#things happen in them but it feels like nothing happened at all

[itsrlymine]

How Many Times Do You Need To Be Told It Already Happened To Know It's Done Now?

Make it simple because it is. Remember it already happened because it did. When we manifest something, WE LITERALLY BEGIN TO TALK ABOUT HOW IT MANIFESTED SO DO THAT SHIT NOW!!!  When something happens, we all naturally recount it. We explain it to ourselves afterwards in whatever way we can. If you want something to happen, tell yourself that it did.  I want a new job. Omg I love my new job. I want to receive tons of money. No way I just received so much money wow. I want a new apartment. Omg I love my new space.  The physicality of a thing isn’t what makes it real. It’s your perception that does. I don’t need to know what device you are reading this on to know you are reading. I don’t need to know when you started, how you pronounce the words, I don’t need to know anything but I know you are. It’s the same with everything else. 

Your mind’s eye sees EVERYTHING FIRST. That doesn’t mean it “takes long.” If you just saw something in your mind, IT HAPPENED. If you just thought of something you would like to experience, YOU ARE EXPERIENCING IT NOW. The only reason you “aren’t” is because you say so. Literally.  Again, when you think about memories, you experience them within you. You can feel like you are experiencing past feelings or thoughts by thinking about them yet you don’t question it. Now when it comes to things you do want, you act all weird about it??? Make it make fucking sense.  This whole entire thing is just about whether or not you trust yourself. Whether or not you believe in yourself. To believe in you is to believe in everything because you are everything. There is nothing outside of you. No power or being dictating whether or not you are worthy of something. The power is you.   I wanted to hear from someone I hadn’t heard from in years last night and then I had to remember “umm?? I’m pretty sure we just got off the phone what the heck.” They called me and we spoke as if there hadn’t been any time that passed at all between us. It had been over 3 years but should I have let that determine if I’d hear from them? NO. It doesn’t matter. The story you tell about yourself is the experience you live. Think back to before you found out about the law (you). You can literally see how your thinking and who you thought yourself to be created situations you were in as a result. There’s no need to sit and beat yourself up about the past because it’s also now just what you say it is.   Give yourself that peace you want. Give yourself the stress free space to enjoy life. There is nothing you can’t achieve as long as you have an open mind.  The world is constantly showing you who you say you are and what you believe about it. Whatever you say you are, you are.  You’ve accepted the fact that you can read and understand the words on this post so what’s stopping you from accepting the fact that you now have what you previously wanted. Be still and fucking know. It’s yours already damn. 

[effervescentwolf]

nothing impossible <- ao3 link

“Hey, Buck!” Eddie practices in the car as he enters LA. “Christopher’s finishing his school year so I’m—”

He gets stuck in standstill traffic. He’s gotten used to it, used to any obstacle really, driving around in Texas, kind of expects it. Before, he’d complain to Buck about every little inconvenience on the road until Buck wrestled the keys from his grip.

“If you wanted me to drive, you could’ve just asked,” Buck would say, fondness all over his face, and Eddie’s whole body would go warm.

There’s a crash up ahead so he sits there, windows down, breathes in the smell of this place. El Paso and LA smell similar in a lot of ways, but there’s a difference he can’t quite put his finger on. There’s also an ease to the way he sits here rather than there, a rigid line of tension that he can’t find anymore when he searches for it.

There’s a difference between traffic there, where it would build up inside him, where everything was building and building, and traffic here where he’s a puppet cut loose, where he can simply sit and breathe and think.

He thinks of Buck when the traffic starts moving again.

“Buck?” he imagines calling, if he used the spare key safe in his pocket, trying to figure out where Buck would be in the house when he gets there. He glances at the time, nearing 4 PM. Buck isn’t on a shift today, he reasons. He probably went to the gym in the morning, got groceries sometime after. He didn’t have anywhere to be for lunch today, and there was nothing special in his calendar. “I’m home,” Eddie says softly, trying to imagine saying it in about thirty minutes, which is how long it’ll take him to get home if his estimate is accurate.

“Missed me?” could be on the table when Buck opens the door, and Eddie will grin wide and hold his arms open for a hug he kind of desperately wants.

Or, “Is there enough for two?” because dinner might be on the stove, or in the oven, and Eddie will be able to smell it from outside the house. Buck will turn, wearing that blue apron of his, and his eyes will widen, mouth in a perfect o, and Eddie will laugh, then.

“He’s coming home,” Eddie might say first because he knows that’s on their mind. That would happen after a silent hug, after Buck takes one look at him and maybe cries as he pulls Eddie in. If Buck cries, Eddie will too, and he gets a little emotional just thinking about it, them crying together on the doorstep, holding each other, and then laughing together at how ridiculous it is.

The minutes whittle down to streets and it hits Eddie suddenly that he’s home. He’s not nervous to see Buck the way he was nervous to see his parents, wiping sweaty palms on his pants, smoothing down his hair in his rearview mirror, over and over.

No, here, he parks, walks easily up to his door, grinning already, and all the debate about what he’s going to do dissipates. He knocks on the door because Buck isn’t expecting him. He’s not sure how Buck believed Eddie’s fumble of a lie about going out today and not being able to call, but he did, though he texted him throughout the day anyway.

Eddie waits a minute. Taps his foot, turns with his arms folded and surveys the neighbor’s houses. Knocks again, and frowns this time when there’s no answer, and then he lets himself in.

It’s quiet inside. “Buck?” Eddie calls anyway, halfway through kicking off his shoes when he looks up and realizes it looks the same. Different, because it’s not his furniture, but things are where they were when he lived there. He’d suspected over FaceTime, but it feels like Buck’s been preserving a little of kernel of him, and all of a sudden it hits Eddie that he’s really home. That he belonged here, and belongs, that he’s about to see Buck, and he’s going to have his kid, and that he has it, everything he’d ever wanted.

He swallows down the lump in his throat, runs a hand over the couch as he passes, says quietly, “Can I crash here?” That’s what he’ll say first, a joke about the couch, or Buck taking over his house, when Buck gets home.

He makes his way to Christopher’s room, opens it a sliver, sees it’s empty, and then closes it, putting his forehead on the door. Buck kept him too in his own way. Kept both of them there while they were gone. He didn’t replace them.

He doesn’t bother knocking on what used to be his own bedroom door, just opens it and oh, there’s Buck.

He’s sprawled out on his back, one hand on his stomach, not even under the covers. He hasn’t shaved today, Eddie can tell, and he doesn’t really think when he comes forward and sits next to him. Over FaceTime, he couldn’t see as much as he can now. Couldn’t watch the way Buck’s chest rises and falls with every breath, the scratch on his knuckle he whined about yesterday. Eddie can see it now, a little white mark on Buck’s hand, and he thumbs over it absently, not sure why he has to touch it, only that he does.

There’s a breadth to Buck that a phone could never approximate. A realness. He’s right there, in his bed in Eddie’s room, all of him, down to his socked feet. Eddie feels oddly emotional over seeing his socks, and he’s not sure why, but he’s been feeling emotional at a bit of everything these days when it comes to coming home.

“I missed you,” Eddie says, and he’s glad those are the first words he says with intention in this house, even if Buck isn’t awake to hear them.

His hand is still resting over Buck’s. He doesn’t move for a long time, just watching Buck breathe, and breathing it all in, and then he goes off to shower.

Buck is still asleep when Eddie walks back in with wet hair, barefoot, wearing shorts and a t-shirt he scrounged from the closet. Droplets roll down the back of his neck to dampen the collar of the shirt, which feels good after the heat of outside. He’d forgotten how much he missed that particular brand of shampoo, and the way the light in his bathroom looked on him in the mirror. Even the squeaky faucet, the way the door stuck a little when Eddie pulled. It’s like discovering everything anew, and it’s also like he never left.

He rummages through the fridge, discovers leftovers, and piles up a plate that he takes back to the bedroom so he can sit next to Buck and eat, munching thoughtfully as he mentally rearranges the house.

“I was saving that,” Buck mumbles, voice rough with sleep, and Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Warn a guy, would you?” Eddie says, turning to look at him once he’s swallowed, heartbeat still a panicked pace in his chest, and then he thinks only, that’s not how it was supposed to go.

Buck yawns, blinking blearily at him, rubbing at his eyes. “Where’s—”

“Finishing the school year,” Eddie answers, easy, and then he doesn’t want to eat anymore. He just wants to look. He wants to look at Buck looking at him. “You can have the rest,” he offers, something squeezing at his chest.

Buck ignores it. “But he’s coming back?” he asks, earnest. Sincere. Eddie can't put into words how much it means that someone's right there with him.

Eddie nods, manages to put the plate on the bedside table, and then Buck is sitting up next to him and pulling him into a hug. “Oh, Eddie,” Buck says, and Eddie breathes him in and holds him tight, and he thinks, I did good. I did good.

“Proud of me?” he mumbles, like he can’t feel it in the way Buck is squeezing him.

“You smell good,” Buck says instead, and there’s a little thrill that runs up Eddie’s spine at that. “Have you been back for a while?”

“An hour, maybe,” Eddie answers, face tucked into Buck’s shoulder. “I showered.”

“Mm,” Buck says, nosing at his ear, and Eddie’s stomach swoops like nothing else.

"Buck," he complains, words soft around the edges. He doesn't mean it, and he's reminded that Buck knows him better than anyone because he doesn't move an inch, rubbing Eddie's back comfortingly, and that’s where it all catches up to him.

"Yeah?" Buck says, smile all over his voice. Eddie can hear the rumble of his chest from here, and that wasn't captured on FaceTime either, and he can hear Buck breathing right next to his ear. “I didn’t know what I was going to say to you,” he confesses into the safety of Buck's shoulder. “I was practicing in the car.”

Buck doesn't say anything for a moment. “Anything you said would’ve been good,” he offers, like it's obvious, voice warm all the way through, and there’s something different about Buck’s warmth than the sun on his skin in El Paso, something that cuts the last string keeping him there, that tames something within Eddie’s chest that has been begging to be let out.

Eddie sniffles, just a little. "Not anything," he protests weakly.

Buck's next breath is a little shaky, and it takes Eddie a moment to realize he's crying too. "Anything," he repeats, sure of it, and Eddie forgets standing on another doorstep, practicing what to say, fumbling over the words and feeling small under his own failures. Here, he has a million things to say, none of them impossible, but he only needs to reach up and squeeze the back of Buck's neck for Buck to say, everything like home, "Eddie."

[tvfangirladdict]

Big on this.

Just because(you believe) 2 characters have romantic or sexual feelings for each other does 👏not👏 mean👏 everything👏 they 👏do👏 with👏 each👏 other 👏automatically 👏becomes👏 a 👏romantic👏or👏sexual👏act👏. Capice?

I can admit when I ship two characters who have no romantic/sexual connection in canon but I'm not gonna let my shipper goggles change the reality of what's actually happening(usually. I try anyway). Showing the different aspects and depths of platonic/familial relationships is so important, don't take away from that just because you want them to kiss, okay? Physical touch, emotional vulnerability, mental familiarity/closeness/affection, etc are all parts of those types of relationships too, not just romantic ones.

When my best friend and I have sleepovers we share a bed because we've known each other our whole lives and we just never grew out of it- doesn't mean we like each other romantically. I can cuddle with friends because I'm tactile and it brings me contentment- doesn't mean it's romantic. They're the ones I call or text when I need someone to talk to and I rely on them emotionally- doesn't mean I have romantic feelings for them. My friends know more about my mental state and my history than anyone, including family- doesn't make it romantic. I'd trust them with my (hypothetical) kids- doesn't make it romantic. I can tell my friends "I love you"- doesn't mean it's in a romantic way just because I do all of the above and more.

I understand there's occasionally some overlap when things are unsaid, when it's a vibe or look or something less concrete that can be open to interpretation. Still, admit that, don't take one action that is common in non-romantic relationships as well and point to it and declare that it can only happen in romantic relationships.

Even if one or both have feelings for each other, it doesn't make everything they do romantic/sexual, especially when it hasn't been admitted to in canon. Hugs, cuddling, seeking emotional comfort, empathy, compassion, thoughtfulness, etc, are all also platonic behaviors/actions. Just because you think it's accompanied by a look or a vibe doesn't change that, it would just mean that it had an added layer of meaning for that character.

