Genesis's disability being something the people around her care about a lot more then her. Labyrinth and Bitch both being basically neurodivergent from their powers (labyrinth being essentially high support needs, and Bitch being essentially low support needs) with both being able to live fulfilling lives with people who care about them (also that scene with someone trying to baby talk Bitch near the end really hit home for me).

Also, Dragon, despite not being literally disabled is a very good disability allegory. People who don't know she's a machine often think she's disabled. The way her father put so many constraints on her because he didn't trust her, because of what she was. The way so many human characters see her right to live as something up for debate. The way Saint calls Defiant's attraction to her a fetish because he can only comprehend someone loving her as being some strange abnormality. The fact that teacher thinks it's ok to put constrains on her basically because he physically can. Defiant and her being intimate by testing how well they can feel sensations. Even just the way Saint talks about her not being able to truly feel emotion, but saying she tricked herself into doing so, is reminiscent of how some people talk about people with Cluster B disorders. And beyond that, the fact that all of the people who dehumanize her are framed as unquestionably in the wrong. Hell, she had a trigger event so even the eldritch horrors affirm her personhood.

I realize the discussion of Dragon was longer then I planned. But yeah, worm has much better disability rep then anything else I've seen in the superhero genre (probably because it's written by a disabled author).

Also I'm pretty sure you have to be neurodivergent to read a 1,672,617 word long internet book about the sociopolitical ramifications of superpowers. /j

[butterbabyflapjack]

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 1): 5k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

This is ridiculous, horny, bloody, silly and dark (in essence, a very dark romantic comedy), so please heed the tags!

Starts after season 1, but with Brian escaping. Sorry if there’s any rough spots, I kinda rushed editing this.

ch.1 is from Brian’s POV, and the rest of the story is from yours. And there aren't nearly enough problematic female characters in the world so I'm making you one 😃

✧˖° chapter 1

Hello again, Miami. 

Didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.

What’s it been? Eight months? Since I was your most highly wanted criminal?

Guess I just couldn’t stay away.

Time flies when you’re laying low.

Guess I just missed you.

But really, my reason for coming back to dear old Miami–my home, both my real and spiritual birthplace–has a name, a life, and a face. Your name, if you’re really so curious. Your life. Your face. And I intend to leave what remains of all three of those things behind to the hungry bellies of gators before once more absconding stage left. 

But why, you might ask? Why do I want to kill you? Horrified, scandalized, even. For what reason had you to die by my skillful hand? And the answer to that is simple: death doesn’t need a reason. Death simply is, and I simply enjoy it. 

Though…

Regardless of that irrefutable fact…

I’ll admit. 

This particular death–your death–has a slightly more personal reason. And that reason, or at least its causation, was currently chit-chatting with me on the phone.

“Your plane lands at eight?” Dexter asked, and I didn’t waste time with a nod when he wouldn’t see it. Simply staring out across the coast of Costa Rica, the sunset reflected within the dark shadow of my gaze.

Costa Rica… and I’d really wanted to retire somewhere cold.

Not that this was retirement.

It was more of an… unplanned, involuntary vacation. Just until the heat from the feds cooled down.

Then again, I wasn’t waiting for the temp to drop before planning this little excursion back to Miami. But you’d sorta forced my hand in that regard, now hadn’t you?

“Hope you don’t mind if I crash on the couch,” I said, good-natured, and I knew he wouldn’t object. My brother couldn’t feel much–much more than myself–but I sensed a sort of guilt in him for how he’d previously driven me off those eight months ago. Choosing a fake sibling over a real one, one who actually knew who he was… I’d say the guilt had good cause.

I could hear him at his quaint living room/office combo’s computer, typing away at something. Perpetually Distracted Dexter.

“Yeah–yeah, that’d be great,” he said. 

I exhaled a little sigh whilst listening to the soft waves roll in beside me. “Why do I feel there’s a but coming?”

“No buts,” said Dexter. “I just, uh…” He seemed distracted, but not by whatever he typed. “I’ll just have a friend over tomorrow. She’ll probably be here when you arrive.”

Ah.

The friend.

The one I’d been silently wishing Dex would just kill himself. Grow suddenly bored of you.

Wishful thinking.

He seemed quite fond. 

He wouldn’t shut up about you. Always and forever droning on.

It wasn’t romantic, this interest, or so I’d come to suspect over all these past droning months. I didn’t exactly ask about that, though, half because I really didn’t care and half because of how much the subject of you annoyed me, raised over and over again and ugh, just give it a rest already. 

Dex shouldn’t have ‘friends’. The mere concept a fairytale, a mask to people like us. It should be just he and I, two hunters against the world, hunting whomever we like.

“Ah,” I voiced aloud, with the sugar-flaked pleasantry of someone who wasn’t at all picturing severing your aorta with an icepick. “Your little friend will be there to greet me. How nice.”

Dexter must have misread the edge of sarcasm as some sort of concern. “She already knows you’re coming. Don’t worry, she can be trusted.”

Just more proof that my do-good, misguided brother is far too trusting.

“Well,” I said, as though accepting this point as fact. You really can be trusted with my and my brother's secrets–such relief! “I look forward to finally meeting her.” And carving and slicing and dicing her.

I must have forgotten to include that last part out loud, and thus Dexter had no objection–even sounding strangely relieved by my show of good faith in at long last having this introduction.

“See you tomorrow night,” he said, and my lips formed a little smile–instinctual, without any warmth.

“See you then,” I said, then hung up.

And now; here I am. Back in the ever-enchanting sunshine state. My former playground of frozen, meticulously broken toys, and it feels much more like home to be back than I even expected, with just the small matter of ridding you from these sentimental, familial walls.

Walking the concrete pathway to Dex’s Palm Terrace place was nearly surreal, assaulting the walls of my person with waves of distant memories. I’d broken into his beachfront apartment so many times before. Snooping around, getting to know him. Leaving gifts tied up with little red bows. I was basically murderous Saint Claus.

I had only one bag, having traveled here light–a black leather crossbody, which I thumbed the broad strap of whilst knocking with mild knuckles against the door.

