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muffinlance · 4 months ago

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Hi ! prompt idea : What if Zuko was armed during the first episode and was stranded with the water tribe while the avatar left with Katara and Sokka, Iroh on his trail for white lotus reasons.

Oh we are going to have us some FUN with "stranded with the water tribe", say no more.

---

Zuko was dripping, and steaming, and staring down two dozen women and their gaggle of small children, plus that old not-the-Avatar crone from earlier. They were all cowering away from him. Which was--

Good. It was good. If they were cowering, then they hadn’t noticed how steam was not flames. He wasn’t sure he could make flames, not after the arctic water he’d landed in, with that last sight of the Avatar glowing; not after surfacing under the ice pack, after swimming, after kicking slamming breaking through and his ship was gone and there was only ocean all around and

and he’d made it back to this pathetic little camp of the Southern Water Tribe, because that was the only place he knew for sure would have shelter, and he wasn’t going to die just because they were all staring at him, even if felt like he would.

Even if the old not-the-Avatar woman could probably take him, right now. But she didn’t know that.

Zuko pulled himself up, taller than her by at least a few inches, and blew steam from his nose.

“I am commandeering one of your huts,” he said. And added, because Uncle said even a prince should be gracious: “You may choose which one.”

---

She choose her own.

...The only one without children that flames might scar, or younger women to catch a soldier’s interests.

Zuko sat by her fire and determinedly started struggling out of his wet clothes and she was still in here with him--

Zuko pulled one of her animal pelts over himself, and finished fighting off his clothes. When he stuck his head back out, cheeks still reddened from what was obviously the cold, she dropped a parka on his head.

“Dry clothes, Your Highness,” she said.

The parka was much bigger than he was. He fell asleep hoping that the camp’s men were on a long, long hunting trip.

---

He woke up again. Kanna tucked her favorite ulu knife away, newly sharpened, and stopped contemplating the alternative.

---

“I am commandeering a ship,” he said.

The crone led him across the village, all twenty paces of it, to a row of canoes.

“Take whichever one you want,” she said. “Will you need help getting it to the water?”

Zuko looked at the canoes. Looked at the ocean. Watched a leopard seal, easily the size of the largest canoe, dozing just past the ice his own ship had broken through the day before. It was frozen again, a great icy arrow pointing from the waves to the village, snow already starting to cover it over.

Beyond was blue sky and gray ocean and white ice, floating in blocks like stepping stones, like boulders, like cliffsides.

There wasn’t even a hint of gray steel, or smoke. Or any land, besides what they were standing on.

He looked down at the canoes again. Somehow, they seemed even smaller.

“I, uh,” Zuko cleared his throat. “I’ll require supplies. Before I go.”

---

They... did not have supplies. Not extra ones. This didn’t stop them from trying to give him supplies, food and blankets and anything else he could think to ask for. But each blanket was a pelt hunted by someone’s grandfather, had been inked with images and stories by someone’s mother, was the favorite of someone’s husband or brother or uncle or cousin--

They couldn’t go to the nearest market to replace things, here.

And when they talked about food, about what they could spare, they kept sneaking glances to their children, who were sneaking glances at Zuko from the huts, sticking their heads just over the snowy ledges like their fur-trimmed hoods would hide them. Their mothers and aunts shooed them away, and they crept back, like barnacle-crabs. Zuko glared, and they disappeared.

“When are your men coming back?” he asked. “They’re hunting, aren’t they?”

Oh. So that was what they looked like, when they weren’t trying to hide their hate.

---

Zuko wrapped himself up in the same blanket that night. It was printed inside with fine lines and images, telling a story he didn’t know. He wondered whose favorite it was.

---

Kanna wondered how quickly he’d wake—if he’d wake—if she built the fire up with wet driftwood and tundra grass, if she had one of the younger girls boost up a child to plug the air hole, if she let the smoke draw its own blanket down over this fire child.

---

It was hard to know when to wake up, because the sun never set. So everyone was up before him, and they all had spears and clubs and—and nets, and trap lines, and snow googles with their single slat to protect the eyes from snow blindness. Zuko had seen those once, at the Ember Island Museum of Ethnography, where they’d gone when it was too rainy for anything more exciting.

Oh. They were going hunting.

“Give me that,” Zuko said, and took a spear.

The women looked at him. One of them adjusted her googles.

“I can hunt,” he scowled.

He did not, in fact, know how to hunt.

---

“Give me that,” the Fire Prince said, and Kanna almost, almost gave him her ulu. Humans, like most animals, had an artery in their legs that would bleed them quick enough.

She kept skinning the rabbit-mink one of the women had snared.

“I can help,” he said, with less grace than most of their toddlers. Likely with the skinning skills of a toddler, too. She wasn’t going to let their unwanted visitor ruin a perfectly good pelt.

“Chop the meat,” she said, and gave him a different knife. “It’s dinner.”

“...This is really sharp,” he said a moment later, looking at the knife with some surprise.

“Is it,” said Kanna.

---

Things the Fire Prince was convinced he could do: hunt (until he realized he couldn’t tell the tracks of a rabbit-mink from a leopard-rabbit apart); spear fish (at least he could dry himself); pack snow for an igloo (frustrated princes ran hot); ice fish (the prince was a problem that kept coming close to solving itself).

Things the Fire Prince could actually do: mince meat, increasingly finely; gather berries and herbs, once he stopped trying to crush them; dig roots, under toddler supervision; mend nets, after the intermediary step of learning to braid hair loopies.

“Can’t I take him ice fishing again?” asked one of the women, as she watched Prince Zuko put as much apparent concentration into braiding her daughter’s hair as his people had into exterminating hers.

“Wait,” said another woman, sitting up straight. “Wait wait wait. I just had an idea.”

---

Three words: Infinite. Hot. Water.

---

Summer was coming to an end. The sun actually set, now, and the night was getting longer, and colder. The salmon-otter nets were mended and ready. The smoking racks were still full of cod-lemmings. The children were all a little older, the women all a little more used to doing both halves of their tribes’ chores; a little more used to not watching the horizon, waiting for help to come.

The Fire Prince was staring at the canoes again.

“Are you actually going to try leaving in one of those?” Kanna asked.

“...No.”

“Come on, then; someone needs to watch the kids while the women are hunting.”

She didn’t leave him alone with them, of course. But she could have.

---

Elsewhere, the war continued.

The moon turned red, for a moment none could sleep through; they did not learn why.

The comet came and went, leaving their castaway prince laying on the beach, his breath fogging up into the night sky above him, as the energy crashed from his system as quickly as it had come. Above, lights began to dance in the sky; Zuko pulled his hood up, so none of those spirits—children, dead too soon—got any ideas about kicking his head off to be their ball.

The war had ended. The world didn’t feel any different; no one in the south would know until spring came again.

---

Suffice it to say, Sokka and Katara were not prepared for this particular homecoming.

#Sokka: please stop calling my Gran-Gran by her first name. please.#Kanna: you’re right Sokka he can call me Gran-Gran #Sokka: THAT IS WORSE THAT IS SO MUCH WORSE #Meanwhile Hakoda: you adopted WHO #Kanna didn’t ADOPT anyone thank-you-much she was very practically holding that boy for the fleet to use for ransom #why Hakoda #what would you have done if you had a Fire Prince #avatar the last airbender #atla #Zuko #Kanna #ficlet #(infinite hot water lady is ABSOLUTELY Toklo’s aunt)#(he looks to the prince looks to her and spontaneously invents the High Five)

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blueiscoool · 21 days ago

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Stunning Frescoes of a Mysterious Dionysian Cult Discovered in Ancient Pompeii

Created more than a century before the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 C.E., the wall paintings provide rare insights into secret rituals conducted in the Roman city.