For reference, ships I've shipped with no Canon definitive romantic moments:

-Sylveride(Chicago Fire)

-Sterek(Teen Wolf) (This one might get me shot, I know, but nothing in canon made me think they were inherently romantic. One of those ones where nothing they did didn't fit a brothers/friends narrative, but had vibes for some people)

-Morcia(Criminal Minds)(ship tf out of them, but I can admit their interactions were platonic, rgardless of any possible hidden romantic feelings)

-Gibbs/DiNozzo(NCIS)

-Dom/Brian(Fast&Furious)

-McDanno (I honestly almost put this one on both lists, because there are no definitive scenes where I can't play devil's advocate and point out that brothers couldn't also say or do that, or that a non-shipper couldn't refute, but the vibes are undeniable if you're open to it as an option. They never got together but I still believe feelings were there.)

-Billy/Steve(Stranger Things)

Ships that haven't gone canon(yet) but that definitely overlap and live in a gray area between platonic and romantic because some things just are not normal in platonic relationships(Again, still doesn't make everything they do romantic/sexual):

-Buddie(911): Simialr go McDanno, but I believe they've taken it far enough to justify being on this list imo. Too many moments don't fit platonic friends.

-Bensler(SVU)

-Bethyl(TWD): I feel secure in moving this to this list after Norman confirmed feelings on Daryl's side.

shipping characters who are just friends in canon is more than okay but what’s annoying is when people take screenshots of them touching and say “friends don’t do that!”. i hate to break it to you but friends do hug and hold hands and cuddle. saying ‘friends don’t do that’ is reenforcing the idea that physical touch is reserved for lovers

[tinysunshine]

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

‎ ‎[ 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 ]

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

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

word count: 19.7k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

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

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

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

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

you just need to convince them.

Rick has a problem - and that problem is you. 

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

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

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

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

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

Heartbreaking. 

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

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

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

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

But you’re a fucking brat. 

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

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

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

No. He’d never admit to that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which makes him feel even worse. 

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

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

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

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

How much he likes you. 

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

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

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

Rick repeats that excuse in his mind like a mantra.

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

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

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

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

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

────

Daryl is not this guy. 

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

And that was before the fucking apocalypse of walkers. 

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

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

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

It terrifies him. 

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

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

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

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

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

So, Daryl’s fighting back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s definitely not the only one. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────

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

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

You’re driving him crazy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And a little suspicious. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unlike Rick, apparently.

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

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

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

Jealousy? He feels weirdly possessive, he -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────

Just like that, everything changes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You get it, really - you do. 

You just don’t want to stop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, they’re driving you crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe he’s just a sick bastard. 

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

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

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

“I’m a virgin.”

────

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

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

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

It being you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looks like you’re all pink and frills tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what you’ve been waiting for. 

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

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

You shiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goddamn, Rick loves you so much. 

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

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

All for you.

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daryl’s stomach sinks thinking something happened to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thoughts on a part two? 💓

[katsu28]

“shielding the other one with their body” with max and fem teammate reader please !

thank you so much for requesting! <3

max verstappen x teammate!reader, 2k. mentions of an on track crash + injury, christian horner mention (gross, i know), light swearing. request something from here!

The crash is a blur in your mind. You remember fighting your way through the traffic, getting your front wheels past that stubborn Aston Martin. You remember spinning out. You remember the impact. The pain. 

The how and why is lost to you, and the next thing you know, you’re waking up in a hospital bed, wires and cables protruding from your body connected to steadily beeping machines beside you.

Max sits slumped over in the chair next to your bed, fireproofs still on, chin tilted down towards his chest as he sleeps soundly. 

“Max,” You call. Your voice feels gravelly, like it's getting stuck in your chest. No reply. You clear your throat, try again. “Max.” 

His eyes fly open. He looks around wildly, first at the machines as if he's checking out your vitals, before landing on you. “Hey! Hey, you,” He says, straightening up in his seat. “Welcome back. How’re you feeling?” 

You shrug, wincing at the pain that slices through your midriff. “Like I just got hit by a car.”

“Well, you’re not exactly wrong.” A tic in his jaw goes off, blue eyes flashing with simmering anger. 

“What happened?” 

“You got hit. Fucking Stroll. You were ahead at the apex and he still went for it. Sent you rolling into the barriers.” 

You don’t remember rolling, but other pieces are starting to come back to you. Fighting the car, having to swerve to avoid others. Your race engineer sounding panicked in your helmet.

God, you can only imagine how it looked from the outside. 

You grit your teeth, swallowing the lump in your throat. “What’s the damage?” 

“Two broken ribs is the worst of it. Some bumps and bruises from impact, but—” 

“And the car?” 

Max scoffs, shaking his head. “I think the car is the very least of your worries right now.” 

“The car, Max,” You push. His lips set into a thin line, but he takes your insistence in stride. 

“Wrecked.” 

“Fuck!” You snap, squeezing your eyes shut. 

That’s the last thing you need right now, a broken car. You can only imagine the amount of work and long hours the team has ahead of them trying to piece it back together before the next race. All because of you. 

“Did you not hear the part about your broken ribs?” Max asks. “The car doesn't matter if you can't drive it.” 

You’re not even sure you want to hear the answer, but you ask anyway. “How long?” 

“Four, five weeks. Maybe six if you're stubborn.” 

“Good thing I’m not.” 

“You’re well enough to joke around, that’s nice to see.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” You roll your eyes at Max and he cracks a small grin. “What position did you finish?” 

“I really don't think that matters right now,” He says. You look at him pointedly, and he sighs again. “P2.” 

“Max, that's great!” You exclaim. Then you take in his very dry appearance. P2 means podium, podium means champagne. No champagne means— “Max. Max, you did not. Tell me you didn't.” 

“Okay, I won’t tell you.” 

“Did you seriously skip out on the podium ceremony for me?”

“Yeah, I did.” He shrugs nonchalantly, like he’d only just missed an appointment instead of the ceremony. 

“You’ll be fined for that, you know,” You chide, clicking your tongue. “You might even get suspended given your track record with the FIA, did you even think about that?” 

How could he do something irresponsible? There's a championship at stake, and he goes off and does something like this. The FIA won't be happy for sure.

But then again, they’re never happy with Max. 

“I don't care. I don’t care what they do to me, because nothing else mattered more than seeing if you were okay.” 

Oh. 

He did it for you. Any irritation at him throwing championship points down the drain like that melts away. 

“Come here,” You sigh, scooting over in your bed to make space for him. Max obliges instantly, sliding in as gently as he can, accepting how you tuck yourself closer to him. You kiss his cheek gratefully. “Thank you.” 

“You really scared me there for a second,” He mutters into your hairline. “They wouldn't tell me anything.” For a moment, his voice wavers. That’s how you know Max had chosen not to tell you every detail of the crash. 

If you were feeling a hundred percent, you’d pester him until he did, but you’ll settle for snuggling a little deeper into him. For his peace of mind and yours. 

“I’m fine, Max.” 

“You must not have heard me say you have two broken ribs.” 

“That’s nothing. Didn’t Oscar get his first win with a broken rib?” 

His thumb freezes in its mindless stroking over the inside of your wrist. “Do not joke about that.” 

“Fine, I’ll stop. Can you give me a rundown of the rest of the race, at least?” 

“Of course you want to focus on work right now. You know you can relax, right?” 

“I’ll relax once I’m dead.” 

“Hopefully that won't be anytime soon.” 

He ends up going through the whole race in surprising detail. As if he’d had the time and focus to commit everything going on around him to memory like he wasn't racing down straights and whipping around corners. 

You love to watch Max as he explains things. His mannerisms, his expressions, the way his eyes light up when he gets to a good part. It makes for always captivating conversations all the time, never boring. You quite like it that way. 

“Hold on, pause,” You interrupt. He suddenly looks alarmed, even more so when you start to inch away from him towards the other side of the bed. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“I think I have to pee.” 

“Fuck, I thought something was wrong. Don’t scare me like that!” 

As soon as your feet hit the floor, a bolt of pain flares through your body that makes the whole world seem to tilt under you. Max is by your side in a flash, steadying you with an arm around your waist. 

“Take it easy, schatje,” He says, almost pleading. “Please don’t move that fast.” 

“I wanna go home,” You grumble, defeated. 

“I know. Soon, I promise.” 

A doctor comes by a little while later to inform you about next steps and your limitations as you heal. It’s nothing you haven't heard before—rest, take it easy, don't push yourself. Nothing too strenuous on your body. 

Safe to say, racing is definitely off the table during that time. 

Max listens more intently than you do, taking in everything they say with rapt attention. He’s already designated himself as your caregiver for the entirety of your recovery time. 

Or, he’ll try, at least. Unlike yourself, he still has a job to do. Races to win. They’ll bring up a reserve driver for the ones you miss, and he probably won’t be too happy about it. A lot of people won’t be too happy about it, but there’s nothing you can do. 

Much to your relief, you’re discharged a few hours later. All you want to do is go home and sleep in your own bed, but you know the flight there will be nothing but work calls and video chats, establishing a timeline for your return and figuring out what kind of statement to put out on all Red Bull socials, among other things. 

You know that with every person concerned with your wellbeing, there’s two more praying on your downfall. It’s just the way things are when it comes to situations like these. 

“All set?” Max’s quiet voice pulls you out of your thoughts. 

He’d changed out of his race suit, looking comfier and cozier in some joggers and a team hoodie that someone from Red Bull had brought by while you were asleep. 

They’d brought you some clothes too, whatever had been in your driver’s room before the race. It feels much better than the hospital gown with an open back you’d previously had, that you’d nearly flashed Max your entire backside in when you got out of bed. 

The soft smile gracing his face is nothing short of reassuring, as is his tone. He can tell you're starting to get a little nervous. 

He holds out his hand for you to take and you do, intertwining your fingers together comfortingly. The quick kiss he presses to the side of your head also helps as you make your way down the sterile looking white hallway. 

The scene in the lobby when you step out of the elevator somehow still takes you by surprise even though part of you had already known it was inevitable.

Dozens of reporters, countless paparazzi, all with their phones and cameras out towards you, all clamoring for your attention. The flashing makes you see stars, remnants visible even when you squeeze your eyes shut to block it all out for a moment. 

You should be used to this by now. It’s something you deal with every single day, but this time seems different. You feel vulnerable, under the lens of a microscope while you struggle to hide what really happened in the crash. 

“Max,” You breathe, tugging at his hand. He stops in his tracks. The fear in your eyes must be evident, because he puts his back towards them, blocking their view of you just long enough so you can gather enough courage to brave the crowd. 

“We’ll leave when you’re ready,” He says. “Take your time.” 

You inhale a deep breath, fingers tightening around his to ground yourself. “Okay,” You say. “Okay, let’s go.” 

Head down, eyes focused on putting one foot in front of the other, you step outside. Max still keeps himself between you and the paparazzi as you make your way to the car idling at the curb, a guiding hand at the small of your back while the other protects your face from any cameras being stuck in it. 

He’s always been a tad protective when it comes to you, no matter how much you tell him you can take care of yourself just fine. It’s times like these when you’re glad he doesn’t listen to you on some things. 

He makes himself your shield until he can use the car door as one, helping you into the backseat gently but quickly. You suspect he might want to throw up a certain finger at the paparazzi, but he won’t. 

“That never gets any easier,” You chuckle breathlessly. Max, ever the vigilant one, gives you a once over to make sure you’re all squared away. “I’m good, Max, I promise. I would tell you if something was wrong.” 

He smiles sheepishly, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “I know you would. I’m just checking.” 

Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and not for the first time since he’s been with you. More like the fifth or sixth. He digs it out, not to answer it or even check who it is, just to send them to voicemail before putting it away again. 

You don’t miss the furrow between his brows, or the frown that turns his lips for a split second. 

“It must be important if whoever that is keeps trying to call you,” You say softly. Max just shrugs. “It’s Christian, isn’t it?” 

“He can wait.” 

“Turning down multiple calls from the boss isn’t a good look, Max. We both know that.” 

“Yeah, well, then he can fire me.” 

“What, and lose the one bright shining star Red Bull has?” You snort. You mean it as a joke, but Max doesn’t seem to think so. 

“You need to give yourself more credit, liefje. You’re a great driver.” 

“Literally everyone else begs to differ. You wouldn’t have crashed like I did.” It’s a snippy remark, you’re aware of the fact. The frustration is starting to catch up with you now. 

“Who gives a fuck about what other people say? You never have, so don’t start now,” Max says, looking entirely serious. “Take this time to recover and come back even stronger, more prepared, and hungry for more wins. Be the unstoppable force I know you are.”

“I’d kiss you if it didn’t hurt to move right now.” 

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin. “You’ll have plenty of opportunity to kiss me later, don’t worry.”