Silence. Then, footsteps. Then–

Dexter throws open the door, a smile formed ear to ear like a big, goofy animal. 

“Brian,” he says, and somehow it melts me. Chips slightly away at all that frigid, cold frost round my cruel, vacant heart. And his eyes dip over the state of me. The longer hair, dark curls well past my ears, now; just long enough to tuck back but not long enough to stay there. The dark scruff which coats my angled jawline in the absence of shaving for so long.

“Dig the beard,” Dexter says. “Quite the disguise. Bet the ladies love it.”

I smile at the compliment, though if he'd hated the look I'd feel much the same. “One does what one has to to effectively blend,” I return. And it’s hard not to feel somewhat warm, somewhat seen, understood, by my brother before me. The only person in this world who accepts who I am.

Well, not wholly.

Thanks for nothing, Debra.

Still. Since the death of our mother, Dex is the only place I’ve ever belonged, and seeing him now I’m abruptly struck with just how long it’s been.

I don’t wait for him to welcome me in–he’s probably too cordially stunted to properly welcome me, anyway. I just step right up and throw both my arms around him, my baby brother, my other half; cuffing him firmly on the back as I breathe him in.

“It’s been too long,” I say, holding him there for a moment, before pulling back.

Dexter’s expression is torn into a million indecipherable things, but amongst them is his affection for me. The brother who’ll always see him for who he really is. Who truly fathoms that insatiable beast inside him.

The bliss of our reunion’s forced to end, however, because this house has a rat problem. And as I hear a small, feminine throat being cleared from the fluorescent-lit depths behind my brother, my curiosity gets the better of me.

Time to finally put a face to the name I’ve been loathing for weeks.

And there you are. Standing before a metal-limbed armchair nuzzled inside the living room, like you’d sat there then stiffly stood up; uprooted at the sound of my knocking. Frozen, now; lingering. Like you’re caught in a trap you don’t know your way out of. Hands fidgeting as they twist at the hem of your shirt. 

It’s like you know you don’t belong here–that this moment is Dexter’s and mine–and for the cleverness of that, at least, I must inwardly applaud you. Though that’s decidedly where all my praise ends.

This is one of those social situations I’ve learned so well to navigate through life in the foster system, masking my aberrance. Awkwardness. Other people’s–not mine. And though I could so effortlessly put you at ease as you stand there fidgeting, I find it more entertaining to draw that part out. For a while, at least.

I must admit, I hadn’t pictured you at all in my head. What you’d look like. Not as anything more than an aggravating, compromising blip I’d soon snuff out the threat of. But if I had pictured you, I wouldn’t have imagined you looking, so…

…Well.

You’re not…

Unnatractive. 

I feel one dark brow slowly raising.

And you’re only a friend…?

Whatever must poor Rita think? Seeing the two of you together?

Dexter. You dog.

My eyes trace your expression as you awkwardly hover there in the length of my speculative pause. Myself perfectly content to allow you to hang there in a noose of discomfort all night, and then some. Though eventually I know one of us will have to say something.

This is our fated and much anticipated formal introduction, after all.

So at what feels like long last, I throw you the lifeline that is my smarmiest smile. Knowing full well you won’t know it’s not real. No one but Dex ever does.

“And you must be the friend I’ve heard so much about,” I greet you pleasantly, my deep voice threaded with warmth. Though, peculiarly, that unsure tension in you remains stubbornly in place. Seems if anything only to grow, despite my intent to disarm it. 

Huh.

Oh well–it doesn’t deter me. Killing you will be so much easier if you don’t see it coming, so I’m keen on you liking me, letting your guard down. Thus, I graciously continue:

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to finally having you right in front of me.”

Maybe a bit of truth will lube you up. And I watch as your lower lip’s sucked in between your teeth for just a moment whilst you eye me; the motion drawing my studious gaze like a shark’s to blood. 

“And why is that?” you ask, which admittedly I wasn’t expecting. Such a nervous mouse, yet you’d put me on the spot.

I can’t place your nerves. I’m perfectly charming. And yes, you’re aware I’m the notorious Ice Truck Killer, but I’m not sure why that would be alarming. Not with the company you keep; namely, my murderous brother. So it must be something else.

And I so hate not knowing things.

“So I can be introduced to you in person, of course,” I say, like it’s obvious, and it should be. Striding in past Dexter as he steps aside to allow me in, shutting and latching the door behind us all; a roomful of killers, or so I’ve been told.

Our eyes never stray in my steady approach; not yours, not mine. My height soon towering over yours, which isn’t unusual for me when meeting new people, nor when standing near almost anyone. Offering my hand and a smile I’ve been told is quite dashing. “Dex has had such wonderful things to say about you.” And I’m sure he has, I just couldn’t be bothered to remember any of them.

My smile could melt steel as if it was butter.

“I’m Brian.”

I won’t lie, I expected you to crumble. Most women love this move. The confidence, the approachable self-assurance. But you eye my outstretched hand as though I might pull you into the fires of hell with me were you to take it, before craning your neck to meet my gaze once more.

“Charmed,” is all you say; unmoving.

Something about that irks a small ripple up my nape, but I just allow my hand to drop graciously back to my side. All practiced, svelte charm still in place.

“So,” I say, by all appearance unconcerned by the lack of civility in my brother’s ill choice of friends. “It almost feels like I already know you, what with the way Dexter’s gone on and on.”

Your gaze steals over to Dexter, hovering there in the distance behind us, before you smile up at me again in a way which feels forced. And I suppose you’re not the talkative sort, though why you keep glancing at Dexter as if waiting for something from him, as if he’ll swoop in and save you, I’m uncertain about.

In due time I’ll figure it out.

“But there’s still one thing I’m curious about,” I say, turning to make myself comfortable. It has been a long trip to get here, after all. 

I plop down like a wolf amongst sheep atop Dexter’s hideous couch, legs spread like I own the damn food chain. One arm draped out along the length of its backrest as I eye you somewhat expectantly, still rigid in how you stand. Imagining what you might look like strung upside down by your ankles with a lengthy strap of duct tape kissing those soft lips, holding them shut for me. 

The shadows beneath my eyes pinch.