Archaeologists in Pompeii have uncovered a series of nearly life-size frescoes spanning three walls of an ancient banquet hall. Set against a ruby-red backdrop, the wall paintings depict female followers of Dionysus—the Greek god of wine and ecstasy—engaged in secretive cult rituals.

Also known as maenads or bacchantes, the women have swords in their hands and slaughtered animals draped across their bare shoulders. Alongside flute-piping satyrs, they’re engaged in a wild, ritualistic dance, while shellfish, eels, squid and poultry dangle above them. In the center of it all, a clothed woman awaits her initiation into the cult.

Pompeii is full of colorful frescoes, but this one is particularly rare. The only other large wall painting depicting a Dionysian ceremony was unearthed in the so-called Villa of the Mysteries in the ancient city’s suburbs in 1909, according to a statement from the Pompeii Archaeological Park.

Known as a megalography—a Greek term for a large-scale painting—the banquet hall fresco was uncovered at the newly excavated House of Thiasus. It dates to the first century B.C.E., more than 100 years before Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 C.E. and cast pumice and ash down upon Pompeii.

“In 100 years’ time, today will be remembered as historic,” Alessandro Giuli, the Italian culture minister, told reporters at the unveiling of the wall paintings on Wednesday, per Reuters’ Crispian Balmer. “Alongside the Villa of the Mysteries, this fresco forms an unparalleled testament to the lesser-known aspects of ancient Mediterranean life.”

As Giuli suggests, the festivals depicted in the frescoes were thoroughly secretive, even in antiquity.

“These were mystery cults, so what they did remains a mystery, even in the ancient written sources,” Sophie Hay, an archaeologist at Pompeii, tells the London Times’ Philip Willan.

Even so, the frescoes at Pompeii offer valuable insights into what worship of Dionysus, also known as the Roman god Bacchus, entailed.

Wine, of course, was central to these festivities. But researchers think cult members may have also consumed other substances, like opium, to enter “trance-like states,” Live Science’s Kristina Killgrove writes.

The women in the fresco are both hunters and dancers, suggesting that the duality of slaughter and revelry was a central tenet. The clothed, mortal woman who is awaiting initiation is depicted as “oscillating between these two extremes, two forms of the female being at the time,” Gabriel Zuchtriegel, director of the archaeological park, says in the statement.

“For the ancients, the bacchante or maenad expressed the wild, untameable side of women; the woman who abandons her children, the house and the city, who breaks free from male order to dance freely, go hunting and eat raw meat in the mountains and the woods,” he adds. In contrast, Zuchtriegel explains, were the women who emulated the goddess Venus and lived by the dictates of Roman society.

“The question is, what do you want to be in life, the hunter or the prey?” Zuchtriegel told reporters at the unveiling.

The hunting scenes may also stand as analogues for life and death. In the House of Thiasus, one woman eats raw meat. At the Villa of Mysteries, one breastfeeds a young goat.

“It’s the double function of death and rebirth. Dionysus dies and is reborn. Through initiation into the cult, you are born again,” Zuchtriegel says to the London Times.

By 186 B.C.E., these festivals were at risk of dying out, as Roman authorities attempted to crack down on the scandalous ceremonies. But the presence of the paintings in the House of Thiasus and the Villa of Mysteries suggest that the secret rituals survived.

Although archaeological work continues, the frescoes are now on public display.

By Eli Wizevich.

#Pompeii #Stunning Frescoes of a Mysterious Dionysian Cult Discovered in Ancient Pompeii #Mount Vesuvius #frescoes #ancient artifacts #archeology #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #roman history #roman empire #roman art #ancient art

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heathermason6060 · 8 months ago

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Daryl Dixon x f!Reader Smut: Matchmaker Merle

Warnings: slight drug use, mentions of Lori, Daryl is a virgin, Shane being Shane, No use of Y/N, unprotected sex

Summary: Merle tries to get Daryl laid with an old family friend. Apparently, Merle is a master matchmaker? Buildup to smut.

Notes: Sorry for having the buildup so slow, I'm really bad at porn without at least a LITTLE plot lmao

You were allowed a little leeway your first day at camp. Glenn had found you, confused and lost, covered in dirt and blood after the bombs had gone off and separated you from your friends and family. You were on the highway, like everyone else, but as soon as they saw the city being lit up, all hell broke loose. They started acting like animals. Running and screaming, looting. The dead coming back to life didn't help much either.

On your second day, you were expected to start pitching in. You didn't mind helping, it was the way Shane approached you that rubbed you the wrong way. You offered to help hunt, fish, and go out looking for supplies, but he just laughed at you. He laughed like you were a child asking for a gun. He handed you a brush and sat you down beside Carol, who was washing clothes at the bottom of the quarry.

You found comfort in familiarity. Which came in the form of something extremely unexpected, Merle Dixon. Maybe it was because you'd seen each other a few times at the corner store back near where you lived, maybe it was the fact he had respect for your folks, but when you were taken back to camp he didn't treat you the way he treated the other women.

He wasn't respectful or chivalrous by any means, but he didn't treat you like a piece of meat. He didn't constantly try to get in your pants or speak to you in that slimy demeaning way he had with Andrea or Amy. You were grateful for it, even if you did catch him staring at your ass more than once, because he was the one thing that made you feel a little more at home with the group.

You'd never met his brother before. You'd seen him once, at the small mechanic shop near the corner store you'd occasionally see Merle in. Rednecks were anything but rare where you grew up, but something about Daryl felt different. He was quieter, more of Merle's shadow than his own person. But you knew just by looking at him that he was anything but somebody's shadow.

He saw you on your second day, after you'd done your morning “chores” and went to sit next to the campfire. He was carving something, maybe a bolt for his crossbow, and he barely looked up when you sat down across from him.

Daryl looked up again, a spark of recognition in his eyes. His voice, strong and firm, called your name as if it was a question.

“Yes?” You could see the exact moment the realization clicked that he did in fact remember you.

He didn't know much about you at all. He knew Merle knew your folks, and you lived pretty close, but he'd never actually spoken to you before.

He did like to watch you, though, you'd always go into the corner store next to the mechanic shop and buy a coke and a bag of chips at lunch. He thought you were the prettiest woman he'd ever seen. Merle had a different set of words he'd prefer to use for you, but Daryl thought they felt too nasty. You weren't white trash, you were pretty, out of place, and the words ‘hot piece of ass' just didn't fit you.

“Shit. Didn't think it was you when they said your name yesterday.” His fingers absentmindedly rubbed the length of his stick, looking over you a few times as he tongued the inside of his cheek in thought. “Huh. You seen Merle yet?”

“Yeah, I got here yesterday morning.” You answered, the day before Daryl had been gone most of the day hunting. By the time he got back you were already in your new tent, something that Glenn had made sure to pick up when he brought you back to his group.

“What happened? Your folks alright?” He asked, knowing it was strange for you to be here without your family and friends.

“I have no idea. Don't remember much. We were real close to the city when the bombs went off, all I remember is fire and screaming and I woke up in the back of a gas station.”

He nodded again, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he listened.

Daryl wanted to stay with you, talk for a while, having a familiar face made him feel like less of an outsider. But from the corner of his eye he saw Shane with his hands on his hips in that stupid pose he liked to do when he was about to give someone attitude. Daryl looked back to you and gathered his crossbow and bolts, muttering a quick excuse about needing to go hunt and that he'd see you around. He couldn't stand Shane, he'd only known him for a few weeks, give or take, and he was doing everything he could to avoid the wife fucker.