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post a new fic :)

[yulin-pop]

⤷ ✧ 𝐋𝐞𝐞𝐜𝐡 𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲

order 89 | one-shot| Jade+Floyd | Fem reader

❀ NOTE: sorry to keep @kkalimarii waiting for this, a bit rushed but I hope my vision was visioning. While I was gone you dropped new art (now I have to go write a fic for it too LOL)

You hesitated before walking through the door, you looked down at yourself before looking back to which Floyd smiles at you.

He leans down to your level, “Are ya scared or something?” You shake your head then you feel a hand on your back.

“You have nothing to be afraid of.” Jade flashes a pristine smile.

“There’s a lot to be afraid of which includes you!”

Jade’s hand pushes you in and the door slams behind you. You held your breath as you walked down the hall.

“Make sure to smile and introduce yourself.” Floyd said, whispering in your ear.

You cry in your head, looking back at the decisions that brought you to a Leech family get together.

~

“Hey Shrimpy,” Floyd called while wrapping his arms around your shoulders from behind you, “Are you busy this weekend?”

You were startled but you figured Floyd would pop up eventually since you’re in Mostro Lounge, just dining alone. You put down your phone, you knew there was no getting out of a conversation with Floyd. “As far as I know, not at all.” You looked up at him.

“Cool, you’re coming with me then.” Then he walked off. He was unpredictable as always, you couldn’t begin to think what he was going to drag you into. Your calls to him for more context and to come back were useless.

You figured you’ll ask him about it the next time you see him.

The door swung wide open and Floyd slumped down on the chair. “Jade, tell Ma and Pops we have a plus one for this weekend.”

The other twin nodded his head, “I almost let it slip my mind. Who did you decide to invite?”

“I just walked out and saw Shrimpy sitting there so I picked her.” Floyd laughed.

You were pretty much clueless on what event you’d be attending until you got a text from Jade.

Jade

I’ve cleared us to leave campus for this weekend with the Headmage. Rest assured in that regard. Meet us in the mirror room Saturday at 3 PM. Of course, dress in formal attire.

You

Okay

But one little thing

Where are we going?

Jade

Apologies for not informing you sooner

You’ll be joining us for our annual banquet, an important day for our family.

You

What are we celebrating?

Jade

The banquet is to honor the alliance and uphold the relations between families.

You

???

You didn’t know what to think, it seemed like one big joke everyone knew about but you. You knew it was too late to back out. “Do I even have any formal clothes?” You asked yourself out loud, Ace leaned over and skimmed over your texts with Jade.

“What’s happening with you and the twins?” He was just as surprised as you were. You pushed him away from your phone and pulled it close to your chest.

“I don’t even know. Floyd asked if I was busy this weekend and said I’m going somewhere with him. Apparently it’s a family banquet?”

“I’d be scared if I were you. You know what I heard about their family?” He brought you in closer to whisper in your ear. "I hear they’re even more messed up than Octavinelle. The only reason they got so powerful and rich was taking out other families, like literally taking out. Before they were two rival families that were brought together because the son and daughter fell in love. Now the two most influential families fused to become that thing.”

You gasped and covered your mouth before leaning in to ask a question. “So they’re like… aquatic mafia?”

Ace nodded his head in all seriousness.

“And I’m gonna meet them this weekend?! I wonder what they’re like in person.” You put your hand on your chin and thought.

Maybe one eye color came from the mom and the other came from the dad. Most likely the twins took after their dad the most in appearance and height. The mom can’t be that tall, probably wears heels to compensate. Maybe she wears fur coats and scarves like the mafia wives do in movies. You couldn’t even begin to think how they would act, given they raised the Leech twins and they’re mafia.

You snapped back from your thoughts and you realized Floyd had his arm around you while Jade put his hand on your shoulder, both slightly shaking you.

You tilted your head up and laid your eyes on a muscular man with sunglasses, you couldn’t see his eyes but you were certain his glare alone would kill a man, there were several notable scars across his face making him even more menacing. His hair was two toned but grey and blue unlike the twins. They seem to have hair more like the tall woman with flawless skin. You could tell she doesn’t need makeup to stand out. When you look closer, her sharp features like her eyes and nose were much more alike to the twins. She was adorned with pearls and gold that you knew couldn’t be fake. Despite her extravagant heels, she still wasn’t as tall as her husband. Her mouth curled into a giant smile.

“Oh this is the girl.” She cooed, “I already know your name.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

She’s beautiful!

“Hello it’s nice to meet you my name is [name]—“ You stuck your hand out for a hand shake but the girl pulled you into a hug.

“You two are almost catching up to me now.” The tallest man went over to the twins and simultaneously ruffled the top of their heads. Floyd reluctantly nodded while Jade smiled awkwardly while greeting him back.

You were about to choke from how hard she was squeezing you, it was like Floyd if he wasn’t holding back— actually if Jade and Floyd were both trying to squeeze you at once is a better way to describe it.

Floyd watched and pouted until Jade put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Mom, humans are quite fragile so be cautious with the strength used.” She turned her head and let go of you.

She put her hand against her cheek and smiled, “How silly of me, I’m sorry for that dear. But…” She put her arm around Jade’s neck and brought him into a hug.

Floyd, while trying to fix his hair, was pulled into a hug with the other arm. “I missed your adorable faces. My little boys look so grown!” She cooed.

“I still can’t beat her…”

“I didn’t know you could get any stronger…”

They both remarked in apprehensive voices. Though you were still regaining your breath from her embrace, you thought it was funny how the twins were overpowered by their mom. Though you turned your attention to their father, who you haven’t spoken to yet.

“Hello it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Leech, my name is [Name], thank you for inviting me.” You tried your best to be polite.

Seemingly it worked, “You’re a sweet one, the pleasures all mine. I’ve been wanting to meet you. Besides Azul we hear about you the most.” He was friendlier than he looked. His toothy grin revealed his jagged teeth much like the rest of his family.

You smiled back, “Only good things I hope.”

Once Jade and Floyd escaped from their mother’s embrace, they went up next to you.

“Tell the boys to call home more or text back faster.” Their mom pouted and crossed her arms, “But I guess they forget or are too busy anymore… I’m sure whatever it is, they're doing it related to their education.”

You smiled, they really aren’t aware of their violent tendencies exerted towards their classmates. Though given they’re the ones who raised them it’s likely their fault.

“How are they in class? What sports do you partake in? What foods do you like? Which one do you talk to more? How long did it take until you could tell the two of them apart?” More and more questions bombarded you from the mother alone until her husband came up and gruff yet gentle placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Honey, she can’t understand a word you’re saying.” He softly spoke to her and she covered her mouth in realization. You could make out a smile behind her hand and her husband smiled back gently.

“Apologies for my lack of composure. I’m just happy to hear my boys have friends besides Azul.” She admitted, the twins cranking their heads in response.

“It must be hard for you, poor girl.” Their dad added making their expressions contort.

“Jeez, can’t you lay off for one sec?” Floyd muttered with apprehension before silencing himself. Jade shared a similar attitude but stayed silent. You could tell there was no talking back for them, nobody would talk back to mafia parents after all.

Mrs. Leech grabbed your arms and glided her hands down to yours, “Look at your outfit, dear did no one tell you the color scheme we chose this year?” She fussed for a quick second and turned towards her sons. You couldn’t see her expression but Floyd slouched and Jade avoided her gaze. “No matter, I’m sure we have something that will work. Follow me, we’ll find something.”

She led you away with a brief remark to the rest of her family and left only the men of the family.

“Wearing all white to our banquet it’s like she’s trying to get married to one of y—“

“Don’t get it twisted.”

“It’s not something to be overthought.”

Mr. Leech let out a hard laugh before patting their backs, “It’s lonely without you boys. Your teenage years are precious, so tell me all about it.” He gently moved them.

Jade opened his eyes and spoke up. “All has been adequate. We’ve been sticking by Azul and performing duties as vice housewarden is no chore. I’m happy to have this responsibility.“

Floyd chimed in, “I’ve been focusing on basketball lately, no diff since when you last checked up on us.”

His expression remained unwavered, he leaned in to whisper “Don’t lie, how many fights have you gotten into? Not including each other.”

Father like son and that certainly applies in this situation, but in this case it’s less like fights and more like attacks.

Enough time passed to where Jade began to wonder where you were, Jade and Floyd went off to greet family members. “Hey, Jade, any idea when Shrimpy is coming back?”

“None at all, she’s with Mom after all.” Jade said back then moving to greet other family members. Even realizing Floyd had managed to sneak away.

Floyd skipping out isn’t out of character but he should know better, must’ve gotten bored and went off to find more interesting things.

“Floyd… I told you I still need to change back.” You firmly said but his grip on your wrist only tightened.

He didn’t even look back at you, “Mama wouldn’t let you change out of it, you look too good anyway.” He stated.

You coughed at his words, “What did you say?”

He stopped and looked back at you, “I said my mom wouldn’t let you and you look good in that dress.”

Your eyes flickered between him and his hand at your wrist, you thought too deeply into his words. He’s just saying that as flattery, or as a joke. It’s not something to be taken seriously but you couldn’t deny how warm your face felt.

“Let me introduce you to my family, they all want to know about you, Shrimpy.” He pulled you along again with no resistance on your end. He tugged you along until he felt you stop, he smiled back but realized where the real resistance came from.

Jade gently intertwined his fingers with yours and stood firm. “There you two are, I was feeling so lonely.”

“Jade!” Both you and Floyd called out with different tones.

Floyd, with a tug of his arm, groaned and pulled you closer, “Butt out you prick…”

Jade, with a defiant step, laughed and got closer to you two with the same grip on you, “You need to greet everyone else yourself, don’t be rude. May I add, you look stunning in that dress. It’s a blessing to see you like this.”

You couldn’t react with how your wrist was being crushed by one and the other being squeezed until it was numb, you couldn’t feel either of your hands.

The proud parents of two stood far from the sight but undoubtedly focused. “Hard to believe Floyd has the upper hand in this. I always thought Jade was more of a lady’s type.” The mother of the twins said with a hint of pride and sarcasm.

“That may be true, they may be very different but if you look closer they’re very similar too.”

“Ah, so basically they have the same chances?”

Just as the father opened his mouth to speak, Floyd tugged at you hard enough for you to trip over your own feet only staying off the floor thanks to Jade’s reflexes.

“[Name], are you alright?” Jade said before looking back at Floyd.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you just let go!” Floyd said in response to his glare.

His father then spoke up again, “More or less.”

[abunchofcreatures]

as far as we know it's around 10 members, but some show up very infrequent, so it's hard to keep track and also some being non distinct doesnt make it easier either

none (just use our name) or plural they (which is also a genericum)

creatures, we are all living beings and there exist different lifeforms, it just made sense and might be changed somewhen in the future as nothing is static and names can change

we dont really have that inner-communication, it's only sometimes when it happens. so far we had a few times when kneading dough that it was done by two members of this family. the littles (not sure if all of them) like watching bluey

this is a bit hard to answer as, despite being in the music world ourselves, we barely manage to understand genres. it's probably also mood specific and we surely also deleted each others music in the past (when we didnt know about our plurality). It includes chilled/relaxing sounds (eg synthwave (one of the few genres we actually manage to specify)), songs with lyrics about mental health struggles, songs with a wide dark soundstage, songs about how messed up society is, positive songs and also more generic songs. what we usually dont like is music with noise, as our ears are too sensitive for it, but sometimes it works and we like it

age is a weird thing as it's all just speculation for us (time isnt really our thing). I'd say somewhere around 20

Had to look this up and... honestly don't know whether we have that. it's nothing we actively do, but social situations with people we ain't close with can feel like it isn't us. So far the thoughts we're that it might be masking or a system member taking over

There is a protector, probably a trauma/bpd holder, potentially also a persecutor We have littles, teens, adults, non human animals and a goddess

how long have we been a system? probably since a long time. When did we figure it out? february 2024 when we noticed a switch, we focused on it and since then it stayed somewhat persistent. The first time we actively noticed a switch was about 2 years before that. it was always just a single moment and then nothing for a month or more (like already mentioned, we're bad at keeping track of time)

Focusing on it. As said in answer 9, we noticed it way earlier but it was always just a glimpse until we decided to actively focus on it, which made it persist. that we also got to now another system soon after that probably also helped

something it's like nothing has changed (non distinct switches) and then theres also the switches between members of different age (eg adult and little) or with different emotions going on (eg very emotional and barely emotional) we prefer the distinct ones, as we actually know that a switch has happened, but we cant control our switching

like just said, our switches are involuntary. they just happen and sometimes we wish we could switch when someone gets front stuck, but that also might mostly be the protector

Despite barely having comunication with each other, it still feels so overly amazing to know that there are so many beautiful creatures living inside this body. Wish we had more interactions (and a headspace) but also havent managed to do much about it so far (apart from saving a ton of links to guides)