It’s a lovely image.

Maybe you’ll see for yourself.

“And what’s that?” Dexter asks–bravo, Dexter–at least one of you’s courteous enough to ask. And I tilt my darkly curled head at him.

“How exactly did the two of you get to know one another?” I ask. Watching him. Eying you. Hoping my focus might rattle you–just a little. “I’m sure it’s an interesting tale.”

“I’ve already told you,” Dexter says, and he probably has, at least in his unabbreviated sense. “We work together at the precinct.” He dons his playful tone I often find so silly but right now I find I detest. “The lab geek and the cop~”

“Right. But that’s not what I mean,” I slice into his futile comedy routine, “What I mean, is: how did our friend here come to know you’re one of Miami’s most heinous, uncaught serial killers?”  

The other, of course, being myself; excepting the whole uncaught thing.

Dex is lucky I’m so forgiving.

I put it forth bluntly, with little room for either one of you to wiggle out of answering. And though my radiance of charisma remains, my intensity’s keen. ‘Cause I must admit; now that I’m here, I’m curious about you. Especially when you seem like such a rabbit in a household of jackals. Weren’t you supposed to be some like-minded killer or something? Perhaps I should have paid closer attention whenever the unwanted topic of you had come up in mine and Dexter’s conversations, instead of bitterly tuning you out. 

Strangely, Dexter doesn’t seem to know what to say, and neither do you. Like the story’s too long, too elaborate. As though there's pieces the two of you’d rather omit. 

Fascinating.

“She helped me out,” Dex says at last; monotonously shallow, like the words aren’t even his, like he's rehearsed this. “In a time of need.”

I quirk a subtly mocking brow at him from where I’m idly lounged on the couch. 

“Why do you sound like a generic thankyou card?” Why, indeed. “C’mon, baby brother–I want specifics. You can tell me.” My dusky gaze passes from him to his lovely, curious friend, hovered opposite the ugly coffee table before me. “We’re all friends here, right?”

It would seem that my smile unnerves you. Which might be annoying if it wasn’t so entertaining a thing to see.

Dexter sighs before trying a more human answer, leaning one bulky shoulder against his white, open-backed bookcase that separates his living room from the office attached. 

This whole effectively communicating thing is hard for him.

“It was sort of an accident,” he says, like that’s far more telling. The lacking details seeming to spur you to chime in. 

“It was really just me being in the wrong place at the right time,” you elaborate, with the passive front of one pretending the ice they walk on won’t at any moment begin to splinter. Folding your arms against that pensive look I toss you, which I tilt my head in silent question of. Why so nervous? I’m far from daunting, aren’t I? 

“I was called to check out an anonymous tip,” you continue, averting your gaze from me far more often than one normally does. “Some sort of suspicious activity at an abandoned storage shed near Palmetto. Myself and my parter.” 

You glance at Dex, as if he might continue the tale for you, might rescue you from this, but when he merely quirks a little smile with a similar shrug, you’re forced into proceeding.

“It was supposedly related to a case–which it wasn’t, not that that matters, but…” You let out a breath. Seeming to steady yourself, the recollection, though for all your nervous fidgeting your tone is surprisingly calm. “I walked into the storage shed, it was unlocked, and… And I saw Dexter. Sawing someone’s arm off. Someone who was strapped down to a table in a plastic fucking tutu.” 

You glance at Dex, as he detachedly watches you. 

“Someone I knew from a previous case,” you continue. “Someone who deserved whatever it was Dexter was doing, and much more than that, too. Which is exactly when I shut that fucking door and assured my partner there was nothing to see here, and we left. Left Dexter to do what he does, undisturbed.”

That’s the end of your story, and I picture the scene, all while some predatorily protective part of me insists on clarifying, “So… That’s it? You saw my brother chopping a man into pieces, and were immediately okay with it? Go Team Dexter? Just like that?”

I try very little to hide my disbelief, ‘cause I don’t buy it. In my experience with cops, and I’ve had plenty, you all tend to be such sticklers when it comes to casual bloodshed and carnage. What’s more, your uptick in nerves isn’t exactly selling me.

My lashes lower in my deliberate examination of you. “Why’d you really not turn my dear brother in?”

In lieu of answering, you once more eye Dex, and that look between you says something.

“It’s complicated,” you say at last. Like you’re waiting for Dexter to speak, but he’d rather wait on you.

The pair of you. Really. You’re like a couple of tongue-tied, helpless kittens. Must I string this conversation on for you?

“Enlighten me,” I say, with something of an edge.

Perhaps I should’ve kept the disarmingly fake smile, because if anything you thrust your guard up.

“Look, I don’t owe you a full explanation of what Dexter and I have been through, okay?”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” I viperously put forth, my pretense of pleasantry slipping. “Seeing as how you know so much about myself. And all without my express knowledge or permission.”

An impermanent issue. One I won't leave Miami without personally seeing resolved. You know far too much–you’re an issue. For Dexter’s sake and for mine, we must unfortunately bid you bon voyage.

“I’d say it’s only fair I know a little more about you,” I continue, cordiality slipped back in place. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The delicate line of your jaw tautens, eyes wavered with wariness and doubt. Refusing to spit out any more, though the longer you’re subject to my critical appraisal, the more the twine of your stubbornness unwinds.

“I… I need someone dead,” you admit at last.

Ah.

There it is.

“And, after seeing Dexter doing… what he does…” You bite your lower lip, as though struggling to recollect straying thoughts. “I need his help. I need his help to kill someone.”

I take my time mulling about your words. Piecing together the part you still aren't saying.

“So… You won’t turn Dexter in, so long as he helps you kill someone. Did I get that right?” 

You bite down harsher–immediately shake your head. “No, it’s–it’s more complicated than that!” 

But by now I’m barely listening. Turning instead to lift a wry brow at my brother, who’s watching this whole fiasco with a can-I-please-leave-yet look plastered upon his face.

“This is the friend you’ve been telling me about?” I wonder vaguely. “The cop who’s blackmailing you into helping her kill someone?”

“I’m a detective,” you cut in, like that matters, like I care, and I feel my eyes already rolling.