Shane gave you a talking to that evening, warning you about the “backwoods rednecks”, even though you knew it wasn't out of the kindness of his heart. It was just another way to control the people in his camp, something he got off on doing. He didn't trust either of the Dixon brothers, that was for certain, but going out of his way to ‘warn’ you? It took everything in you to just nod and say okay.

“When you gonna tap that, baby brother?” Merle's voice and the way he said it made Daryl cringe. He needed to do a better job about not staring at you so blatantly.

“Not my type.” Daryl lied through his teeth, picking another strip of stringy squirrel meat from the stick he'd used to roast it over the fire.

The Dixon brothers usually had a smaller, separate fire away from the main groups. It was mostly Merle's idea, he'd tell Daryl ‘they're not like us, keep your distance, we're just redneck trash to them.’. Not that Daryl gave a shit. He mostly thought the same anyways.

You were at the group fire, sitting beside Andrea and Amy, who were busy chattering about how they wished they could catch some fish instead of surviving off tree rats and canned peas. You didn't mind it, even though you preferred larger game, meat was meat. You ate your squirrel like it was a gourmet dinner, something Daryl took note of.

“Not your type? Hah! That's bullshit and we both know it. She's everybody's type, boy, you better get on that before someone else does.”

Daryl wasn't sure who Merle was referring to. Glenn could barely speak to women, T-Dog was far too respectful, Shane was so far up Lori’s ass he had shit in his ears. (That's so gross I'm so sorry)

The sound of harsh sniffing had Daryl looking away from you and back to his brother. He wiped the white residue from his nose and offered Daryl his large knife, containing another line.

“Nah. I'm good.” Daryl waved him off, not feeling like being on uppers around all these people. Made his temper even shorter than it already was. “Careful with that shit, if Shane sees-”

“He ain't gonna do shit about it. I'd like to see him say somethin’.” The fact Merle was always looking for an excuse to butt heads had Daryl on edge. “Take it, and go take her off in the woods before I do.”

It never took too much demanding from Merle before Daryl would give in. It was a fatal flaw in his character. He looked up to him and whatever he said went, even when he didn't really want to. So he took the coke and worked up the nerves to talk to you.

You'd just finished washing everyone's stupid dirty dishes and went into the woods to piss when you saw Daryl again. You gasped as you walked around the tree you'd used for cover and saw him walking through the treeline, worried he'd seen you. But he was too focused on his steps, and that put you at ease.

You walked up the half-assed trail to meet him, not feeling like chatting next to your pee puddle.

“Hey, you going hunting?” You asked, slipping your hands in your shorts pockets.

He shook his head as he reached you, snatching a stray stick out of his hair. “Goin’ down to some of the old shops down the road. Tired of all these canned peas. You comin’?”

You eagerly nodded, happy to be away from the group. They were nice enough, but since you normally hung around Merle, they treated you as someone they didn't fully trust. Especially Lori, Shane and Dale. The amount of times you caught Lori staring daggers into you every time you were within ten feet of Carl was starting to drive you insane.

“Been wanting to get out and do something for days. Can't fucking stand Shane's micromanaging.” You said as you walked, wishing you would've known you'd be going on an impromptu supply run. You only had your knife, you'd prefer to have your Ruger your father had given you. It was in the RV, where Shane had taken it to ‘clean’. You were more than suspicious that he just didn't want you carrying a gun around camp.

Daryl snorted. “Yeah. Can't stand that asshole. What kinda man-” He stopped himself, shaking his head.

“What?” You looked over at him, careful not to trip on the multiple storm blown branches from the larger trees.

“Nothin’. Just don't like ‘em.”

You were silent for a few minutes as you thought of something to say. You know, in apocalypse type situations, you mainly think about securing your next meal, how to not get killed in your sleep, how to protect your friends and family. But here you were, trying to think of what to say to a man you were steadily growing attracted to. You always thought he was cute before this, but seeing how capable he was, how he was so sure of himself, it was a side to him you didn't expect. It was like he was one of those people always secretly hoping for an excuse to go live in the woods and live in anarchy.

“How attached are you to this group?” He asked, catching you off guard.

“Not at all. Can't stand most of them. Why?”

“Just thinkin’ about leavin’. Don't belong here with these people. Lori screamed at a damn snake the other day and got the kids all riled up.” He had a visible look of distaste on his face. Of all things to scream your head off at in an apocalypse, wildlife wasn't on your list.

“Are you asking me to come?” You asked, unsuccessfully attempting to hide your excitement. The idea of splitting off with the Dixon brothers seemed your best bet, even if Merle was, well, Merle. You knew you were probably one of the only women on earth that didn't have to worry about him constantly trying to get in your pants. What you didn't know though, was that he was trying his damnedest to get his little brother laid, even if you were the daughter of a family friend.

“Yeah. You don't belong here either.” You didn't know if it was true or not, but it felt true to you.

“Sure. As long as I'm not gonna be a burden, or anything.” You knew you'd need to rely on the two of them for protection and some food, at least until you got used to your new life. You adapted fairly quickly.

“Wouldn't’ve asked if you were.”

“Alright, well, if you make up your mind, let me know.”

You arrived at the first store, a small gas station much like the one the two of you used to frequent back then. It was fairly untouched, but you knew it wouldn't be that way for long.

You broke into a bag of jerky, thankful it was Daryl with you and not anyone else. If someone gave you a speech on taking care of the group before yourself you might just take off on your own without Daryl.

He scored a bunch of chips, some cup noodles, and a 6 pack of beer for Merle.

Instead of going back like you'd originally planned, you talked each other into going further off down the road to an old Dollar General. You stored your stash in a hollowed out log next to the road so you wouldn't need to carry it the entire time and carried on.

“This was a great idea.” Your tongue was stained red from sour patch kids, you went through five bags and gave Daryl the greens and yellows.

Daryl licked the sour crystals from his fingertips and grunted in agreement, tossing the empty bag over his shoulder off the roof that the two of you had gone up to to indulge in your spoils.

You laid on your back and sighed, surrounded by empty snack bags and wrappers. “Fuck. I needed this.” Neither of you cringed at your corny comment, because although a cliche, you really, really did need this.

Daryl hadn't eaten much besides the gummies, thanks to being pressured into taking the coke by Merle. He cursed himself for it, wishing he had the nerve to just say no and stick with it.

He glanced over at you, your body orange in the light of the setting sun. You still wore those cute short Bobbie Brooks shorts he'd always seen you wearing around town. His eyes drifted to your legs and he let out a soft exhale, wishing he was as silver tongued as he thought his brother was. Even if the ladies rarely appreciated Merle's filthy flirting, he had to admit his one liners were pretty impressive sometimes.

You opened your eyes and used your hand as a shield from the sun to look at him. You'd barely caught him staring at your legs, and felt a smile tug at your lips.

“You wanna fool around?” You half joked, prepared to laugh if he turned you down. But the look on his face told you he really, really didn't want to turn you down.

He froze for a moment, his eyes looking anywhere but you, his heart hammering against his chest. His thoughts ran frantic, from Merle telling him to have sex with you, and to you, who he was terrified to have sex with. He was suddenly very grateful for the coke he'd taken, and it clicked in his mind why Merle had been so insistent on him taking it. He knew he wouldn't last three minutes without it.

“You serious?” He asked, his brows knitted tightly together from the sun and in concentration as he read your face.