Least favorite? The constant change of things. We're operating on a single consciousness and it's a mess when ideas change every so often (even despite there being a lot of similarities between us)

YES! sadly we can't visualize us enough to draw ourselves (but we want to try it since some months, it just takes forever to us to do things) different faces, different body height, different body age, different body shapes (especially eith the non humans), different body traits (goddess can hower and is very powerful) all in all, we tend to like the body we have, but struggle with the face, as despite it probably being completely in the "woman" category, it still can feel "masculine" to us

Not that we know

There might be something (we recently had some experience) but so far i'd say we dont (though we have the perfect image of a setting (a little self built village in a forest))

Not sure. sound sensitivity might be different. stress sensitivity surely is different. sometimes eye sight is worse than usual, but think it's bevause of other things like lack of sleep Another thing is emotions, there's high emotions and barely emotional system members

different accents? dont know but dont think so different language? yesn't. i think all manage all languages that we've learned, but not all are comfortable with all of them What is different is our voice. not between all of us (as far as i know), but between some of us

family

i think most, if not all, are queer. dont know about the littles and non-humans. otherwise there's transfem/enby, transmasc, lesbian, gay, possibly bi/pan not everything is that clear and it's also not that important to be. we just recently relearned to just follow whatever makes us feel happy and not get trapped into a label

most people know. we're very open about it, as hiding ourselves isnt how we are able to live. it just doesnt always come up or make sense to say it (eg with people we have more of a "business" style contact with)

one of our littles found their name while showering, thanks to the words on the shampoo bottle not fun but surely interesting: we once we're writing with somebody and kept switching between one of us who was very emotional (something had happened, cant remember what) and someone else who was very logical. during this, the emotional member found a name and then they were able to sign off their messages, so that the other person didnt have to figure out which messages came from whom

if discovering means the first time(s) we noticed our plurality: focus on it if it means after figuring out that we are plural: dont really know yet. figure out a way to keep the system safe and not have one family member do something that messes up others maybe also to take time to try to create communication/a headspace, but so far we didnt have the energy to do so

people have been surprisingly chill about it (our transition sparked way more issues (and with some "relatives" still does)). i guess the biggest thing that we wish for, which isnt only about plurality but a general thing, listen and believe to lived experiences and dont assume things because you read or heard about it. everyone is different and categories just work as a generic but cant be used on an individual basis

Plural Ask Game

We figured we’d try making an ask game! This is for anyone who’s a system–regardless of origin–to use. Remember that you’re not obligated to answer any of these if any are too personal!

How many members are in your system, and does this number change frequently?

What are your collective pronouns, if you have any?

What’s your system name if you have one, and how did you choose it?

Are there any activities your system members like to do together? Collective hobbies? Talk about those!

What sort of music do people in your system like?

What’s the average age of your systemmates?

If you have a singletsona, what is it? Explain a bit about them!

Does anyone in your system have roles? If so, what roles?

How long have you been a system and/or known of your system?

How did you discover your system? What was the process?

What does switching feel like to you, if you switch at all? 

Are your switches voluntary, involuntary or a mix? How often do you do it, if at all?

What’s your favourite part of being a system?

What’s your least favourite part of being a system, if you’re comfortable sharing?

Are your headmates generally different from the physical body? How do they differ from it?

Do you have any fictives/factives/etc? Tell us a little about them!

Does your system have a headspace? Are there multiple of them? What are they like?

Are there differences between systemmates surrounding sensory things? (For example, one person likes the taste of one food and another doesn’t.)

Does anyone have any different accents, or speak any different languages?

How would you describe your system in 3 words or less?

Do you have any LGBT+ headmates? What do they identify as?

Does anyone outside of the internet know you’re a system?

Do you have any cool/funny stories from inside the headspace that you’d like to share?

What’s some advice you’d give to yourself when you were first discovering your system?

What is something you wish singlets knew about plurality?

[alchemistc]

Spec fic, possible spoilers ahead! MCD warning.

(Fully ignoring anything that could be happening between now and the latest bts leaks)

ring out the bells again

He hasn't been to one of these in a while.

He feels out of place, here in this space meant for family, this space occupied by members of the 118, members of Bobby's family. He shouldn't be here, except -

Except when Eddie had shown up at his door, he hadn't given him much of a choice - brushed past him with his lips sucked behind his teeth and a disapproving brow, beelining it for Tommy's bedroom like he had any goddamn right -

He'd had to dig for Tommy's dress uniform.

Departmental funerals were mandatory for firefighters on duty, but Tommy wasn't, and he'd assumed he wouldn't be wanted. Given... everything.

But there Eddie had been, presenting Tommy with the plastic bag he'd collected from the dry cleaners with red cheeks and his chin tipped defiantly because Evan hadn't fully let him get it off, the last time he'd worn it.

And there Eddie had been, shoving him wordlessly towards his own damn bathroom.

("You have fifteen minutes. Do not spend them pretending you're vain enough to make us late, I will kneecap you."

"I don't really think it's appropriate for me to -."

"Stop thinking, Tommy. You're bad at it."

Which Tommy assumed meant he'd heard at least some of the things that had been said the morning he'd dropped half a paycheck on eggs at the corner store.)

Gerrard, thank fuck, has disappeared into the thinning crowd. He hasn't seen Hen in an hour, at least, or Officer Grant.

Her kids had given him strained smiles as they lined up for the procession, and nothing else. Not that he blamed them. He's spent over a year now idly jealous of how close Nash knit his team together - he can only imagine he'd done the same with the family he'd found out here.

Eddie's been giving him a death glare/encouraging head tilt combo for the last twenty minutes, and Tommy -

Things are winding down. The 118 is scattered. And Evan has been in the kitchen staring blankly at the small box Athena had handed him for at least half an hour.

"Hey," he says softly, and Evan blinks blearily up at him. Tries for a smile that immediately fails. There are note cards scattered all over the counter next to the sink, filled with blocky, crisp handwriting Tommy only recognizes because he'd stared at the note attached to his transfer papers for days, dazed and overwhelmed by the things Bobby had written there, like he was proud of Tommy.

Recipe cards, he recognizes, and feels like he might implode under the pressure behind his ears.

Evan's gaze returns to the note cards. He looks overwhelmed, confused, shoulders hunched and eyes swollen - he'd nicked his chin shaving this morning, and Tommy feels his hand flit toward the mark before he can think better of it.

"I think people are heading out," he says, and doesn't really know why. Evan was like a son to Bobby. No doubt he's welcome here long after everyone else trickles out.

Evan just nods, though - seems confused when he encounters the resistance of Tommy's fingers below his chin. Tommy takes half a step back, fingers retreating, and they just - stare at one another.

Eddie gives a hacking cough from the next room and Tommy feels color rise in his cheeks. Tommy is here for a reason, according to Eddie.

"Want some company?" he asks, and Evan's gaze slides across his face, fingers toying with the end of a note card.

"Are you gonna stay?"

And Tommy deserves that. Tommy absolutely deserves that, even if they'd both said and done some shitty things. "As long as you need," he says, and tries to convince himself that's the truth, that he can shove down that first instinct that always tells him to run.

Evan nods. Swallows. Gathers up his cards and places them gently, reverently, back in the small wooden box they'd come in. Bobby's recipes. The sort of Midwest casseroles and roasts and pots of chili that could feed a small army. Or a medium sized firehouse.

The box clicks shut, and Tommy remembers he hadn't even driven. Had Evan? Was he safe to drive?

Evan answers the silent questions by digging into his pocket and tossing a set of keys Tommy's way.

"I - I shouldn't..."

Shoulders hunched, hands clutching the recipe box, they make a retreat, Tommy following dutifully behind Evan as he makes his rounds - saying goodbye to Karen, Denny and Mara (still no Hen); Eddie and Chris; Ravi, who Tommy is a little surprised is still even there, considering how good he is at ditching uncomfortable situations; Howie and Maddie, the latter of whom eyes him carefully, consideringly, like she knows too much and doesn't quite approve.

No hugs, just quick goodbyes, and it feels so out of character for the man he knows for a fact craves that intimacy, pushes for it with everyone he cares about any time he can. But Tommy's pretty sure he's the first person who's touched him all day.

The car ride is silent. One bonus to driving Evan's Jeep is that he doesn't feel like he's in a clown car - barely has to adjust anything except the seat, because his legs aren't comically long.

The silence is oppressive.

He doesn't feel like he has the right to mourn, the way the rest of them are. The way Evan is.

Halfway there, the recipe box snicks back open and Tommy darts his gaze from the road just long enough to watch fat tears well at the corners of Evan's eyes. In the rearview, as he returns his eyes to the road, he can't really see much, but in his peripherals he can see Evan's shoulders shaking in jerky movements, like he's fighting it.

Tommy rounds the hood to open his door for him, as soon as he's parked in the drive.

Evan has shored up, in the back half of the journey - red rimmed eyes the only real sign that he's been anything other than stone-faced since they all began to line up.

Tommy hooks an elbow when Evan stumbles out of the Jeep, holds him steady, watches Evans fingers go white around the box.

"You coming in?" Evan asks, voice steady, whatever reserves of bravery he has being put to good use there on the cracked concrete.

"If you want."

That gets him a bratty snarl of a scowl, which he isn't sure he deserves, but it also gets a tentative finger and thumb playing with the sleeve of his dress uniform. Tommy has to strain to hear the "Please." that whispers out of the side of Evan's mouth.

He's moved in, now. No tripping hazards, no rolled up rugs to smack themselves with, just the stale air of a house he probably hasn't been to in a few days other than to get his own uniform. In the kitchen, Evan sets his recipes reverently on the table.

Then his face crumples, body listing, and Tommy catches him up in his arms when Evan buries his face in Tommy's shoulder.

Dry, hacking sobs, breathless enough that Tommy is concerned they're veering into panic attack territory, until the wetness hits the skin of his neck and Evan's arms come up to cling back.

"Don't go," Evan manages between breaths, and Tommy pulls him closer, squeezes him tighter. "Please don't -."

"I'm here," he says, hand sweeping a wide arch across his back. "I'll be here as long as you want." Which is a different statement than the one he'd made at the wake, and gives Evan pause long enough that Tommy starts imagining the responses he might get, but in the end, all he gets is the last of Evan's resistance falling away, his body relaxing into Tommy's enough that Tommy has to plant his feet to keep them upright.

He sweeps his hand up, down, around. Doesn't know if it's helping, at all, not that anything could possibly be particularly helpful in this moment.

They stay there until Evan's tears have ebbed, until he pulls free and frowns at the side of Tommy's neck, hand wiping at the mess there like Tommy gives a single fuck about it.

This isn't the time or place for it, so they don't bring up the last time they were in this kitchen together. Always the goddamn kitchen. Always a step and a half too far apart. "I - will you -?" Evan closes his eyes. Swallows. Tips his chin up, blinks at the ceiling. "Is -is it weird if I ask you to help me bake a lasagna, right now?"

Tommy can't help the bark of laughter, but it brightens something in Evan's eyes, anyway, so Tommy doesn't feel too bad. "Not really dressed for it," he says, and this earns him a snotty little grin.

"You know where the bedroom is," Evan says, and takes off in that direction himself.

They lay both their uniforms out across the bed - headboard in place, mattress off the floor, fully made with extra throw pillows Tommy doesn't remember; dress in silence, sneaking glances at one another as Evan seems to work up to saying something to him.

One arm halfway through a cutoff he knows had been his, at one point, Evan cuts the distance between them, places his hand over Tommy's beating heart - skin to skin, and Tommy abandons his attempt to dress so he can press his palm to the back of Evan's hand.

When they make it back out to the kitchen, there's a sturdiness to Evan that's been missing all day.

His hand slides to the box on the kitchen table. Pulls out the first card, and places it on the table. Slides it Tommy's way.

He'd understood the significance of making the lasagna already, but he doesn't hesitate to soak in the handwritten card, keeps his mouth shut about the process because now isn't the time to bring up his grandmother's homemade pasta, the sundried Roma she always used for her freshest sauces.

Maybe it is, actually.

Tommy takes a deep breath, ignores the panic gathering behind his ribs when Evan's gaze darts up to his. And Tommy begins to tell him about nonna.

[steveseddie]

winning shot

written for the @steddiebingo get lucky mini event | prompt: green | wc: 1,4k | rating: t | tags: basketball games, getting together, background lucas/max

read on ao3

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Eddie says, looking down at the jacket that Steve gave him when he showed up at the trailer.

“I’m not making you do anything,” Steve says with a snort. “You said you wanted to make up for how much of a dick you were to Sinclair before Spring Break.”