“Detective,” I sarcastically amend, with a scathing glance at you. “So sorry to offend, Detective Whoever-You-Are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m talking to my brother.”

When you mutter back your name under your breath, I make a show of ignoring it.

“So, what?” I instead ask my foolish, good-hearted kin. “You’re actually going to help her kill someone?” 

His lack of answer’s enough. And at his arms-folded silence, I ruminatively tut my tongue.

“Doesn’t seem like you, Dex… Not the edict-ruled brother I know.” I try not to let my tone grow too ingratiating whilst goading, “What about your beloved code?” 

Dexter exhales a stiff breath. Putting forth, “It’s more than that.”

“More?”

“Like she said, it’s complicated.”

“Has the word ‘complicated’ been redefined as ‘indescribably moronic and impossible to explain’ sometime in the last fifteen seconds?” I return, incredulously flat. Eying their strange and stilted silence with dwindling patience. “What aren’t the two of you telling me…?”

You’re biting your lip like you’re biting back words, and I watch, waiting, biding my time for those bit-back words to get the better of you–though surprisingly, it’s Dexter who breaks first. 

“It’s nothing about that, it’s…” He rubs the back of his sand-colored head, roughing his hair up with tense distraction. “Well, it is about that, in a sense. I didn’t know how to bring this up. I just… I have to leave town for the weekend,” he finally gets out. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m headed out.”

I’m too nonplussed to hide the creeping edge of my bemusement.

That’s what he’s been having trouble saying?

He drops this like it’ll land like a bombshell on our entire reunion, before rushing at whatever my bland expression, “It’s just for a few days. I’ll be back Monday bright and early.”

To be honest, I’m mostly confused about why this seemed so hard for either one of you bumbling idiots to tell me. Or why you’re bumbling about it at all. Why should I care if he’ll be gone for forty-eight more measly hours after we've been separated for almost a year? And for many, many years before that? Does he actually expect me to mourn him till Monday?

“Big plans with the family?” I venture coolly, and Dexter’s broad shoulders bunch into a shrug, as though he’s cornered and a shrug is all that might save him.

“It’s a whole thing,” he explains. “Cody has a scouting trip, then Rita wanted to make a whole weekend out of it with the grandparents–I’ll spare you the details.”

Yes, thank you for that.

Dexter the family man. It’s so sweet it’s nauseating.

“So you’re taking your fake kids camping so you can keep playing domesticated dad to a woman and children who’d hate you if they knew who you really are?” My smile’s so feigned it hurts. “Sounds like a great time.”

My brother, the shrugger, shrugs once again. Doesn’t even try to defend my interpretive accusation. “I gotta be there.”

“Well have fun on your little adventure,” I muse; side-eying him. “Not sure why it took you this long to tell me. I’m sure I’ll find some way to busy myself in the meantime.”

You and Dexter exchange that look again. That look which betrays how you still haven’t shared whatever’s so lodged down your throats and wherever this is really going, and by this point it’s driving me toward wanting to just rip open your necks to drag whatever it is out, myself.

“Well, actually,” my brother begins, struggling once more with saying things. “I’ve already got an idea that’ll keep you busy in mind.”

I steady him in the crosshairs of my vision. Well. Now we might be getting somewhere. And I can’t deny my interest, much like my frustration, is piqued. 

“Oh?”

“A favor, really,” he adds, without elaborating, and I really am going to rip the words right out of him.

“Are you going to tell me what that favor is?” I’m finally forced to ask, before glancing exasperatedly at you. “Or perhaps I should defer to your translator?”

There you go, nervously rubbing that elbow again, though I find myself oddly mesmerized by the motion of it. I can’t say for what cause, other than I’m not blind, and you’re obviously attractive. Watching you anxiously stand there is becoming one of my favorite pastimes.

“I, um,” you mumble, so quietly I almost can’t hear you. A nervous mouse again, one my nature is stirred to chase. “Well. Dexter was going to help me with–you know… What I was saying before. We have everything planned for tomorrow, and it has to happen tomorrow.” You seem strangely adamant about this, and I don’t care enough to question the ‘why’, just as I don’t care for the ‘who’–I’ll take your word for it. “But, um, with Dexter out of town…”

Helpless, as if to say any more’s an impossible task, you glance to Dexter for support.

“Really, the two of you,” I lowly muse. Eyes glistening between the pair of you, alight with my wicked amusement. Stretching out more broadly on the throne of Dexter’s hideous couch. “You could almost put a full sentence together so long as you tag one another in after every breath.”

The taunt’s enough to unlodge wherever Dexter’s tongue’s at. 

“I need you to help her kill this guy while I’m gone,” he finally says bluntly. Arms folded, expression stern, yet hinted by what may as well be him begging me, which in itself, is…

Well. He’s never asked me for anything. Not like this. Though I certainly don’t owe him any favors…

“I know you know how to set up a proper kill room,” he states, and he should–he’s seen my imitation of his plastic-drenched kill room, firsthand. I’ve studied his work more than anyone. Emulated it to perfection, and all for a happily-ever-after he refused to take part of, spat cold in my face.

For a moment, I feel almost human in how I can’t seem to react or respond to this request. Though as I watch the mirrored hope in you both, as the idea of this slowly settles, I find that it doesn’t completely bore me…

My eyes drift to you. Singling you out. Stringing round your anxious expression. And you’ve mettle, at least, to not look away from the barbs of my musing intensity.

So. This is why you’ve been acting so sheepishly inept. You need big bad Brian’s help with something.

It’s laughably cute, the idea of you killing, and already I know I’m going to do it. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make you sit in it a little. Take my time in toying with you, first.

“You want me to babysit your blackmailing little friend here,” I say to Dex, with raven-dark eyes still on you, “while she attempts–and correct me if I’m wrong here–her first kill?” 

I can tell you can feel how my gaze is dissecting you. Pulling apart, piecing together, assessing every piece and shape and shade of you. It makes you squirm, and I love it; sparing a moment to slide my tongue over the sharpness of my teeth as I feast on such a beautiful reaction. 

I turn back to Dex. “What makes you think she’s even capable?”