“Yeah, why not?” You shrugged, sitting upright so you didn't have to keep squinting up at him. You looked cool on the outside, but on the inside you were barely holding it together. You'd never thought of Daryl this way before, given you'd only seen him once before all this, but now that you were, it felt like you were about to potentially have sex with the hottest man on earth.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

Awkward was an understatement. Daryl didn't know what to do with his hands. His dick had been hard off and on the whole trip with you, despite the coke. He didn't know what would feel good to you, something he found himself oddly concerned with. His only experience with women was watching them getting fucked in porn, so he tried it that way.

Your eyes widened in surprise when he quickly turned and leaned over you, his hands slipping up your shirt. He choked out a gasp, looking down at the outline of his hands as he squeezed your tits. You were caught off guard by his sudden boldness, and the way he was roughly groping your chest wasn't helping. You grimaced, about to tell him to ease up, but he caught your mouth in an unexpected kiss before you could speak.

You were way too horny to care about how messy his kissing was. Truthfully, it was pretty hot, filled with so much desire and lust that it didn't matter he was inexperienced. The fact he was this eager just because of you had you moaning into his mouth.

He took that as a sign he was doing something right and rolled your nipples between his fingers, doing what felt right. He pinched them, making you gasp against his lips, and he couldn't hide the crooked grin from his face. He pulled back just long enough to start unbuttoning your shirt.

You took over for him, not wanting him to get impatient and rip off one of your only good shirts. When his eyes landed on your chest he whimpered, he fucking whimpered! You groaned at the sound and pulled him back against you by his shoulders, sinking your head into the crook of his neck to kiss the skin there.

He hadn't expected you to do anything to him. In the videos he watched, most of the time the dude just rips her clothes off and fucks her in different positions for half an hour while she screams and moans like she's hurt. He hated that sound, the over exaggerated noises, he much preferred the noises you made.

You laid down on your back, grateful the sun had sunk below the tips of the trees so it wasn't so bright anymore. He was on you in a second, now kissing your neck, eager to give you the same pleasure you were making him feel. The moan that rumbled in your chest made his heart jump, knowing he was doing something right.

“God, s’so good.” You exhaled lazily, your eyes closing as he used his knee to kick your thighs apart for his waist. He quickly ground against you, a stifled groan stuck in his throat at the feeling of friction.

“Take ‘em off.” He demanded, tugging impatiently at your shorts before he went to unbuckle his belt. You happily obliged, unbuttoning your shorts and dragging them down your thighs.

When Daryl saw your lacy red panties he shivered. At camp, most of the underwear he saw hanging up were more… practical? The women had quickly changed their lace panties and thongs for boy shorts, but here you were, the skin around your hips indented obscenely from the way they hugged you like magic.

“Fuck.” He exhaled deeply, his forehead resting against yours as he looked down at your body under his. He was really, really glad Merle gave him coke. Just the sight of you mostly naked under him had his cock throbbing painfully.

He finished with his pants, only pulling them down enough to drag his leaking dick out, his jaw dropping when he saw you shimmying out of your panties. His head spun, his mouth watered, and before he could even think he was scooting down to plant his face between your legs.

You gasped, your head falling back against the rough flooring of the roof. He was so eager., so heartbreakingly eager to please you, it had your pussy so wet it was almost unbearable. His hot tongue was sloppy, inaccurate, it couldn't decide where it wanted to be. He'd be licking broad stripes one second, and the next he was swirling it around your clit. You were beginning to think maybe he wasn't as inexperienced as you believed.

Daryl learned all he knew about sex from porn. If there was one thing he was fascinated about, it was giving head. One of the first things he always wanted to do was eat out a woman. He never thought it would be someone as hot as you.

He tried everything he knew that made the women in videos moan, and to his surprise, you moaned the most when he kept it simple and just sucked your clit. So he did that, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking it into his mouth to roll his tongue around.

You were in shambles. You tried desperately to pull at his hair, but it was too short to grab so you settled on sinking your nails into his scalp as you rolled your hips against his face and tried not to be so loud.

Your jaw dropped and your eyes squeezed shut when he dug his tongue into the side of your clit, dragging your orgasm out so unexpectedly that you gasped.

“Fuck, oh, oh god!” You sputtered, your thighs squeezing his head to hold him there as you came, your back arching and your toes curling so hard your foot almost cramped up.

Daryl slipped his hand under him and grabbed his cock, stroking it as he felt your body tremble and jerk under him. He was sure this was a dream, he'd wake up any second in his tent with Merle snoring beside him and you all the way across camp. He squeezed his dick, milking the precum from his tip as your thighs finally relaxed.

“My god. You're really good at that.” You panted, your eyes blurry as you watched him slide up your body and take its place on top of you.

He grinned, knowing you were unintentionally starting to give him an ego. “Yeah?” He racked his brain for dirty talk, but since it was fried from making you cum, all he could come up with was “I got somethin’ I'm even better at.” Complete lie.

You, on the other hand, had no idea he was a virgin, and grinned widely at the implications, shifting your body up till you felt his heavy cock graze against your inner thigh. The feeling alone sent a bolt through your body, and your chest heaved with deep excited breaths.

He leaned up and grabbed your shoulder, signaling for you to turn over. You didn't question it and rolled over, propping yourself on your hands and knees.

The sight of you from behind had him falling apart. He let out a quiet whimper and bit his bottom lip before grabbing his cock and scooting forward to push it against you.

“Jesus, so fuckin wet.” He breathed, his heart beating so loud he could hear the blood in his ears. He slid his dick between your folds, going through all the steps in his head that he'd seen countless times. He even slapped it against your pussy a few times, missing the amused expression on your face, and pushed himself into you.

What Daryl didn't learn from porn was that usually, you go in slow when someone hasn't had sex recently. So when he just pushed his dick inside you with no hesitation you cried out, the burn from the unprepared stretching making you jolt forward. He grabbed your hips to bring you back against him, his jaw going slack as he felt your hot wet walls squeezing the life out of him.

“Fuck!” You spat, the burning and stabbing pain almost enough to turn you off completely. “You gotta be slower than that, Daryl.”

He was too deep to process what you said. He finally let out the breath he'd been holding with a deep, guttural groan, still frozen inside you. “Sah-Sorry.” He sputtered, his hands squeezing your hips so hard you knew for a fact there'd be ten little light purple bruises there tomorrow.

Before you could say or do anything else he started moving, setting the pace quickly, snapping his hips against your ass so roughly your hands almost slipped out from under you. The uncomfortable stretch quickly faded into a deep, primal pleasure, and soon you were letting out short moans with every thrust of his hips.

You barely got used to the feeling before he grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked it back, drawing a cry from your throat. You weren't expecting this from Daryl, he was so confident, so rough, it confused you but drove you absolutely wild at the same time.

His other hand kept its tight grip on your hip, pulling you back to meet each of his demanding thrusts, making sure his dick went as deep as possible each time. The way you were moaning and gasping fueled him to fuck you rougher, wanting to hear every sound that you were possible of making.

“Dirty little whore.” He grunted, his jaw aching from how hard he'd been clenching his teeth.

His words earned a strangled whimper from you, making his lips curl up in a cocky grin.

He fucked you for a while like that, hips pounding against your ass so hard that the noises of your skin slapping was making your cheeks burn in embarrassed arousal. So much for keeping it quiet.

“Hey-” The words were hard to get out from his aggressive thrusts, especially now that he was hunched over your body so he could squeeze your breasts. “I- wanna turn over.”

He raised his chest from your back and took the opportunity to catch his breath while you shifted under him to roll over on your back. The look on your face made him shudder with a quiet gasp. Your face was tinted a light red, blissed out, your pupils blown and hair all messed up around your face. He was back on you immediately, kissing you hungrily as he slipped his cock back inside you, much easier this time.