Eddie rolls his eyes even if he did say that. “Yeah, but I was thinking more like, letting him roll with advantage on our next campaign or something.”

“Supporting him during the first game of the season is better,” Steve says snobbishly.

And it might be. After all, the whole thing happened because of a basketball game.

But–

“Do I really have to wear this?” Eddie asks with a whiny tilt to his voice.

“Depends. Do you own anything green?” Steve throws back, his hands settling on his hips.

“No,” Eddie mumbles.

“Then yes.”

Throwing his head back, Eddie groans. “Steveeee, it’s your letterman jacket.”

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. Doesn’t he get what Eddie is saying?

“It has your name on it.”

“I know.”

Eddie sighs, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. “Won’t it– it might make people think– you know–”

“What?”

“That you and I are– you know–” He sputters awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Steve says in a bitchy tone. “So?”

“So?” Eddie repeats, baffled. “Do I need to remind you that we live in a small town with small-minded people that already hate me?”

Steve’s face softens at that. “Nothing’s gonna happen, Eds. Jason Carver is gone and the charges have been dropped and everyone will be focused on the game anyway.”

“Fine, let’s say no one tries to burn me at the stake, they still might think we’re together.”

“I don’t care.”

Eddie shuts down the little flutter he feels in his chest. Just because Steve doesn’t mind, it doesn’t mean that it’s something he wants. “That won’t exactly help you score any dates, man.”

“So?” Steve repeats, making Eddie roll his eyes.

“You’re being impossible, Stevie.”

“No, you are,” he says, grabbing the jacket from Eddie’s hands and pressing it against his chest. “Put this on and stop whining.”

Eddie glares at him half-heartedly. “This is going to ruin my reputation worse than the murder charges,” he says but dutifully shrugs the jacket on, ignoring the way his heart skips a beat when he smells Steve’s laundry detergent.

When he looks up, Steve is watching him with a weird expression that makes Eddie fidget. “That bad?” He asks jokingly.

Steve shakes his head, swallows thickly and averts his eyes. And people call Eddie weird. “You’re so dramatic. Come on, we’ll be late.”

And with that, he starts walking to his car. Eddie sighs and follows him. Sinclair better fucking appreciate this.

**

They arrive just as the game is about to start. The bleachers are packed, but Steve makes a beeline for the two spots that Max saved for them.

Clearly she didn’t believe that Eddie would actually show up because her eyes widen a little when she spots them. Then they dart down and her lips tug up into a smirk.

“What are you wearing?” She asks when Eddie flops down next to her.

“Nothing,” he mumbles.

"Is that Steve’s letterman jacket?”

“No,” Eddie lies through gritted teeth.

She sniggers. “You’re so lame, man.”

Eddie splutters indignantly. “Shut up! You’re wearing Sinclair’s jacket!”

Her cheeks pink up a bit, but she still acts smug when she says, “Yeah, because he’s my boyfriend. What’s your excuse?”

Eddie growls, which only makes her smile turn even more smug.

The game starts shortly after. A few minutes in, Sinclair glances in their direction and Eddie sees him make a double take when he spots Eddie. He smiles and waves and Eddie begrudgingly waves back even if he can’t help but feel a surge of affection for the kid.

“Told you he’d be happy to see you,” Steve whispers to him.

Eddie knocks their shoulders together. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Are you gonna explain to me what’s happening, big boy? Or are you just gonna act smug?”

Steve’s eyes sparkle and then he’s explaining basketball to Eddie with the same patience and enthusiasm that he has explained his campaigns or his books or his music. Eddie is instantly endeared.

He catches Max’s eye while Steve is going on and on about something called a ‘shooting guard’.

“Lame,” she mouths, probably because of how whipped Eddie looks right now.

He manages to flip her off without Steve noticing.

**

Near the end of the game, the two teams are tied and it’s up to Sinclair to score the winning shot.

Or at least that’s what Eddie gets from Steve’s hurried explanation.

Everyone at the gym watches with baited breath as Lucas prepares to make the shot. Even Eddie. Though in his case it’s not because he’s invested in the game, but because Steve’s hand is currently wrapped around his wrist, his thumb absently rubbing circles over Eddie’s pulse. Holy shit.

A whistle blows and the shot is made, but Eddie keeps his eyes on their hands, tucked into the space between their legs. Lucas must score, winning the game, because suddenly everyone around them jumps up and starts cheering and clapping.

That includes Steve, who drags Eddie to his feet with the hand that’s still holding Eddie’s.

When Steve finally lets go so he can join the celebration, it takes a moment for Eddie to remember how to move and when he starts clapping too, he can still feel the phantom press of Steve’s thumb against his pulse.

**

They take Max and Lucas out for ice cream after the game.

The kid is on cloud nine, recounting the game as if they didn’t just see him play it. When they drop him off, Lucas thanks Steve for the ride and Eddie for showing up, even if he knows just how painful it must’ve been for him to step foot in the gym.

When it’s Max’s turn, she makes sure to call Eddie ‘lame’ one last time before heading inside.

There’s no need for Steve to move the car with how close Max’s house is to the Munson’s trailer, but he insists on backing up and parking on Eddie’s driveway anyway.

“So what did you think?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Eddie mumbles, and looks up to find Steve smirking. “Don’t expect me to go to every game now, I still think people throwing balls at laundry baskets is stupid.”

“But I could talk you into coming to a few games at least?”

Steve could probably talk him into attending church, Eddie thinks. “Maybe,” he says.

His smirk turns into a lopsided grin that makes Eddie feel a little hot under the collar.

The collar of the letterman jacket he’s still wearing. Right.

“Anyway thanks for the ride. And for letting me wear this,” he says as he starts to shrug it off, but Steve stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Keep it,” he says, biting his bottom lip. “For the next game.”

“You know,” Eddie says, cocking his head and giving Steve a calculating look. “I saw a lot of people not wearing green at the game. Thought that was like, mandatory or something.”

“Uh, no but if you really wanted to show your support to Lucas then–” He trails off with a shrug.

“Mhm, but you know what I did see?” Eddie says, slowly starting to lean over the console. “A lot of girls wearing their boyfriends’ letterman jackets.” He lets his lips stretch into a grin and watches as Steve’s eyes dart down to his mouth. “Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“Was that an excuse to get me to wear yours?”

Steve gulps guiltily. “Yeah. I don’t think I was ready for how it would make me feel, though.”

“How’s that?”

“Like this,” he says, grabbing the lapel of the jacket and pulling Eddie towards him, all but crashing their lips together.

Eddie makes a noise of surprise but wastes no time before cupping Steve’s cheek with his hand and kissing him back. He’s glad it’s late and the trailer park is quiet and empty so no one can see them making out.

They eventually pull away, both their lips red and slick with spit, and both stretched into a grin.

“I think I’m gonna have to wear this more often,” Eddie says, smoothing the jacket over his chest. “If that’s how it makes you feel.”

“I thought it was ruining your reputation,” Steve says with a snort.

Eddie laughs. “It is,” he says before fluttering his eyelashes at Steve. “But you’re worth it, sweetheart.”

[luvether]

SOAKED CONFESSIONS ✦ the hero who offers to be your personal bath attendant after a mission gone wrong, his gentle touches hinting something that you seem to misunderstand as camaraderie, so he has to show you what he truly feels about you.

phainon x gn!reader. sensual (?) and fluff content. bathing together and implicit mentions of nudity (sfw) physical touching, unspoken confessions. unlabeled relationship. phainon being really affectionate and bold. self-indulgent at its finest, I miss him. [2.0k wc]

“I was expecting to be scolded for this but a two hour lecture was something I did not quite anticipate from Tribbie upon our return.”

Bathed in the golden glow within the private changing rooms, your heavy sigh echoes at the vestiges of his, a tone that’s borderline chastising. “And who do you think is responsible for this farce?”

At your chastise, Phainon could do nothing but chuckle heartily.

“I’ve already said sorry numerous times as we rode back to Okhema.” He leans close to your face, head tilted. “Do you want another hundred apologies? I don’t mind reciting those at your behest—”

“Save it, Phainon.” You proceed to pinch his cheek as you brush past him “You? listening to me? If you’d done that a few hours ago instead of dallying and straying from our path, we wouldn’t have stumbled across those titankins. Kephale above, the goods and dromas were unharmed but we were delayed a few hours, got our clothes dirty and were punished the moment we arrived. I'm tired and I would prefer not to be at the end of your jokes right now.”

Silence spills in between the two of you, the gravity of your sobered words made Phainon realize you truly were upset at him this time around.

There was a part of you that felt guilty for shutting him down, it was an unintentional accident—but you truly were tired and had no energy left in you to go back and forth with him. Besides the growing silence, only the rustle of you discarding your mud-caked clothes could be heard. Maybe you’re too petulant for the events that have happened, looking down at your dirtied fabrics and struggling to untie the ribbon of your uniform that you are unaware of his footsteps closing in on you, his chin finds itself hooked on your shoulder and his arms come winding from behind—helping you untie the lace that was now the ire of your frustrations with perfect ease.

Maybe it truly was Phainon’s charms, his mannerisms or his innate ability to calm you like a balm—but when the lace finally falls loose on the marble floor, you draw out a thickened breath, though you don’t utter a thanks like how you’d usually be.

This concerns him, your lack of reaction.

“So you are truly mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad—“

“You sound like it.” stated Phainon, his fingers glide slowly, unbuttoning your own fabrics. “Mad and—look at you, you are flushed with fury.”

Your gloves fall to the ground next. “I’m simply peeved.”

“Peeved or mad, those are still the same things, no?” His tone dips in honeyed sincerity. “I’m sorry for what happened. I should’ve listened to you, like you said.”

“No, I—” your anger vanished at the taste of his tone. You finally turn to face him fully, brows in a furrow “I'm just exhausted after the long journey back. It was not my intention to take it out on you, I should be the one apologising for my lack of manners.”

A belly-full of silence comes after your apology. “Then, let me help you? It's the least I could do.”

“Help with what exactly?”

The oceans of Phainon’s eyes are muddled in quiet mirth, he brushes his thumb beneath your eyes, “Today, think of me as your personal bath servant. Any needs or wants—aches to remedy, any muscles to massage, I will tend to them all.”

You’ve stiffened at such a frank declaration. Does Phainon even realize what he’s talking about?

“I—“ you start but are left stumbling. “Are you certain, lord? Truly that’s not…”

The blues of his eyes crinkle, his hands wandering down your neck, crawling up your arms to remove the fastened bracers on your wrists. “I insist.” His gaze flickers up to your own. “Unless you don’t want to..”

You could do nothing but exhale, you cannot find it in you to decline such an offer—or ever dare decline the man before you without feeling like you’d just kicked a pup on the street.

“You should do it too.”

Phainon’s fingers freeze at your statement, he stiffens even more when your hands reach out to tug the belt that secured his spaulders. “Remove your uniform, you’re just as filthy as me and I wouldn’t want to be the only one to enjoy the baths at this hour.”

The atmosphere is quiet and gentle. Phainon’s blue eyes remain still as he watches you hook a finger on his choker, ridding the material as his throat, strong collar bones and tattoo is bared to you.

You were too busy trying to unclasp every piece of armor to notice how he swallowed thickly at your close proximity and tender fingers—how his twinkled blue eyes observe you from beneath dark lashes, a splotch of heat furnacing the apple of his cheeks.

Only until you hear a rumble of a chuckle do your eyes flicker up, and Phainon was seen smiling at you.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He laughs heartily. “It just amuses me how one can catch your undeniable attention. Truly it’s a miracle that someone like me can do that sometimes.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” His teasing had once again made your cheeks surflux with heat. When the last heavy armor slips from his body, you step away and turn.

“Get changed into the bathrobes and get the baskets of oils, I’ll check the temperature of our bath.”

At the short time Phainon wasn’t around, you tried to gather your bearings and tame the unwanted crave. You swallow down the fluttering of your heart, flex your fingers from its jitters during the fleeting moments of touching him—it’s a miserable sort of yearning, really. You try to remind yourself that he doesn’t feel the same as you did, but how can you recite those words when the Deliverer himself does not make it convincing for the two of you?

The golden salts of lukewarm water rippled at the company of both your bodies and almost immediately, as soon as the two of you soak into Phagousa’s blessings—Phainon’s hands inches at the silken fabrics of your bathrobe, tugging your attention to him.

For all the time knowing him, you weren’t really particular with his hands. But every moment you spend time with the alluring yet charming Chrysos heir, his hands—despite its roughened calluses—are as gentle as a psalm, deliberate even.