“I’m capable,” you insist, drawing my gaze again. And even through those nerves roused in my presence, you appear quite convinced of it. 

Interesting. 

“I can do this,” you again allege. With such frail confidence, but confidence nonetheless. “I just… need a little help.”

I tamp down the rearing head of my inquisitiveness. Ensure my interest remains vague in how I lackadaisically eye you. 

“Help with what, exactly?” I slowly ask. And it’s not a no, which I’m amused to see is so surprising.

You blink a few times, eyes growing wider, more determined–before you’re explaining, quickly, as though whatever luck this is may run out.

“Getting him to the kill site,” you say succinctly, with all the puffed-up bravado of a fluffy little rabbit pretending that they’ve slayed a fox before, and it really is amusing. “Moving the body. Clean-up.”

I let my watchful silence drag on. Held in supposed indecisive contemplation. Should I? Should I? Until, when I can nearly hear your fretting heartbeat, I feel one corner of my lips slowly quirk up. Watching every minor movement of you like a fox might a meal, might a rabbit, and find I really wouldn’t mind taking a bite. 

“Don’t need help doing the deed, then?” I subtly ask you.

Your eyebrows flicker to a knot. Lips pressing flat, before you shake your head at me. “No.”

“You sure?” I further goad, with silken smoothness. Loving those little cracks of hesitation along your lovely surface so much I’m inclined to hammer in even more of them. “‘Cause I won’t kill him for you. You have to do that, yourself. And what’s more, if you for any reason chicken out on me and can’t follow through with all this…” I calmly smile. “I’ll simply leave you there all alone with whatever maddened mess of whoever this man you’ve left behind.” The idea of it sparks a delicious flame somewhere deep below my cavernous lack of heart. “After ensuring he’s woken up, first, of course. Aware. Pissed off. Untied.” 

I smile my cheshire smile as that resolve in you flickers in place; the smallest glow, so nearly snuffed out already. 

“So?” I spur in your uncertain silence. “Do we have a deal, little killer?”

And still, you hesitate. Seeming to weigh my words with care, along with the cost of your own, which I certainly appreciate. You’re not as stupid as I’d originally believed, in any case.

At long last, you nod, but I don’t move, don’t even blink from how I wolfishly watch you from my throne of Dexter’s couch. Not until you say the words out loud. And you will, if you want my help. You have to.

If that’s a flash of resentment within those pretty eyes of yours, it only causes my broadening smirk.

“Fine,” you say at last, after thickly swallowing. “We have a deal.”

And surely light must dance in my entertained eyes as I bite back just how pleased I am by this answer. 

This should be fun.

✧˖° chapter 2

[taeyongdoyoung]

summary: your best friend brags complains that he can't get laid due to his huge dick posing a threat to random girls at parties, so you offer to fix his little big problem pairing: soobin x reader genre: smut, best friends to lovers warnings: explicit language, big dick soobin (canon event), size kink, foreplay, eating out, blowjob, hugging, fingering, size training, creampie, consensual intercourse, kissing, aftercare, allusions to death in a sexual context, lowkey possessive soobin at the end author's note: the killa is on my mind 24/7 and im down bad for soobin 25/8 🥵 so i had to get it out of my system somehow 🤷 word count: 2k

“You’re kidding, right?” you ask your best friend when he makes a rather shocking confession as the two of you are sitting in his bedroom after one of your usual anime marathons.

“I wish I was. But I would never lie to you,” Soobin responds truthfully. His big moist eyes look a 100% genuine but it still sounds so...bizarre.

“Let me get this straight…Every time you try to hook up with a girl at one of those parties Yeonjun keep dragging you to, you go to a room, eat them out like the generous, selfless guy you are, and then after you take off your pants, they get scared by your gigantic cock and refuse to have sex, running away in horror?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to explain for the past 10 minutes, yeah,” Soobin confirms with a very adorable pout on his stupid face.

You shake your head in utter disbelief.

“I’m sorry but this is just ridiculous. Any girl would be happy to hook up with a guy that has a huge dick.”

“Well, I guess not any girl ‘cause this shit has happened three times already and I’m at my limit. Why can’t I just get laid?” Soobin bemoans his tragic destiny.

“No, I don’t get it. The least they could do is give you a quickie or something to return the favour. It’s so rude to just sprint away. I can’t believe your cock is that terrifying.”

“Ugh, please stop saying that. It’s so embarrassing,” Soobin covers his face behind his big hands. Hold on a minute…

“If what you’re saying is true, then I think it’s pretty hot. Those girls are surely missing out.”

“Or maybe they’re just looking after themselves. Like…I’m not mad at them for being spooked out, I just wish I could finally get some, you know?” Soobin sighs.

“Death by dick does seem appealing,” you shrug.

“Y/N!” he exclaims.

“Listen, what if I make you an offer? You prove to me that you weren’t exaggerating about your size and I promise I won’t run away and will take care of your…frustrations.”

“Are you seriously suggesting this?” Soobin freaks out. “This could ruin our friendship.”

“I won’t be weird about it, I swear. What do you say?”

“Fuck it. I’m so horny that this actually sounds like a good idea,” Soobin admits. “Can I eat you out first?”

“Erm, if you insist,” you reply, suddenly feeling nervous.

“I just wanna take care of you, make sure you’re all nice and wet for me,” Soobin explains patiently.

“You really don’t have to,” you reassure him.

“I know but it’d be awkward for me to just whip it out. Please?”

“Oh…okay,” you really can’t imagine saying no when he’s asking you so sweetly. God, what did you get yourself into?

Soobin takes off your leggings and panties in one swift movement and pushes you down gently on the bed so you are in a lying position. He spreads your thighs apart and looks at your pussy, already glistening with wetness caused by the conversation you’ve been having. Soobin smirks but doesn’t say anything about it. You’re grateful for that as he dives in, licking and kissing all over you. Fucking hell, if his tongue is capable of making you feel this way, you are slightly unnerved to find out what his cock can achieve. But unlike those girls at the parties, you are determined to never run away from your best friend.