“Y’feel so fuckin’ good.” He breathed against your lips, wet from his sloppy kisses, and he kissed down your jaw to your neck. His accent was much thicker when he was inside you, barely pronouncing any words fully anymore.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, and your legs around his waist, angling your hips up so he could drive his cock deeper into you. The new feeling made him moan pathetically into your neck, and he had to stifle the noises he didn't like with a bite to the skin where your neck met shoulder.

The pressure of his teeth had your eyes rolling back in your head. There was so much stimulation, his dick driving relentlessly into your throbbing pussy, his fingers pinching your nipple and the other hand in your hair, pulling your head to the side to give him better access to your neck. A particularly deep thrust made you cry out, and you felt yourself nearing your second orgasm.

“Fuck!” You whined, your eyes squeezing tightly shut as you felt the tension building in your core as he fucked his dick into you.

“That's it, y’gonna come for me?” His teeth drew away from your red neck, a string of spit connecting the two of you.

All you could muster was an obscene “Mhmm!”, your thighs squeezing him tight around the waist.

“C'mon girl.” His words were choppy from the force of his thrusts. He slowed for a second, readjusting himself before building back up to his former quick pace, each thrust sending your body scooting a little upwards along the floor of the roof. You were incredibly thankful it wasn't concrete.

“Lemme hear it, c'mon.” His words alone were enough to send you falling over your edge. Your jaw dropped, your head tilting back as your back arched under his heavy body, and his arm slipped under you to hold your chest tight against his.

The look on your face and the feeling of you cumming around his dick was all he needed. His face went slack and he let out a shameful whine, something he'd never heard himself make before, and came inside you. Neither of you noticed, too fucked out of your minds to even process it.

You cried under him, twisting and squirming, impaled on his dick as your orgasm shook you to your core. Only when the final waves rolled off you did you relax, your eyes struggling to open as your breathing slowed.

Daryl raised his face from your chest and looked down at you, enjoying the look on your face as he regained his bearings. He ran his hands up and down your torso a few times, his eyes appreciating every little red mark on your neck and chest from his teeth.

Only when the last jolts of pleasure left his body did he realize he came inside you.

“Shit.” He grunted as he slowly drug his dick out of you, his breath catching in his throat when he saw the way his cum oozed out between your slick, puffy folds.

“Hmm, ‘s fine.” You mumbled lazily, reaching up to push your hair from your face. “We're on top of a Dollar General. We'll get the morning after pill.”

He nodded at your words, still hypnotized by the sight of his cum leaking out of you. A deep part of him wanted to stuff his dick back in you and keep it in, he didn't know why, but the idea was so hot he could've gone for a round two if you wanted.

“We better get back.” You struggled to prop yourself up on your elbows, your weakened muscles protesting. The sun was well below the trees now, and if you got back when it was dark you knew Shane would throw a goddamn hissy fit.

“We ain't gotta.” He half joked, a lazy grin on his face. “Can just stay here. Go back in the mornin’.”

You smiled, shaking your head, even though the idea was incredibly tempting. “Shane will kill us.”

“Fuck him.”

“I don't wanna piss him off when he's the one in possession of my gun right now.” Your words had him raising his brows and nodding in agreement.

The two of you put your clothes back on and went through the back entrance, grabbing all your bags and making sure to pick up some morning after pills from the locked shelf behind the front desk. You caught him trying to discreetly grab some condoms, not knowing you saw, and you felt excitement bubble in your chest at the prospect of him expecting this to happen again.

Thankfully Shane wasn't in camp when you snuck back in. He was down by the quarry, catching frogs or some shit, and you were able to share your spoils with the group before he came to ask questions.

“Well, shit. Look at you.” Merle was smiling ear to ear, clapping Daryl on the back after he went to his brother's tent with a bag of goodies.

It was extremely obvious what the two of you had done. Your hair was still messy despite you brushing it with your fingers on the way back, your face pink, your neck red. You were climbing into your own tent as Merle watched you from across camp.

Daryl's neck and face were also red, and he had a few scratch marks on the back of his neck.

And his fly was still down.

“Shut up.” Daryl shrugged his brother's hand off him, opening a bag of Funyuns.

“My baby brothers no longer a fuckin’ loser!” He laughed, giving a wolf whistle before playfully ruffling his hair. “Atta boy. I told you.”

“Ya’ ain't tell me shit.” Daryl grumbled, stuffing Funyuns in his mouth to hide the smile that was creeping onto his face.

“Hey.”

“What?” Daryl groaned, exasperated already.

“Think she’ll give me a ride?”

“Shut the hell up, man.”

2K notes · View notes

lacethighs · 11 days ago

Text

undercover dancer

dean winchester x reader

synopsis while working a case with the winchester, you go undercover at a strip club to track down a siren, but things don’t go as planned.

warnings mdni, porn with plot? (pwp), oral sex (m rec.), missionary, pet names (sweetheart, baby), fem reader, breeding kink (if you squint), light d/s dynamic, no use of y/n.

word count 6.5k

working a case with the winchesters meant long nights, bad coffee, and sifting through endless lore. the three of you were holed up in a rundown motel, buried in research about sirens. three men had murdered their wives, all while insisting they were in happy, loving relationships. something wasn’t adding up.

sam had bobby on speakerphone as the older hunter explained an old piece of folklore—sirens could be killed with a bronze dagger dipped in the blood of one of their victims.

“alright, thanks, bobby. we’ll call if we need anything else,” sam said, snapping his phone shut.

you sighed, leaning back in your chair across from him. “okay, but how exactly are we supposed to get the blood of an infected victim?”

sam thought for a moment before suggesting that the doctor who performed the autopsies might still have blood samples from the victims.

as the boys geared up, putting on their usual fbi disguises, you made no move to change. noticing this, dean shot you a look. “what? you’re just gonna sit this one out?”

“no,” you replied smoothly, standing up and grabbing a duffel bag from under the bed. “while you two are handling that, i’m going to see if i can get a lead on who the siren might be.”

sam and dean exchanged confused glances but didn’t question it. they had learned to trust your methods—even if they didn’t always understand them.

as soon as they left, you dug through your bag, pulling out a dark red costume. undercover work had its perks, but being a woman in the hunting business often meant playing into certain expectations. and right now, that meant infiltrating the strip club where you suspected the siren was hiding.

after a quick shower, you grabbed a fresh razor and got to work. if you were going to sell this, you had to look the part. you remembered the club owner’s strict policy—pretty faces and smooth bodies only.

once you were done, you pulled out your small cosmetic kit and carefully applied your makeup, matching it to the deep red of your outfit. a final swipe of lip gloss and a touch of glitter later, you gave yourself a once-over in the motel’s long mirror.

damn. you looked like an expensive stripper.

the two-piece outfit was a dark red sequined swimsuit, just a size too small, leaving very little to the imagination. perfect.

packing a change of clothes and slipping a pair of heels into your duffel, you hopped into your camaro and drove to the club.

pulling into the back lot, you wrapped yourself in a long trench coat and slipped inside through the rear entrance. in the changing room, you stashed your bag, swapped your boots for heels, and took a moment to observe the other women.

they moved in and out, chatting and adjusting their outfits, but none of them immediately screamed “siren.” the only clue you had was that sirens tended to work alone.

you adjusted your stance, getting used to the ridiculous height of your heels. with one last check in the dingy mirror, you stepped out onto the club floor.

the heavy bass of electronic house music pounded in your chest, the flashing led lights momentarily disorienting. you focused, forcing yourself to move with the rhythm, blending in as you made your way toward the bar.