“Turn around.” He’d instruct you so and yet his raspy voice sounded so breathless, so tight with wanting anticipation. You’d follow through without so much as a breath. Phainon cupped a handful of water and let it soak through your roots, lithe fingers that've been honeyed with bath oils comb through your wet tendrils and you simply hum at the gesture.

He touches you like a golden cradle, firm yet tender as he explores for any knots on your sinews, pushing his fingers through your nude muscles to smoothen back the stress and exhaustion.

“You’re surprisingly good at this, keep going.” You’d muse after a few unsound minutes.

He’d respond with that endearing laugh of his. “I’m touched by your compliment. Have I been forgiven?”

To his question, you sober. “About that, I’ve been wondering for a while..”

Phainon awaits for you to complete your thought, patient fingers lifting up to stroke your hair.

“During our mission, it’s not like you to be so distracted.” You start softly. “Are you okay?”

When you feel his fingers pause, you know that your fruitless question held some sort of truth. Phainon completely retracts from you, the mild burn of his touch leaving with him and the water sloshes, ripple then still.

”Phainon?” You turn to face him and for a split second, you see a spill of shadow fall over his eyes.

“Phainon,” Your voice softens like wheat. “Hey.” You lift to palm his wet cheek, that brings him out of his stupor and his darkened eyes return back to its pale, warm color.

“Hm?”

You frown. “I asked if you are well, lord Phainon.”

His casual smile painted the soft textures of his expression. “What, are you concerned about my well-being?”

Silence follows his half-hearted claim, it's a type of silence that could only mean nothing but agreement to his question. It only proves his conjecture when he sees the look on your face.

Phainon held your cheeks so delicately, softly bumping his wet forehead with yours.

“What gave it away?” He asked, from how close he was, you could smell his faint scent of remnant wood and rum, like he’s been baked under the sunlight for hours.

You drink in a shaky inhale, dropping your gaze at the murky ripple of water beneath you—looking anywhere but him.

“You are terrible with facial expressions.”

You can feel his smile. “Mydeimos told me the same thing.”

“The troubles that you have, it’s about your past, isn’t it?”

“When has anyone not been troubled by their past?” Phainon answers you. “Hey, look at me please?”

You feel his hand leaving your cheek, he tips your chin up and you lock eyes. You dare try to dissect his expression, watching the way droplets fall from his long lashes, down the sharp contours of his face then hang on his chin before joining the bottomless water of your warm bath.

“I just had a nightmare about it and I take full responsibility for letting it get in the way of our mission, it caused us quite the mess and the punishment.”

“Oh, so this is why you offered to what, massage me?”

Phainon seems to wince at your indication. “Well, you’re not wrong but—”

You sigh. “Again, you don’t have to apologize to me for that or even go through all of this to make it up to me, Lord Phainon.”

You must’ve misunderstood something. Phainon’s brows furrow at your statement, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Wait a second, are you dismissing my efforts of…all of this simply because you think I felt sorry for what happened about the mission?”

“Is this…not why you volunteered to partake in all my needs? to act like some Marmoreal Palace chaperone?”

“Kephale, no!”

If there is one thing you try not to do, it is to jump to conjectures. With the way Phainon reacted vehemently at your claim, you cannot help but feel utterly flustered about it.

A chuckle slips down between his teeth, running his fingers through his wet bangs, the tones of his denuded muscles tauten. “Have you…not paid any attention? To me? Or even felt the way I’ve been touching you till now?”

He spoke as if it was obvious.

Though you had a guess, truly you did. Each longing cradle, each push of finger on your skin, each caress that lasts longer than your breaths— of course you’d notice something, you’d be a fool not to. Your skin crawled with the burn of him, but you thought you were being delusional.

How could you even begin to think that was what he meant?

You spin away from him quickly, you feel a splotch of heat biting the tip of your ears, then down your cheeks and neck. “I…well you weren’t being chaste about it, I’ll give you that.”

And now that you had your back to him, you are now particular to his presence that seem to singe the patterns of your vertebrae. The waters beneath you ripple softly as he moves closer, his naked chest pressing against your spine, his lips fluttering on the back of your neck, you can feel his breath of a confession smearing your skin.

“Then, do you wish for me to show you?” Phainon speaks so low, running his arms down the curves of your body as he presses another firm kiss on your neck. Then, he slowly turns you—backing you against the bath’s edge, you gaze up at his raw and beguiling eyes, the color of ocean waves untamed.

He cradles your cheeks catching your undeniable attention and allowing you to sink and drown in those eyes of his,

“I’ll show you just how serious I am, when it comes to you.”

[aleskie]

hiii! i was wondering if you could write max verstappen going through a difficult year between racing and his newly growing family? some angst about how reader can’t handle if he ever had an accident he can’t come back from / “do you even think about us?” kinda thing so he internally struggles between racing and family, but ultimately decides that being their for his family is more important than (sounds corny) any trophy or championship.

HI ANON! Thanks for the request!!! This was super fun to write and i know it's not exactly the ask but i hope u like it hehehhe :>>>>>

THE PROMISE | Max Verstappen x Reader

Warnings: None, happy ending??? There's no pronouns used but like it's implied reader is afab :>>

Your mother always said that making the baby was the easy part. The fun part. 

Carrying them, though? Having them? That was hell. The pain, the exhaustion, the way your body felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore. The sleepless nights, the hormonal swings that made you feel like a stranger in your own skin. Sure, there were moments of joy—feeling that first flutter of movement, hearing their heartbeat for the first time—but nothing about it was easy.

And raising them? Raising them was a whole other battle. The endless nights of rocking, of pacing, of shushing. The way your body ached with fatigue, your arms heavy from holding them for hours, your heart just as heavy when their cries didn’t stop. The moments of frustration, of helplessness, of wondering if you were doing any of it right. 

But then—then there were the milestones. The first roll, the first steps, the first words, tiny victories that made it all worth it. Watching them become a person, watching them laugh at things that only they found funny, watching them form opinions and preferences and little quirks that were uniquely theirs.

Yes, parenthood was hard. But it was also the best thing that ever happened to you.

And through it all, Max had been your anchor. He was there, gripping your hand so tight during labor that his knuckles turned white. He was there, whispering encouragement, his voice steady even when his eyes were wet with tears. He was there, cradling your daughter like she was made of glass, promising her the world in a voice thick with love. He was there, sitting through hours of interviews to find the perfect nanny so that you two could have time together—because he knew that mattered too. He was everything you needed in a husband, everything your daughter needed in a father.

And then the crash happens.

You were at home, keeping an eye on your daughter as she stacked her blocks, her tiny fingers carefully placing one on top of the other, her tongue peeking out in concentration. The television was on in the background, the familiar hum of the commentators filling the room. You weren’t watching too closely—you never did anymore. You’d glance up now and then, check the leaderboard, watch a particularly intense overtake, but you didn’t let yourself get caught up in it.

Then it happened.

At first, your heart only gave the slightest stutter. It wasn’t anything new. Max had crashed before. He would crash again. It was part of the sport, part of the risk, part of the life he had chosen—the life he had bled for since he was a child. You had known this going in. When you first fell for him, when you first tangled your lives together, he had made it clear: this was not something he would ever walk away from.

So, you learned. You learned the language of the sport, the rules, the strategies. You learned how to read the data, how to pick apart his post-race frustrations, how to hold him after a bad finish and remind him that there would always be another race. And you learned to live with the ever-present ache in your chest, the one that flared up every time something went wrong.

But this time, something felt different.

He didn’t get out. Not fast enough. Not like before.

Your breath hitched as the seconds stretched unnaturally long, your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch. He was moving—that was good. He wasn’t trapped. But his movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. When the medics arrived, he didn’t wave them off like he usually did. He let them help him. When he finally climbed out, his legs wobbled, his posture slumped, his hand pressing against his head as if trying to steady the world.

But he was alive.

You exhaled, long and slow, grounding yourself in that fact. You’d talk later. You’d let him come home, let him shake it off, let him tell you in his own time what had happened, how he felt. You’d sit with him, listen, remind him that he wasn’t alone in this. But for now, he was alive.

And that was enough. That had to be enough.

You’re washing the dishes when you hear the front door creak open, the heavy thud of a suitcase settling against the floor. Footsteps follow—soft, familiar, hesitant. Then his arms wrap around you, warm and grounding, the familiar scent of the paddock and faint traces of cologne still clinging to his clothes.

You exhale, leaning into him, letting his presence melt away the tension in your shoulders. Carefully, you peel off the dishwashing gloves, placing them on the counter before turning in his arms. The moment you do, you bury your face in his chest, listening—just listening—to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He holds you closer, his grip tightening as if he needs this just as much as you do.

“You watched the race,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but certain.

“I did.”

“Did she see?” There’s something cautious in his tone, a hint of guilt. You know he never wants your daughter to witness him like that—vulnerable, shaken, hurt.

You let out a soft chuckle, the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “She was too busy playing.”

A silence settles between you, thick yet comfortable. You tilt your head up, reaching a hand to his face, fingertips ghosting over the faint stubble on his jaw before cupping his cheek. You trace him with your eyes, mapping out every detail—the precise shade of blue in his eyes, the faint crease in his brow, the way exhaustion lingers at the corners of his lips. Memorizing him, just in case.

His hand comes up to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’m right here,” he says softly. “You don’t have to worry.”

Your brows pull together as a quiet sigh leaves your lips. “I’m always going to worry,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I worry all the time.”

And he doesn’t argue, doesn’t tell you not to—because you both know that would be a lie. Instead, he just holds you tighter, as if that alone could keep the worry at bay.

“It was different this time, and you know that,” you say, stepping back, putting just enough space between you to breathe.

“Was it?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, a quiet challenge.

“You didn’t get out of the car, Max.” The words come out sharper than you intend. You inhale, trying to steady yourself, fingers threading through your hair in a feeble attempt to keep your hands from shaking. “If you heard the sounds—”

“I think I know what sounds I made,” he interrupts, his voice tight. “I was there.”

“Then you should understand why I’m like this.”

He exhales, shaking his head. “Baby, we’ve talked about this.”

“But not like this!” The frustration spills over before you can stop it. “Not with her in the conversation.”

His eyes flick toward your daughter’s room, just for a second. It’s brief, subtle, but you see the flicker of concern, the way his jaw tightens.

“Max, you know I understand. You know I’ve accepted it. You know I stayed despite every risk of losing you.” You close your eyes, inhaling deeply before speaking again, softer this time. “But she doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t understand yet. And I—”

The words catch in your throat. Saying them out loud makes them real, makes them a possibility you don’t want to face.

“I don’t want to raise our child without a father.”

The moment the words leave your lips, his expression shifts. The fight drains from his eyes, replaced with something softer, something that aches. He moves before you can step away again, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing over the tears welling in your eyes.

“You won’t have to,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “I’m good at what I do. Today was a fluke. It won’t happen any time soon.”

“But it might,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “And I don’t know what I’d do if—”

“Shhh…” He silences you, pulling you against him, as if holding you close is enough to keep the worst from happening. “Nothing is going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he admits, and then tilts your chin up so you meet his gaze. His face is open, earnest, full of the kind of love that wraps around your soul like armor. “But I can promise to do everything I can to be here—to watch her grow, to walk her down the aisle, to grow old with you. I can promise that.”

“I can’t lose you,” you whisper.

“You won’t. Ever.”

You search his face, letting his words settle into the spaces where fear still lingers. His hands are steady, his eyes unwavering, his love for you and your daughter woven into every syllable of his promise.

It doesn’t erase the worry, doesn’t silence the what-ifs that creep in when the nights are long and the house is quiet. But it does remind you of something just as powerful—he’s here. He’s trying. He’s choosing you, choosing her, choosing to fight for a future where he stays.

So you let yourself believe him. Just for tonight.

[star2fishmeg]

Hear me out Luke having a wet dream and you waking him up to help him out. He’s all embarrassed and you keep on reassuring him that there is nothing to be ashamed of😳

Luke’s mortified. You’re speechless. You’re sitting up, duvet pushed down the bed you’re sharing because your friends just happened to make a last-minute room switch (typical) and you’re staring at each other. He feels his cheeks burn pink, words bumbling on his tongue and you have so many electric feelings surging through you.

It’s not that weird, you’re both adults and you’ve known each other since you were eighteen, thick as thieves but a lot of things about Luke made your heart hammer and stomach flutter and a lot of things about you made him forget how to speak and act normally. But this was different…and you were kind of into it.

He opened his mouth to speak, his hands falling to his crotch to hide his cock, briefs soaked, and you catch the glint of white seeping through. “I-oh God, I’m sorry I’ll-it’s not what, well it is but it’s-”

“It’s okay,” you smile, your voice soft and he’s watching your eyes, “happens, nothin’ serious.”