Soon enough, you reach your high, overwhelmed by Soobin’s insane tongue movements and his big hands gripping your thighs. You need a few moments to gather your thoughts and when you are finally able to speak, those are the first words that leave your mouth:

“I think they fleed because you eat pussy like a starved animal. Seriously, what the hell was that?”

Soobin chuckles nervously and runs his fingers through his black hair, pushing it back and exposing his forehead for a bit.

“Trust me, it’s not that.”

“Prove it,” you challenge him even though you are fairly certain he’s telling the truth. Your best friend has never lied to you, so why start now?

Soobin takes off his pants, his hands are shaking and you immediately feel bad. You put your hand on his in an attempt to calm him down.

“Hey, you don’t have to if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I do want this, but after so many failed attempts, I’m so anxious…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Soobin,” you insist and squeeze his hand reassuringly.

His skin complexion looks slightly less pale and your words seem to give him the confidence he so desperately needs. Moment of truth. Soobin takes off his boxers and…Oh damn, he was not exaggerating. He’s not just big, he’s so huge a part of you wonders how is it humanly possible to carry such a weapon around and maintain the gentle, humble composure with which Soobin carries himself.

“You’re not running yet,” he jokes.

“Soob?”

“Y-yeah?” his voice cracks, he is obviously terrified of what you’re going to say.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, I finally get why these girls ran away.”

“Oh,” he sounds a little dejected, as if already expecting you to go back on your offer.

“But! That’s not gonna stop me. Just tell me what you want first and I’ll try my best to make you happy.”

“Huh?” Soobin is too flustered to process your words.

“My hands, my mouth, or my pussy, what do you want first?”

“You mean…you’re willing to give me all of them?” he blinks in shock.

This poor, precious boy. Did he really face disappointment so many times that he is now looking a gift horse in the mouth with such uncertainty?

“Just pick, Soobie, I promise I’ll give you anything you need.”

“Um…can you suck me off? Please?”

Gosh, he’s so adorable you want to eat him.

You nod a little too enthusiastically and go down on your knees, taking as much of his cock as you can. It’s a tight fit but what you can’t put inside your mouth you make up for by wrapping your hands around him. You suck and lick and touch him, eager to give him as much pleasure as he did you. Your beloved best friend has obviously been frustrated for a while now because it doesn’t take him long to cum inside your mouth. There is so much you can’t manage to swallow it all despite your valiant efforts and you see some of it falling down your cheeks. You wipe it off with a finger, sticking it into your mouth, grinning widely at Soobin.

“Fuck, you’re incredible. What…how…are you okay?”

He presses his big palm against your cheek and it takes a lot of self-control for you to not melt right there and then.

“I’m great. Did…did it feel good for you?” you ask sheepishly.

You’re not particularly confident about your skills but you genuinely did your best for him.

“Are you crazy? It felt insanely good,” Soobin takes your hand, lifting you up and wrapping his arms around you in a hug.

“I’m glad,” you respond, feeling safer and warmer than ever before in your life.

“Do…you still want to…you know?” Soobin asks.

“If you’re asking whether you can put your cock inside my pussy, then yeah, go for it. As long as it’s something you want, of course.”

You keep reminding him to only do things he’s completely okay with, because you would hate to put your best friend in a situation he doesn’t enjoy just because of your greed.

“I want you so bad, you have no idea. But I think I’ll need to stretch you out a bit, yeah?”

“O-okay,” you quickly agree and in no time, Soobin’s long fingers are inside of your pussy, going deeper than your own have ever been and making you feel things you never even dreamed about.

“How does it feel?” Soobin asks in concern.

“Heavenly,” you admit and just as you’re about to reach your second orgasm, Soobin’s fingers leave you.

“N-no, why’d you do that?” you whine frustratedly.

“Wanna feel you come around my cock.”

As it turns out, you'd like this just as much so you quickly forgive him for ruining your orgasm.

“I think I have a condom in my-“ Soobin starts but you cut him off.

“I’m taking a pill. And I believe we’re both clean, so…”

“You gon’ let me fuck you raw?” Soobin inquires, not wanting to make assumptions.

“Yeah, I trust you,” you reply with conviction.

“You’re a dream,” Soobin chuckles and nudges the head of his cock against your moist entrance. You brace yourself for some level of discomfort and are surprised that it doesn’t come right away. Soobin takes his sweet time getting inside you, making sure you’re okay.

“Fuck, Soob, you're so big,” you moan, already feeling overstimulated.

“This is just the tip, baby,” he explains shyly, which makes you lose your mind.

Soobin goes deeper very slowly, making you feel every inch, stretching you out bit by bit.

“How much more?” you ask somewhat impatiently.

“Just a little bit. Can’t help it that your pussy is so tiny,” he teases you.

“Not my fault your dick is so gigantic,” you bite right back.

“I promise, I'll try my best not to split you in half,” Soobin jokes, which does little to ease your worries, but at the same time only makes you wetter.

“Keep talking to me,” you plead for him.

“Does it hurt?” he wants to know, as he keeps entering you further.

“It’s a good kind of hurt,” you explain, wincing slightly.

Once you’ve gotten used to it, you signal to Soobin that he can start moving and he does just that, fucking into you with an impressive speed. You try to meet him halfway, lifting your hips up for him, melting into one.

“You’re taking it so well, my darling best friend,” Soobin praises you relentlessly.

“Anything for you, Soobie,” you cry out in sweet bliss.

“I’m close,” Soobin confesses soon enough.

“Fill me up,” you beg him, almost in a daze, deeply affected by his overpowering presence.

He doesn’t need to be asked twice and spills his seed inside of you. It feels so good that you cum with him, walls clenching around his enormous dick. Soobin leans down to kiss you, further blurring the lines between friendship and…whatever this is.

Then, he takes his cock out and you realize something far more terrifying than his intimidating size - you are falling in love with your best friend.

Soobin quickly brings a towel and a bottle of water, taking care of you like no one else before. You want to cry, touched by his sweetness and falling even further.

“How do you feel?” Soobin brushes a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I feel…like I'm on another planet,” you confess shakily.

Soobin chuckles, visibly relieved to hear that.