“well, aren’t you something,” a voice drawled behind you.

you turned, slipping effortlessly into character, flashing a sultry smile as you took in the man eyeing you. mid-forties, salt-and-pepper beard, expensive watch—if you weren’t here on a case, you might have been a little more interested.

smirking, you sauntered closer, batting your eyelashes. “what can i do for you tonight, handsome?”

“how about something special?” his voice dipped, gaze never leaving your body. “one of those private rooms in the back?”

shit.

if you left the main floor, you’d risk losing sight of your real target. you needed a way out of this—fast.

glancing around, you spotted the upstairs balcony overlooking the club. if you could get him up there, at least you’d still have a vantage point.

“i don’t have all night, sweetheart,” the man said impatiently, waving a wad of cash. “you want this or not?”

plastering on a flirtatious smile, you grabbed his hand and led him toward the stairs. he chuckled behind you. “aren’t you an eager thing?”

this was probably a bad idea.

as you reached the top, your attention flicked to a nearby table where two men in suits sat across from each other. the back of one of their heads looked disturbingly familiar. short hair, slightly spiked—no way.

then you heard it. that familiar gravelly voice, thick with a kansas drawl.

dean.

what the hell was he doing here?

panic kicked in. you needed to get past him before he saw you in this very compromising outfit. you picked up the pace, walking past as quickly as you could.

just when you thought you were in the clear—

a low whistle pierced the air.

fuck.

the whistle came from dean.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

you could’ve kept walking. you should’ve kept walking. just pretend you didn’t hear it. play dumb, keep moving, disappear into the back rooms before this whole thing spiraled into something worse.

but, of course, the man you were leading had to open his damn mouth.

“hell of a body, huh?” he slurred, clearly buzzed and feeling bold. “bet she’s worth every damn penny.”

your stomach dropped, then it got so much worse.

“hey, buddy,” the man continued, elbowing dean like they were old friends. “why don’t you come with me? we can both get a little taste.”

you clenched your jaw. this fucking guy. not only was he disgusting, but now he was trying to bring dean into this?

“hey, sweetheart!” he called, motioning for you to come back. “c’mon, don’t be shy now.”

you stayed still, facing away from the table, hoping—praying—that dean would just ignore him. maybe he hadn’t recognized you. maybe he was just reacting to the fact that you looked wildly out of place in a club like this.

maybe pigs could fly.

because you felt dean’s eyes burning into your back, and you knew—this was about to happen.

your breath hitched as you forced yourself to turn around.

and the second your gaze met dean’s, his jaw literally dropped.

eyes wide, mouth hanging open, pure shock written all over his face. like he’d just been smacked in the head with a crowbar.

you saw the exact moment realization hit. the way his gaze flickered down—taking in the too-small, blood-red sequined outfit, the heels, the sheer ridiculousness of what you were wearing—before snapping back up to your face.

his lips parted, but no words came out. just a stunned, incredulous stare, like his brain had short-circuited and he couldn’t even begin to process what he was seeing.

you wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

dean winchester—your hunting partner, your friend, the guy you spent way too much time with—was seeing you like this.

and he wasn’t looking away. dean blinked. once. twice. then his jaw clenched

in dean’s mind, this was not what he expected when you said you were going to get a lead on the siren.

a lead? sure. maybe some surveillance, some questioning—hell, even some light flirting to get information if needed. but this?

his brain had completely short-circuited.

for a few crucial seconds, he forgot where he was. forgot the case, the siren, the fact that there was a real fbi agent sitting across from him. forgot that he was supposed to be an fbi agent, too.

because fbi agent dean winchester wasn’t supposed to know a stripper.

you weren’t supposed to know him.

you were just two strangers existing in the same space—passing glances, exchanging pleasantries, nothing more. that’s what this cover was supposed to be.

but instead, you were standing there, looking like that, and dean was sitting here, looking at you.

the noise of the club, the flashing lights, the pulsing music—it all blurred in the background. the only thing in sharp focus was you.

and then, of course, the drunk asshole had to make it worse.

“so, what do ya say, man?” he gestured sloppily between you and dean, slurring his words. “you in or what?”

dean blinked, jaw tightening.

this guy had no idea. no idea that the woman he was treating like an object was actually a badass hunter who could take him down in a heartbeat. no idea that dean wasn’t some random customer, but someone who knew exactly what you looked like covered in blood and sweat, tearing through monsters like it was second nature.

but more than anything, he had no idea how much dean didn’t want to share you with him.

dean finally closed his mouth, schooling his face into something more neutral. his grip tightened around the glass in his hand, but he forced out a smirk, leaning back in his chair.

“tempting,” he said, voice low, edged with something dangerous. “but i think i’ll pass.”

he saw the way your shoulders subtly relaxed, the way your fingers twitched like you were seconds from reaching for a weapon you weren’t carrying.

the guy huffed, shaking his head. “your loss.” then he turned back to you, giving you a sleazy grin. “guess it’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

dean barely restrained himself from breaking the guy’s nose.

this was a case. you were undercover. you had a job to do.

but damn if dean didn’t want to burn this whole place down just to get you out of here.

after that incredibly unfortunate turn of events, you decided to call it a night.

you led your drunk, handsy gentleman away from prying eyes, coaxing him into a quieter, less crowded hallway. the second you were sure no one was watching, you turned on your heel and decked him—one solid punch right to the jaw.

he crumpled like a sack of potatoes.

rolling your shoulders, you exhaled sharply and stepped over his unconscious body. he’d wake up with a hell of a headache and probably no memory of what happened. good. you didn’t have the patience for anything else.

when you walked back onto the main floor, you instinctively glanced toward where dean had been sitting—only to find his chair empty.

of course.

you didn’t have the energy to deal with that right now.

navigating through the club, you made your way back to the dressing room, grabbed your trench coat, and threw it over yourself. no time to change. you just wanted to get out of here and back to the motel.

enough undercover work for one night.

but as soon as you stepped outside into the cool night air and headed toward your car, you stopped dead in your tracks.

because parked right in front of your camaro, like a goddamn roadblock, was the impala.

and leaning against it, arms crossed, expression unreadable, was dean. there he stood—still in that goddamn suit, still looking good as ever.

the neon lights from the club flickered against his face, casting sharp shadows across his jaw. he was staring straight at you, and even from a distance, you could feel the weight of it.

yeah. you definitely weren’t getting out of this conversation.

you wished you could just ignore him, pretend you didn’t see him, slip into your camaro, and drive the hell away from this whole mess.

but dean obviously had different plans.

his arms were still crossed, his stance casual, but there was nothing relaxed about the way he was watching you. his sharp green eyes followed every step you took, unreadable yet intense.

you swallowed hard and kept walking, forcing yourself to act like you weren’t dying inside from sheer embarrassment. maybe if you just made it to your car door without saying anything—

“hey, sweetheart,” dean called, voice smooth but edged with something else.

you closed your eyes briefly, exhaling through your nose.

slowly, you turned to face him, plastering on your best unimpressed look. “you waiting for someone, winchester?”

dean huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “yeah. you.”

of course.

you shifted your weight, gripping the edges of your coat a little tighter. “well, you found me. so what do you want?”

dean pushed off the impala, stepping closer—just enough to make your pulse spike. he tilted his head, studying you like you were some kind of puzzle he was trying to piece together.