“You’re..not…grossed out?” he mutters, shoulders relaxing. There’s a huge relief that washes through him; he could have been worse but he’s glad it you who caught him in a wet dream and not one of the guys. He knows that it’ll take a lot for you to screw your nose up at him, as comforting as that was. “Like, this isn’t literally disgusting to you at all? I just came next to you…from my own dream…”

“Well, what were you dreaming about?” 

He pauses.

‘Oh? So, me, underneath him.’ Springs to your head.

“...doesn’t matter, gonna clean up. Sorry for waking you.” He blurts, shifting around to stand but you’re reaching forward and curling your fingers around the waistband of his boxers, tugging them back. You know you shouldn’t look, but you can’t help scanning his ass and thighs - they’re so obnoxious and you feel like he displays them purposely because he knows they make your pussy throb.

“Lu, it’s okay, it’s normal…” the words fall out faster than you can think about it, eyes wide as they peer up at him and he knows there’s no way he’ll be able to calm down as long as you’re here. The words bounce at the front of your mind and your gut feeling screams. “I…I can help…if you want…”

He should decline, turn away and go to the bathroom, keep what you have between you but you’re both destined magnets at this point, but he lets that warm, fuzzy feeling inside him decide. He turns around, blinking and you let go of the back of his waistband to slip your hand into his, leading him back into the bed. You push him back into the pillows, propping yourself up next to him while you other hand cups his cheek gently, his lips parting to speak but he loses his voice as the soft smile on your face. He thought he’d be freaking out more over this, but he’s surprisingly relaxed under your touch, the way you’re not freaking out. Perhaps this is the realisation that you and Luke are definitely not just friends and haven’t been for a long time.

He slides one arm under the side you’re propped up on and around your waist, hand settling on your hip as you wrap your around his shoulders, leaning into each other. The gesture alone flushes heat to your neck, eyes gazing into his, heads leaning closer and closer until you meet halfway. The kiss is slow, tentative, but it’s a distraction that settles the blundering nerves in his stomach when together you reach over and tug his briefs down, your palm around his cum-soaked cock and stroking lightly to start with, small hums vibrating in his throat. He’s already obsessed with the shape of your hand, somehow the sensation feels so much better when you’re doing it.

“See, nothing to be ashamed of, pup. S’just a wet dream, maybe I like getting you worked up…” you pull away, cooing against his lips and watching his chest jolt as he breathes in sharply. Your lips press wet kisses to his cheek, your grip firming and strokes bolder. His cock’s so pretty your stomach flips aggressively, his fingers gripping the fabric of your sleep shorts as you pump him with a slow rhythm, “Do you like that, Lu? Does it feel good?”

Luke tilts his head back into the pillows, pushing his hair off his forehead and letting stammering whines slip the more your pace increases. It’s like you can read his mind, or maybe you can, he loves it either way and bucks his hips up on reflex, raw thrill building in his lower stomach when you giggle, wrist rotating as you drive him further and further to his end.

“Fuck- feels so good,” he pants out, eyes barely opening to bask at the sight of you, “you’re so fucking good, baby. Always gettin’ me worked up like this, s’fucking- shit- annoying.”

“Just returning favours, puppy. Now ssshh, I don’t want people hearing your pretty whines.” You dip down and swallow his breath with a deep kiss, tongue finding and licking his, your thighs clenching together feeling your cunt throb as you’re giving him broad strokes. He squirms, your pace unbearably brutal and bullying his cock into pulsing in your hand. His hand’s latching around your nape, using your kiss as a muffler for his desperate whimpers. 

The tension tightens progressively in his stomach until his abs and thighs are clenching, the seventh heaven descending upon him where his hearing temporarily feels like it's muting out until a weightless feeling washes in waves over him. He tranquilises, muscles retracting and pulling away for air. You smile, watching his cock pump out warm ropes of cum from his tip and down your hand until there is nothing left. 

You bring your hand to your lips, licking up his cum as his eyes lock onto yours, “You taste so good too, but do you feel better?” 

“I don’t know, I think we should make evens.” Uncontrollably, his lips pull into his smirk, chest still panting and his cheeks still rosy, but he does feel relieved at last, and he still has you, he’ll always have you and you’ll always have him. 

You give him a grin, urging him out of the bed to clean and change, both keeping your giggles quiet. You don’t say no, though.

[kazucee]

.ᐟ 𝐐𝐗𝐂3: I actually love the trope royal knight x lady in waiting. Now imagine that with our favourite loser—Phainon.

Didn't count the words since I just wrote it on tumblr on a whim TT + it's a pretty short drabble teehee. I've been having a huge writer's block so apologies if the entire thing came out clunky and unnatural.

Not proofread- If you see any mistakes, no you don't. Possibly ooc. Yeah okay...

Being captain of the Royal guard sure had its perks, while the rest of them suffer under grueling training and the constant clamour of metal against metal, he gets the liberty of attending to the beck and call of the royal family. Phainon wasn't one to complain when presented with mountains of work, in fact he handled everything with an easy smile on his face, as if there was nothing he would rather be doing. To be a knight was to serve, just like how the sun was made to shine.

To serve the kingdom, to serve the family, and to serve the darling that has managed to capture his heart. So it was no surprise that he could always be found by the princess' side.

The rumor mill has conjured up yet another amusing one: Sir Phainon seems to fancy a certain princess. He wanted to laugh, wanted to tell everyone that although he accompanies the princess constantly throughout the castle, his gaze remains perpetually fixed on someone else entirely—her lady in waiting. You.

So did he just happen to be lingering on the kitchen doorway as you mander about just to catch your eye? Maybe. As he stood by peaking his head into the kitchen he recognizes the scent of lemon meringue pie, he assumed it was requested by the princess, you always seemed to have a certain fondness when it came to the bubbly lady and Phainon couldn't help the small smile that would grace his lips every time he saw you two with arms intertwined as she chatters on about the latest gossip.

When you did finally put down that iron fist of yours and turn to see an amused Phainon your face would give a twitch of surprise before morphing back to its usual indifference. "Don't you have troops to order around, captain?" You remarked as you pushed past him to make your way towards the princesses chambers.

"After seeing your performance in the kitchen earlier, I'm thinking of handing that task over to you, you seem to hold an astounding amount of authority over most people." Phainon revelled in the way you scoffed to hide your smile. You didn't even notice that he was trying to match the pace of your walk with his long legs, hands folded behind his back, the epitome of carefree saved for the way his heart hammered against his ribs.

"are you suggesting we switch roles for the day?" You supply an answer to his ridiculous banter.

"I think you'd look lovely clad in armour and the royal knight uniform." When you glanced at him, he looked sincere, like he was actually considering the idea. You managed an eyeroll at the notion.

"I share your sentiments. I'm sure you'd look lovely in my uniform as well, or better yet a dress with many flounces and frills perhaps." Now it was Phainons turn to snort.

You see some maids pass by the two of you with a gleam in their eyes, a gleam that gives you the feeling that a new rumor would spread tonight, one that rang partly true.

"where are you headed to?" Phainon asks, eyes drifting towards the many portraits hung across the hallway, distracting himself as to not stare at you. He thinks it's a shame that you wouldn't have a portrait of your own, a beauty like yours needs to be framed in gold and adored by anyone who walks by. He decided that he would learn to paint.

"why are you asking?" You raise a brow at him.

"what if it's dangerous?" Phainon mimicked your look, raising a pale brow of his own. You honestly wonder how this man became the captain of the Royal guard, the famed sun born hero, the revered knight of the kingdom. To you he looked like the boy you had known all your life, frost bitten hair paired with warm cerulean blue waves, with a grin that held a certain amount of charm and mischief. It was hard to imagine that the young boy was now a man.

"you do realize that we're in the palace. The most safeguarded place in the entire kingdom." You reply, voice flat as you try to keep up with his antics.

"danger never sleeps" was his reply, shrugging his shoulders. Although he has a point, you thought him ridiculous, as always.

"I'm the safest I can be right now" your voice was like a breeze, easy and light. You turned to face him halting your walk making Phainon pause mid step to fix his stare on you. His stare held a certain intensity that made you nervous.

"how can you be so sure?" Phainon challenged, crossing his arms as he leaned against the marble walls. There was a look he had on his face, one that made you want to knock it off. Which you successfully did once he heard your answer.

"I'm accompanied by the captain of course" you said without thinking, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. What you didn't realize was how true those words were. How at this moment, there is no one in the entire kingdom—not King, nor Queen or Princess—who's more safeguarded than you. How Phainon was willing to do anything and everything in his power to guarantee that you'd be safely escorted anywhere, even if it was just around the castle. You didn't realize just how much Phainon was ready to put on the line just to make sure that you would go out unscathed, unharmed.

Facing him, you could see the way his form shifted and his expression had changed into something unrecognizable before he broke off his gaze to look at yet another painting of some king that had died a long time ago. At the angle he presented you, your eyes trace against his sharp jawline, his adams apple as it bobbed upwards when he swallowed, and the faint dusting of pink across his cheeks.

What an unexpected reaction you thought as you continued to stare daggers into him. It was at that very moment where the captain of the Royal guard was rendered completely defenseless despite his sword being sheathed within reach.

//Sigh// I love lover loser golden retrievers boys. Hope you enjoyed~

[its-avalon-08]

🏎️ｂａｃｋ　ｔｏ　ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ🏎️

part 1

🏁 pairing : Oscar Piastri x Female!Reporter!Reader

🏎️ summary : one night. one mistake. and now oscar piastri acts like y/n doesn’t exist. in the paddock, under flashing cameras and whispered headlines, they navigate the wreckage—cold shoulders, stolen glances, and tension sharp enough to cut. but resentment is a funny thing. so is regret. because no matter how hard they try to pretend… neither of them can forget.

themes : angst, regret, anger, slight smut (not a lot most of it is implied)

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

chapter 1 : mistakes and escape plans

"How can we go back to being friends when we just shared a bed?"

Fuck. Oh Fuck.

Oscar’s fingers fumble over the buttons of his shirt, the fabric catching in his sudden rush. His breath is uneven, the room too warm, too suffocating. The tension was overwhelming and the regret surrounded him. The sheets behind him are a mess, twisted and tangled from the night before. From her hands. From his hands. From them.

He steals a glance at the bed. Y/N is still asleep, her bare shoulder exposed, the sheets barely covering the curves he had traced just hours ago.

His stomach twists violently.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I messed up.

He yanks his jeans up, the motion too frantic, too shaky. His belt clinks as he shoves it through the loops, every sound deafening in the dead-silent hotel room. He needs to leave. He needs to get out before she wakes up. Before she looks at him with those same eyes that had been filled with nothing but heat and desperation just hours ago—

"Oscar," she had gasped, nails digging into his back, her body arching beneath him. "Please— oh my god I need you." She was unreal. Her body was made for him, it was crafted by the angels for Oscar and Oscar alone.

His hands tighten into fists.

No. No, this was a mistake. This was—this was something that wasn’t supposed to happen.

He grabs his watch from the nightstand, but his fingers brush against her phone , and another memory slams into him.

"You’re beautiful," she had whispered against his lips, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. Her legs had tightened around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. "I’ve wanted this for so long."

His chest tightens. His pulse is erratic. He needs to leave before she wakes up.

He shoves his feet into his shoes, hands shaking so badly that he nearly trips over himself. His brain is screaming at him to think, to slow down, but all he can hear is her voice, her moans, the sounds that he couldn't get out of his mind, the way she had looked at him like he was the only person in the world—

"Stay," she had whispered, her fingers tracing over his jaw. "Stay with me."

And he had. He had kissed her like he meant it, like he wanted it, because in that moment, he had.

But now—now, in the cold, cruel light of the morning, with reality sinking in like a knife to his chest, he can’t.

His fingers hover over the doorknob. He doesn’t look back. If he looks back, he won’t leave. If he looks back, he’ll remember the way her lips tasted, the way SHE tasted, the way she had sighed his name into the darkness like a secret only he was meant to hear.

So he turns the handle. Steps out. Lets the door click shut behind him.

His heart is pounding as he walks down the hallway, his throat dry, his mind a chaotic mess of regret and something dangerously close to longing.

Fuck. I can’t undo this can I?

-

Y/N wakes up slowly, her body sinking into the warmth of the mattress, the lingering haze of sleep making everything feel soft, distant. Her skin hums with leftover heat, muscles aching in a way that makes her breath hitch.

And then she reaches out—her fingers searching instinctively, expecting warmth, a solid presence beside her.

But there’s nothing.