“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, enveloping you in a hug. His large frame towers over you and if it was anyone else, you’d probably feel slightly threatened. But this is Soobin, and even though he just fucked your brains out, you feel completely safe and protected. Safe enough to be honest about how you feel.

“I know I promised not to be weird about it but…I don’t think I can go back to being friends.”

Soobin pales for a moment, scared of losing you.

“Why not?” he blinks, barely restraining his tears.

“I wanna belong to you,” you try to ease his worries by openly saying what your heart and soul desire.

“Oh…But baby, you already do,” Soobin suddenly beams with excitement. “And I belong to you, too.”

“I think you killed me a little,” you laugh. “Killed my pussy with your big cock and ruined me for other men.”

Soobin raises an eyebrow.

“Bold of you to assume that I’d let other men near your pussy. You’re all mine now.”

The End

[vxnuslogy]

— lost to time ft. sae itoshi

— warnings: angst, character death, slight ooc?

— author's note: a reupload of my favorite work on sae while i finish editing the next 2 chapters of my hazbin series. enjoy!

— first recording

“hi sae! i heard from rin that you’ll be leaving for spain. i’m really sorry i couldn’t come to see you off, i’ve been busy studying, you know, for exams and stuff. but that’s beside the point! i wish you all the best sae! do your best and when you come back home, you better be the world’s best striker yeah? don’t worry, everything will pass by quickly so don’t miss me too much ok?”

sae hated planes. he hated them quite a lot. in was a constant reminder of that time when he was only 14, leaving home to go to spain to live out his dreams only for it to be crushed 4 years later. sae hated the airport, it was always so busy and so stuffy and so cramped. he hated the feeling of being surrounded by unfamiliar strangers, hated the feeling of people brushing up against him even if they didn’t really mean it. sae hated winter. it was the season he severed his bond with his precious little brother after all. it was the season he turned his back on him and it was the season he had wished to never relive again.

-

— second recording

“hey hey guess who’s sending you another voice message? it’s me obviously, why didn’t you tell me you were back already?! if you did i would’ve picked you up from the airport!

……

is something the matter sae? you haven’t picked up any of your parents’ calls and their really worried about you. you can always talk to me remember? i’ll always be here to listen, ok? don’t bottle everything up, it’ll do more bad than good. well, i have to go now. talk with your parents every once in a while will you? ever since you left for spain you’ve pretty much cut off all contact, even with me. that’s all, good night sae.”

sae didn’t really like flowers. he thought they were a hassle. plants that require specific needs and if not met, they’ll wilt. sae was never fond of them but here he was, standing in front of the counter of a local flower shop as the elderly shopkeeper wrapped a bouquet – filled with carnations, gardenias, lilies, roses, and chrysanthemums. 

everything passes.

— college; third recordings

“i got into my dream college sae! can you believe that! honestly, i was really nervous when i took the entrance exams, but thankfully i studied real hard and managed to pass! i’ll be moving into the dorms soon. i’m gonna miss home. oh and rin! i heard he got into a soccer program recently, isn’t that nice! he’s following your footsteps in becoming the best striker in the world. i know, i know, you aren’t a striker anymore but it’s still nice to know that you’re still into soccer at least. by the way, when will you come back home? i kind of miss you, you know. i never got to see you off and when you did come back i was out of town and really busy. what about we plan a meetup or something in the near future? you know, make up for the times we lost? oh, i have to go now! my parents are helping me move in to my dorm. catch you later sae!”

sae didn’t really like coming home. the house he grew up in for the first 14 years of his life felt too foreign to be called home anymore. his parents felt like distant strangers that he just met a couple weeks ago – they felt more like acquaintances than his mother and father. the photos framed around his home felt like ancient relics from thousands of years ago, he didn’t recognize them. sae didn’t recognize himself. 

maybe he spent too much time in spain to the point where it felt more like home. how ironic, he began to realize. he had flown back to japan to escape from his hell that was spain but here he was, in his home, in the bedroom he used to sleep in for endless nights, wanting to go back to the place that left his heart hollow.

“there’s nothing else i could do.” he tried to convince himself as he sat down on his childhood bed, the bouquet of flowers at his side. he could only sigh and let himself fall back into the bed of his long gone home. “everything passes.”

“hey hey hey it’s me again! how have you been sae? i’d like to think that i’ve adjusted pretty well in college. made a few new friends and met some old ones. honestly, i almost didn’t recognize them! i mean, do you remember makoto from middle school. he was a such a problem child back then and now look at him! he’s a scholar now! i guess everyone just starts to become more mature after hitting 18, who knows. thank you again, for the gift. i was definitely shocked when my roommate told me i had a package from you. i can’t believe you still remember that i wanted ‘no longer human’! thank you, i’ll be sure to treasure it. well, that’s all for today. call you some other time sae!”

everything passes.

-

— drunk recordings; the words i wish i could’ve told you sooner

“how do you work this again? ah got it! hehe, hi again sae! i’m at a party right now, man maybe you were right, i do have shit alcohol tolerance. but it’s fine. don’t worry, i’m already on my way home and the driver isn’t some creepy dude that might kill me.

……

you know, i like you very much but i don’t think you’ll believe me. i know i jokingly said that we should marry each other if we aren’t dating someone if we hit our 30s, but i kinda wanna marry you even if we aren’t 30 yet. is that weird? i really miss you. please come home.”

……

“hello? god that was so embarrassing… sorry, could you just forget about what i said in the last recording? um just, gosh i don’t even know. denying it won’t really help right haha… it’s in the past now so don’t mull over too much ok? please, just disregard that last recording. i’m really sorry, it was just me being drunk.”

sae did not in fact disregard that recording. in fact, sometimes in the dead of night he’d think about it and wonder, if he had replied to that specific recording would things have ended differently? 

sae didn’t like deep and evoking questions about ‘what if’s’, he finds them annoying most of the time. and yet here he was now entertaining the idea. bouquet in hand as he casually walked around the neighborhood that the both of you had grew up in. the same twists and turns, same houses, same playground, same everything.

yet the silence was too loud, even for him.

everything passes.