“what the hell was that back there?” his voice was low, curious, but definitely not amused.

you lifted a brow. “i was working the case.”

dean’s jaw ticked. “that’s what we’re calling it?”

you crossed your arms. “got a problem with it?”

he scoffed, looking away for a second before his eyes flicked back to yours. “yeah, i got a problem with it. watching you prance around in that getup, having some drunk asshole treat you like—” he cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “what the hell were you thinking?”

you rolled your eyes. “i was thinking that someone had to actually get close enough to find the siren. and considering i didn’t see you shaking your ass in sequins, it had to be me.”

dean made a face, clearly not a fan of that mental image. “damn it, you know that’s not what i mean.”

you shrugged, pretending like your stomach wasn’t twisting at how tense he was. “relax, dean. i had it under control.”

dean let out a humorless laugh. “oh yeah? looked real under control when that guy was trying to buy a damn two-for-one special.”

you bristled but kept your face neutral. “i handled it.”

dean stared at you for a long moment, jaw still tight. then, finally, he shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “you’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

your lips twitched. “that sounds like a you problem.”

dean exhaled, then gave you that look—the one that always made your chest tighten. a mix of exasperation, concern, and something else. something you didn’t have the guts to name.

“get in the car,” he muttered, nodding toward the impala.

you frowned. “i have my own car—”

“yeah, and it’s staying here.” dean’s voice left no room for argument. “you’re riding with me.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but the glare he shot you made you shut it just as quickly.

fine. whatever. if it got you out of this conversation faster, you’d deal with it.

sighing, you walked past him, letting him open the passenger door for you. you didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered over you again, how his fingers twitched like he wanted to do something but held himself back.

you slid into the seat, crossing your arms as dean shut the door behind you.

as he walked around to the driver’s side, one thought ran through your mind—

this was not how you expected tonight to go.

the car ride was quiet.

the tension, while still there, had stopped being suffocating, allowing you to relax a little. you leaned into the familiar comfort of the impala, the soft hum of the engine settling something in your chest.

which meant, unfortunately, you forgot what you were wearing underneath your trench coat.

as you shifted in your seat, adjusting yourself for a more comfortable position, the movement caused the coat to gape open slightly, revealing slivers of bare skin and dark red sequins.

dean only glanced over at first, probably just checking why you were moving—

but then he saw.

his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

a quick flash of your thighs, the curve of your waist, and the unmistakable shimmer of the too-small, too-revealing getup you still had on underneath.

dean immediately snapped his gaze back to the road, jaw clenching so tight it could crack a molar.

but it was too late.

because now the image was burned into his mind.

you, in that tiny outfit, all legs and soft skin, sitting right there next to him like it was no big deal. like it wasn’t driving him insane.

he exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like it would somehow shake the thought loose.

you didn’t seem to notice his sudden shift in posture, too caught up in getting comfortable. you adjusted again, crossing one leg over the other, which caused the coat to part just a little more—

dean did not look.

he was not looking.

he was absolutely not going to look.

but then the impala hit a small bump in the road, jostling you slightly—and out of sheer reflex, his eyes flicked over.

fucking hell.

he gritted his teeth, forcing his focus forward. “jesus, could you—?” he cut himself off, inhaling sharply. “do you wanna maybe, i don’t know, close that thing?” he flicked a pointed glance at your coat, then back at the road like his life depended on it.

you blinked, glancing down—and finally realized what he was talking about.

oh.

a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “my bad,” you said innocently, making zero effort to fix it.

dean shot you a look. “not funny.”

you bit your lip, suppressing a laugh. “kinda funny.”

“not funny,” he repeated, gripping the wheel tighter. “you’re gonna give me a damn heart attack.”

you chuckled, finally tugging the coat closed—not out of modesty, but because you were pretty sure dean was about three seconds away from swerving off the road.

“relax, winchester,” you teased. “it’s not like you haven’t seen a woman in less before.”

dean made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a strangled groan. “yeah, well, i don’t usually have to drive them back to a motel after watching them hustle some drunk asshole in a damn strip club.”

you snorted. “please. like you weren’t enjoying the view.”

dean didn’t say anything.

didn’t even look at you.

and that was interesting.

your smirk widened. “oh my god,” you drawled. “you were enjoying the view.”

dean clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the road. “you done?”

you hummed, pretending to think. “not really.”

“too bad.”

you laughed, finally letting it go—for now.

dean just exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe this was his life.

and for the rest of the ride, he did not look over again.

finally.

for dean, the ride was over. they made it to the motel.

he could get away from you and that damn outfit without feeling like he was losing his goddamn mind.

but you? oh, you were not letting it go.

stepping inside, you took a quick scan of the room. no sam. he was still off doing whatever research he had gotten sucked into, which meant it was just you and dean.

perfect.

you kicked off those ridiculous heels with a sigh of relief, shrinking down several inches in the process, and tossed your duffle bag onto the bed. dean did the same, loosening the tie on his suit with a grumble, ready to just shower this night off and forget it ever happened.

but then he looked up—

and oh, god.

you were shrugging off your trench coat.

right in front of him.

and you weren’t doing it quickly, like someone exhausted after a long night.

no.

you were doing it slowly.

tantalizingly.

dean didn’t know if that was just his brain making it seem like slow motion, or if you were actually torturing him on purpose—

but oh, god.

the way the coat slipped from your shoulders, revealing the smooth stretch of your skin, the way the deep red sequins shimmered against the cheap motel lighting—

dean felt like he’d been hit with something.

his mouth went dry. his brain stopped working.

all he could do was stare.

and you knew.

he could see it in the tiny smirk playing at your lips, the way you tossed your coat onto the bed like this was all totally normal. like you weren’t standing there, still in that tiny little outfit, acting like you didn’t just completely wreck him.

dean swallowed hard, forcing himself to snap out of it. he turned away quickly, scrubbing a hand down his face, trying to gather whatever frayed pieces of self-control he had left.

“you are killing me,” he muttered under his breath.

you laughed, low and amused. “something wrong, winchester?”

dean let out a humorless scoff, not daring to look at you again. “yeah. you.”

you just grinned. “aw, poor baby.”

dean clenched his jaw, staring very intently at the wall.

this was not how he expected his night to go.

especially when you were right there, looking at him like that—like you knew exactly what you were doing to him?

when his eyes couldn’t help but drink you in, no matter how hard he tried to not look?

that stupid, stupid red sequined outfit stretched over the swell of your breasts, hugging every curve, glinting under the dim motel lights like it was taunting him.

the bottoms—if they could even be considered bottoms—barely hid anything. just thin strips of fabric teasingly covering your most intimate parts, leaving long lines of bare skin on display.

dean was screwed.

his jaw was locked so tight it ached. his fingers twitched at his sides, itching to do something—grab you, touch you, tear that damn outfit off just to put an end to this torture.

but he didn’t move.

didn’t say a word.

because if he did, if he let himself react at all, there was no coming back from it.

you tilted your head slightly, watching him with amusement, curiosity, and something dangerous.

“you keep looking at me like that, dean,” you mused, voice dripping with mischief, “people might start to think you actually want me.”

dean exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze to the floor, the wall—anywhere but you.

“you really don’t know when to quit, do you?” his voice came out rougher than he intended.

you stepped closer—too close. close enough that he could feel your body heat, smell the faint traces of perfume and sweat lingering on your skin.

“not when i’m having this much fun,” you admitted with a smirk.

dean clenched his fists.

he had two choices.

get the hell out of this room right now—

or finally give in.

of course he gave in. one second, he was standing there, fists clenched, trying so damn hard to hold himself back.

the next, his lips crashed against yours, hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for this and just now realized how badly he needed it.

you gasped softly against his mouth, but you weren’t surprised. not really. you knew exactly what you were doing, how to push him just far enough until he snapped—and now, here he was, grabbing onto you like he’d lose his mind if he didn’t.

his hands found your waist, rough fingers gripping tight as he pulled you against him. the thin sequined fabric did little to separate the heat of his body from yours, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

you barely had a second to breathe before he was kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip like he was trying to devour you.

and god, you loved it.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging slightly just to hear that low, frustrated growl rumble from his chest. his hands slid lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and before you could even process what was happening, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“fucking tease,” he muttered against your lips, walking you toward the bed with no hesitation.

you smirked, breathless. “took you long enough.”

dean let out a low, dark chuckle.