Her eyes flutter open, blinking against the morning light streaming through the hotel curtains. The sheets next to her are cold and Oscar-less. Untouched. Like he was never there. Like he didn't just spend all of last night worshipping her body.

A slow, creeping sense of unease settles in her chest.

She turns onto her back, staring at the ceiling, her heartbeat picking up. Maybe he just stepped out? Maybe he’s in the bathroom? Maybe....

She reaches for her phone on the nightstand.

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No Oscar.

Her stomach drops.

Her hands tighten around the phone as last night crashes back into her like a tidal wave.

Heat. Skin. Lips that had traced every inch of her. Hands gripping her waist, her thighs, holding her like he never wanted to let go.

"You’re driving me fucking crazy," Oscar had groaned against her lips, his voice raw, desperate. His hands were tangled in her hair, his body pressed so close it was impossible to tell where she ended and he began. "I—fuck, I need you." His fingers made their way down to her pussy and she moaned

She squeezes her eyes shut.

Her pulse thrums against her throat as the memories flood in—his weight over hers, the sound of his ragged breathing, the way he had moaned her name like it was something holy, something he had waited years to say like that.

"God, Y/N," he had gasped, forehead pressing against hers, his grip on her tightening as he sank into her. "You—fuck, you feel so good baby, sinfully good."

She shudders, her whole body heating at the memory.

But then, just as quickly, the warmth turns ice cold.

Because he’s gone.

Her eyes snap open, a sharp pang of anger cutting through the lingering daze.

He left. No note. No text. Not even a fucking goodbye.

Her jaw clenches as she sits up, the sheets pooling around her waist. He didn’t even have the decency to wake her up, to say something. Just took what he wanted and disappeared into the night like it never happened.

Like she didn’t happen.

"Stay," she had whispered, her fingers tracing his jaw, her heart hammering in her chest as she looked up at him. "Just stay."

And he had. He had kissed her like he meant it. Like he wanted her.

And then he fucking left.

Her grip on the phone tightens.

What the hell did she expect? This was Oscar fucking Piastri. Calm, collected, always in control. He didn’t do reckless. He didn’t do mistakes. Did he think she was a mistake when the sun came back up? He sure didn't last night was he was deep in her and fucking the life out of her.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what she had been to him.

A mistake.

The thought sends a fresh wave of rage coursing through her veins.

She throws the sheets off her, standing up too fast, her body protesting with the soreness he left behind. Her legs quivered and her thighs wanted to give out. But she doesn’t care. The anger is sharper now, cutting through the confusion, the lingering heat, the ache of wanting someone who clearly didn’t want her enough to fucking stay.

Her chest rises and falls with uneven breaths.

Fine. He wants to pretend last night didn’t happen?

Two can play that game. And a little thing to know about Y/N she never fucking loses.

[tiramissyoucake]

Thinking of sinister Mark with a breeding kink, he’s so abrasive and rough what would that even look like ? Love your work. 💕

-🌻 anon 😭😭

Oh ya'll want that GROSS SHIT, I get it. Also may have gotten too into Sinister straight calling reader bitch😭

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI

CW: piv seggs, fem reader, breeding, cumming inside, mark sucks readers tongue at one point, a lot of 'bitch' usage, making you a mommy mention, mentions of breeding, pregnancy, daddy mention, not proof read

Another day, another night with your usual intruder. Mark had solidified himself as a nuisance in your life. At first, when you were still terrified of him, you thought you could fight him off; repulse him somehow, the worse that could happen is death. Now, you realise that Mark had grown... attached to you, in the same way a person comes back to feed a stray animal every once in a while.

You learned the hard way that not a lot of people said 'no' to him and he's used to getting whatever he wants, either with approval or to force you into submission. Nights where he'd want nothing but you were the worst, you're the one who had to be prepared, the one night he felt like fucking you- you forgot to take a pill or prepare a condom.

"Are you TRYING to get pregnant?" He grinned, clutching your jaw in his hand and jerking your head closer to him. "No pill, no condoms, you got too comfy sucking my dick the last few times, huh?"

Your jaw hurt, your gaze was hateful, but downturned, you knew better than to give him attitude. He cooed at you like you were a little animal in an unfortunate trap. "Y'know what that means, hmm?" That your jaw would hurt in the morning with your throat after he'd suffocate you with his cum? You were too familiar.

"... I'll.. get on my knees." You mumbled. Your tone of defeat made him harder than he already was. "Oooh, baby... as much as I love how much of a good slut you're being, no."

His hands clutched your shoulders and pinned you down to the bed, tugging your thighs so his groin was situated against your clothed pussy, the flimsy fabric of your panties barely providing any protection. "It just means we'll give this babies thing a try."

Eyes shooting wide open, you protested as he gripped your panties with both hands from two ends and ripped them apart. "Wait! Mark— please, I'm sure there's a condom or two, just let me-"

"Shut the fuck up, God." He huffed as he jerked his pants below his hips, hissing as his cock finally was freed, throbbing and excited at the idea of impregnating you. "All you do is complain and whine, be grateful you're getting some good dick." He stated it like it's a fact.

Whenever he kissed you, he always had a hand around your throat, it was always messy. He let's out a grown as he runs the tip of his cock up and down your folds with his free hand, pre-cum smearing and mixing with your wetness "Mmf- you're wet." He grins against your lips. "I think you want it, dirty bitch." He chuckled, biting your bottom lip.

He kissed you once more, swallowing your moan as he pushed his cock in, a groan reverberating from him as your pussy accepted him so quickly, he parted from your lips as he licked his own, his hands caging your head as he readjusted himself on his knees.

After making sure to push his cock as deep as he could, bottoming out. He pulled back and thrusted just as quickly. Again. And again. And again. Until he was sure he'd bottom out with every thrust. "Feel that? You like how deep my cock hits?" He coaxed, watching you whimper and shut your eyes tightly. "Can't stand the fact that this pussy wants my cum, huh? Open, c'mon slut..."

His hand swatted your thighs harshly, prompting you to obey him as his hips pistoned onto you, a harsh repetitive 'plap!' Echoing between the sheets as he relished in the feeling of your pussy, fucking you raw was the best. "C'mon, you nasty bitch.. take it.. you wanna be a mommy?" he encouraged you with a hard thrust, prompting a gasp from you.

"Oooh, felt you tighten." Mark noted with a hiss, tugging your hips impossibly close, your cunt sucking in his dick so desperately, wetness forming a creamy ring around him. "You like that, bitch? Want me to make you a mommy? Want my babies inside you?" His free hand clutched your jaw once more, slotting his mouth against yours as his tongue easily pushed its way in, as if to rub salt into the wound- he had the gall to suck on your tongue when he pulled away.

You let out moans and gasps against your will, you knew it would only motivate him to fuck you harder but who could stay quiet under him? Mark fucks like he kills, brutally and for his enjoyment. Amidst his groans, you could see him bite his bottom lip harshly or pant like a man possessed. You could've sworn you saw him drooling at the sight of you and the feeling of your warmth enveloping his dick, you were his perfect idea of an unofficial housewife waiting to get fucked by her psycho husband.

He let out an animalistic grunt as he felt your body start to squirm, cunt tightening further. "You gonna cum already, bitch?" He chuckled, the tip of his dick hitting every spot so perfectly, you would've enjoyed it if he wasn't planning to pump you full. "Give it to me. C'mon, I'm gonna get you fucking pregnant, bitch...!"

Your hands gripped his wrists as he clutched your hips to manhandle you as he fucked you, pussy pulsing with every wave as your orgasm washed over you and they were only intensified by his thrusting. "Yeah, that's it.." he licked his licks. "Cream my dick, bitch. I'll give you my babies in a sec." He promised.

Mark groaned in annoyance, watching you squirm again, damn it, not when he was so close. He tilted your hips upwards, moving so his entire upper body enveloped you. "God, can you fucking relax? Mm!" He thrusted into you at a new angle as broken moans were forced out of you. "'M so fucking close, don't you dare ruin this for me." He grunted as his cock throbbed with a vile need.

"C'mon." His balls slapped against you with every harsh thrust, grinning from ear to ear at the leverage he's got over you. "Just a little more, 'm gonna breed you, daddy's gonna pump you full..!! Oh fuck!" He grounded his knees to the bed, his weight crushing you.

Desperately thrusting and chasing his release, he hissed through his teeth. "You better make me a daddy, you fucking whore." He gritted. "You wanna be a mommy, hm? Well here it is, bitch so fucking take it...! Take it—!!" He almost grinded his teeth together as he pumped you full of his essence, white, hot and in abundance. He swiveled his hips to push the sudden spits deeper into your womb, huffing as he groaned.

"Oooh... babymaking sex hits different, huh?" He grinned down at you. Your eyes had just begun to tear up from the onslaught of pleasure and rising discomfort from your filled pussy. "We should do this more often. Way more often."

[littelovelunette]

Ambessa and reader who has mommy issues? Mostly in the sense that their mother blamed not being able to live her own life on reader and it shows with a need for validation and praise, extremely touch-starved yet touch-repulsed due to how foreign it feels?

Touch

I have mommy issues. I'm projecting <3

Contains mentions of parental abuse, mommy issues!r

The first time Ambessa Medarda laid a hand on you, you flinched. It was barely a touch—just the back of her fingers ghosting over your jaw as she tilted your face upward—but your whole body locked up, breath halting like an animal caught in a snare.

Ambessa withdrew immediately, her golden eyes sharp and assessing, but she made no comment. Instead, her fingers drifted away as if she hadn’t noticed the way the you had recoiled from something so simple.

She knew better than that.

She noticed everything.

Ambessa was not a woman who pried. She was patient—not in a way that was gentle, but in the way a predator knew when to bide its time. She let the you orbit around her, let you take the space you needed. She did not demand. Did not push.

It was infuriating.

Because that was all you had ever wanted. Space. Permission. Someone who didn’t see you as a burden, a weight shackled to their ankles, keeping them from flight.

Your mother had always made sure she knew.

"You ruined my life."

"I could have been something if it weren’t for you."

"Do you know what I sacrificed?"

It hit hard.

You grew up knowing you were an obligation, not a daughter. That your presence was something to endure, not cherish. And it showed in the way you sought approval like a starving thing, the way you craved warmth and shrank from it in the same breath.

It made no sense.

Or maybe it did.

You had learned that love was something conditional, something that had to be earned with good behavior, with silence, with obedience.

And touch… touch had been nothing but a means to an end. A slap to silence you.

A hand squeezing her wrist too tightly when you stepped out of line. A perfunctory pat on the head when your mother remembered she was supposed to pretend.

Nothing about it had ever meant comfort.

So why was it different with Ambessa?

Why did it burn through you like an ember catching dry wood, leaving you both raw and wanting?

"You hold yourself like you are bracing for war," Ambessa observed one night, her voice low, considering.

You were in the privacy of her chambers, where the rest of the world could not reach. Ambessa sat in her chair, legs spread comfortably, a glass of wine held and tilted between thick fingers.

She was relaxed, but there was something in her gaze—something that pinned you to the spot like a blade to the throat.

You exhaled slowly, a forced breath. "That’s just how I am."

Ambessa hummed, unconvinced. "No. It is how you were made to be."

You stiffened. Looked away. Ambessa did not press.

Instead, she set her glass down, pushed to her feet, and approached slowly, deliberately. She always moved like this around you—never sudden, never careless. It made something inside you clench.

When she stopped in front of you, she didn’t touch. She simply looked down at you, a titan made of flesh and steel, war-hardened and unshakable.

"Tell me," Ambessa said, voice quieter now. "What would happen if I touched you?"

Your throat went dry. Your hands curled into fists.

"I don’t know."

Ambessa’s brow lifted, but she nodded. "Then let’s find out."

She raised a hand, slow and open, giving you every opportunity to step away. When you didn’t, Ambessa’s palm came to rest against her cheek, warm and solid. But it wasn't a slap.

It was soft, caressing.

You sucked in a sharp breath. Your instinct was to pull back, to flee—but you didn’t. You stood frozen beneath the weight of Ambessa’s touch, overwhelmed by how foreign it felt. There was no demand in it. No expectation. No hidden blade beneath the surface.

Just warmth.

Your lips trembled. Ambessa’s thumb brushed over your cheekbone, barely there, and you shuddered.

"You are touch-starved," Ambessa murmured, more statement than question.

You girl bit your bottom lip. Swallowed hard. "It feels—" your voice faded.

Ambessa’s hand did not leave your face. "Unfamiliar things are not always bad."

You squeezed your eyes shut. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to shove the touch away before it dug too deep, before it uncovered the ache you had spent years trying to bury.

But you didn’t.

Not this time.