-

— graduation recordings

“well, i think it’s safe to say i survived. i graduated sae, are you proud? man i still can’t believe i was a few point from getting the valedictorian spot but oh well. alls well that ends well i suppose. i heard you won your recent match congratulations mr best midfielder! kinda wish i was there to see it, but don’t worry! in your next match i’ll definitely save up enough money and buy those tickets to spain and your match one day! just you wait, i’ll be the screaming my lungs out and support you, i’m still your number one fan after all!”

sae had some feelings of dissatisfaction when you did not in fact get those tickets to spain and his match. maybe it was his wishful thinking but he really did wish you were there. but he knew it was impossible. 

he remembered the feeling of anger and frustration running through his veins, cursing the heavens above because he felt the need to show the gods his emotions. sae hated thinking about you in that moment. he hated how he felt like he was in a new version of hell whenever you just happened to cross his mind. sae hated you very much.

everything passes.

-

— recordings from 2 years ago

“i’m sorry. i know you should’ve heard it from me but i guess my family beat me to it haha. to be perfectly honest with you sae, i had no plans of telling you. i’m sorry. its just, the thought of breaking the news to you. how could i ever do that to you? i’m sorry. god i’m so sorry sae.”

……

“hey. i received the gift you sent me. you didn’t have to , you know. now i kinda feel bad about having you go on break in the middle of soccer season because of me. but still, thank you. i appreciated you being here, with me. it was a refreshing feeling, talking to you again and just hanging out. work has been really stuffy and felt like i was being caged but you came. you suddenly appeared and suddenly everything was alright again. i know we only said goodbye a couple minutes ago but, i miss you already. sorry. this sounds really weird doesn’t it? anyways, thank you again for the gift. i’ll be sure to wear it everyday. that’s all, have a good night sae.”

……

“hey. sorry for calling at such an odd time. i just. i just felt a little lonely. i sound so stupid i’m sorry. good night sae.”

……

“makoto dropped by today. god he was as annoying as ever but he really cheered me up. he managed to confess to this girl he’s pining over since sophomore year. i’m happy for him. but it really got me thinking about us. i know i told you to forget about that one recording because i was drunk but now that i look back on it, i wasn’t really honest. to you and myself. i know this may be the worst timing to confess but yeah, i like you very much. since primary school, as cliche as it may sound i think it all started when you stood up for me from those bullies. now that i think about, i practically glued myself to your side ever since that day didn’t i? i’m glad you didn’t really mind that. i remember always using homework as an excuse to always have you hang out with me even though i completely understood the lesson. man, where did i get the confidence to do that stuff? but i guess those times are lost in the sands of the past i guess. oh right, sorry, i forgot you didn’t really like those type of stuff. getting all deep and whatnot. well that’s all, i’m getting pretty tired already so i’ll head to bed. good night sae.”

everything passes.

-

— present

“hi. thank you by the way. i don’t know, i just don’t think i’ve ever said that you recently. so, thank you. its a bit funny isn’t it? i would almost always talk your ear off every recording but this time, i can’t even find the words to say. my parents came over, talked to them a bit. rin visited as well. he’s gotten a lot taller than i last saw him, he’s probably taller than you now!

……

sae, thank you. for everything. i’m glad we stayed in touch. i’m glad we stayed as friends.  thank you for making my days seem just a tad bit brighter, though sometimes i wonder what it would be like if we were, you know, dating. wonder what the difference would be. i mean we’d still talk to each other right? maybe holding hands and kisses but that’s pretty much it right? but thinking about it is useless right now. maybe in an alternate universe were actually married and adopted a cat like how we used to talk about.”

“you know, before this very moment. i accepted my fate already. i was content, i was doing fine but now. sae, i don’t want to die.”

“please remember me ok? and i’ll be sure to remember you. i’ll see you again, sae.”

“nii-chan..”

sae could only put his phone back in his pocket. his younger brother standing a good distance away from him. he could only imagine how rin looked like right now. was he pitying him, grieving with him? he’ll never know because he will never turn to look at him. not when your right in front of him.

how many times had he played all your recordings for the past 2 years? maybe a little over a 100 times? maybe close to 200 now?

sae removed all those thoughts as he placed the bouquet on the ground, the wind seemed to answer to his call – you seemed to answer to his call. despite all the pain, all the misery, all the bitter waves of grief that flooded his being whenever he played your recordings, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. he didn’t want to forget what you sounded like. your voice reminded him too much of home.

“happy birthday you idiot.” he said to you, keeping his hands in his pockets, watching the leaves of the flowers in the bouquet sway with the wind. two pieces of paper underneath it threatened to be blown away. “you said you wanted to come visit me and watch my match, well now you can.” two pieces of paper, one a plane ticket to spain the other a ticket to his upcoming match two weeks from now. “you better come watch me alright?” he could only bitterly smile. 

“you’re 30 now,” he whispered, before getting on one knee. placing a velvet box in front of your gravestone. “you should’ve waited for me, you idiot.” sae could only mutter those words to no one in particular. it was as if the world had stopped for a moment, the wind had stopped howling, the sun was nowhere to be seen. he could only see you. “i wanted to marry you too, y’know.”

sae could remember every occurrence where he would sit at his balcony in spain every night after your passing. phone to his ear, listening to all your recordings. but you’ll never know how he replies to them, every single one of them with his own. 

“i told the stars about you and what we could’ve had.” he chuckled, “you’re by far the hardest lesson i had to learn.”

standing up from his kneeling position, he gave you one last look before walking away. rin followed suit, but not before placing something at your grave. a pink book that you had loved till the very end. 

sae hated planes, but he flew back to japan every year. sae didn’t really like flowers, but every year he’d get you a pretty bouquet. sae didn’t like coming home but if it meant getting to visit you, he’d come back over and over again. sae didn’t like reading or any deep and evoking questions but he always humored you whenever you asked him.

sae hated all those things but they reminded him too much of you to let them go. 

and just like your favorite author, when osamu dazai asked to die, he simplu agreed; but just before his death, he suddenly felt obsession with life.

everything passes. just like how you’ll eventually get lost in the sands of time.

© vxnuslogy 2024. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.