“oh, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with want as he dropped you onto the mattress, climbing over you with a dangerous glint in his eyes—

“you have no idea what you just started.”

your hands roamed over dean’s suit-clad body, feeling the heat beneath the fabric, the tension coiled tight in his muscles.

you pulled him closer by his tie, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips. his weight pressed into you, his body solid and strong, like he was trying to get as close as physically possible—like even that wouldn’t be enough.

his big, calloused hands slid down your sides, rough fingers trailing fire along your bare skin until they found the thin ties of your bottoms.

with practiced ease, he tugged at the delicate knots, the flimsy fabric loosening instantly. his lips never left yours, too caught up in the way you felt, the way you gasped softly when the last knot came undone.

meanwhile, you worked fast to undo your top, the sequined fabric falling away as your fingers fumbled at the clasp.

dean pulled back just enough to look down at you, his pupils blown wide, his expression dark and unreadable.

“jesus,” he muttered, voice rough, like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

you smirked, reaching up to tug at his tie again. “took you long enough, winchester.”

dean’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.

“you’re gonna regret saying that,” he warned, voice dripping with promise.

and then he kissed you again—harder, deeper, like he was determined to make up for every second he’d spent holding back.

separating to catch your breath, your chest heaved as you watched dean make quick work of his clothes.

and god, was he a sight.

his toned stomach, the ridges of muscle shifting with every movement, the broad expanse of his chest—every inch of him was built for this. his strong arms flexed as he tossed his shirt aside, and for a second, you were too distracted to do anything but stare.

dean smirked, catching the way your lips parted, your eyes dark with something between hunger and awe.

“like what ya see, sweetheart?” he teased, his voice dripping with cocky amusement.

you swallowed hard, dragging your gaze up to meet his, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flustering you—even if you were absolutely drooling inside.

with a smirk of your own, you tilted your head and let your fingers trail slowly down his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the solid muscle beneath.

“i don’t know,” you mused, lips curling as you leaned up, voice dropping into something sultry, “guess i’ll have to touch to be sure.”

dean let out a low chuckle, but the way his breath hitched when your hands slid lower?

he wasn’t laughing anymore.

your hand trailed lower, teasing, until your palm pressed against the hard length straining through his unbuttoned trousers.

dean sucked in a breath, his body tensing under your touch. his head tilted back slightly, jaw clenched, as if he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart right then and there.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, gravelly, like the word had been dragged out of him.

you smirked, feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the heat of him even through the fabric.

god, you had to feel him inside your mouth.

with slow, deliberate movements, you slid off the bed, sinking to your knees before him. your fingers made quick work of his zipper, tugging his pants and boxers down just enough to free him, and fuck.

dean winchester was big.

your mouth practically watered at the sight, your fingers wrapping around his thick length, giving him an experimental stroke.

dean let out a low, wrecked groan, his hands automatically flying to your hair, his fingers curling at the roots as if he needed something to hold onto.

“jesus christ,” he muttered, looking down at you with blown pupils, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.

you just smirked up at him, pressing a teasing kiss to the tip before licking a slow, deliberate stripe up his length, making sure to keep eye contact the whole time.

“fuck,” he cursed again, his grip in your hair tightening slightly. “you’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

you only hummed in response, lips parting as you finally took him into your mouth—

and dean completely lost it.

his hands flew to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he held on—not forcing, just holding, like he needed the anchor while you worked him over with that sinful mouth of yours.

dean’s head fell back for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as a deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, looking back down at you, watching the way your lips stretched around him, the way your head bobbed up and down at a steady rhythm.

the slick, filthy sounds of you gagging on his cock filled the room, mixing with his grunts and sharp exhales.

“jesus—look at you,” he muttered, breathless, his grip tightening just a little when you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him even deeper. “taking me so fuckin’ good.”

your eyes flickered up to meet his, glossy and dazed, and that—that look on your face, the way you were so eager, so desperate to take all of him—had him teetering on the edge.

“shit,” he groaned, one of his hands trailing down to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin in contrast to how filthy this all was. “goddamn mouth of yours—feels so fuckin’ good, baby.”

you hummed at the praise, sending vibrations through his length, and that—that nearly broke him.

“oh, fuck,” he growled, hips jerking slightly despite himself. “keep that up, and i’m not gonna last, sweetheart.”

but that only made you want it more.

so you sucked harder, hollowed your cheeks even more, letting him feel every inch of your tongue, every bit of heat and wetness—

and dean absolutely wrecked.

before he could finish, dean suddenly jerked you off his cock, a slick pop sounding as he pulled free from your mouth. his chest heaved, pupils blown wide, lips parted in a mix of pleasure and frustration.

“shit,” he muttered, breathing heavy as he cupped your jaw, wiping away a bit of spit from your swollen lips with his thumb. “as much as i wanna come down that pretty throat of yours, i need to feel you first.”

his words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

dean didn’t give you time to process before he hauled you up effortlessly, his hands gripping your hips as he practically tossed you onto the bed.

you barely had time to gasp before he was on you—pressing you down into the mattress, kissing you deep, his tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to devour you.

his hands roamed your body, squeezing, exploring, before settling between your thighs. his fingers teased at your slick folds, making you whimper against his lips.

“fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned, dragging his fingers through your wetness before pressing one thick digit inside. “was sucking me off that good for you, sweetheart?”

you whined, hips bucking into his touch, gripping at his shoulders. “dean, please—”

he chuckled darkly, adding another finger, stretching you slightly as he watched you, drinking in the way you squirmed. “oh, i got you, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with promise. “gonna give you exactly what you need.”

and with that, he lined himself up, teasing the tip against your entrance—

then thrust inside, burying himself to the hilt in one slow, deep stroke.

dean was relentless.

his hips snapped against yours, the sheer force of each thrust making the bed creak beneath you. his grip on your hips was tight, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wanted—like he needed to keep you in place while he fucked you deep.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, jaw clenched, eyes locked onto where your bodies met. “so goddamn tight—taking me so fuckin’ good.”

the stretch was intense, overwhelming in the best way, and all you could do was moan, gripping onto his arms, his back, anything to ground yourself.

then—he shifted.

one of his hands dragged down your leg, rough fingers tracing your skin before he hooked it over his shoulder, pressing in even deeper.

“oh, fuck—” you cried out, back arching as he hit that new angle, that devastatingly perfect spot that had your vision going white.

dean felt the way you clenched around him, heard the way his name spilled from your lips in a wrecked, breathless moan—and he lost it.

“that’s it,” he growled, his pace somehow getting rougher, each thrust harder, deeper, sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. “this what you wanted, huh? needed me to fuck you like this?”

you could barely form words, too lost in the blinding pleasure.

“dean—please—!”

he grunted, leaning down, pressing his forehead against yours even as he kept up his punishing rhythm.

“i got you, baby,” he panted, voice rough, lips brushing against yours. “not stopping ‘til you come all over my cock.”

one of dean’s calloused fingers dragged down your body, rough and deliberate, until it found your achingly sensitive clit.

a sharp cry tore from your throat as he pressed down, rubbing slow, teasing circles that contrasted the relentless snap of his hips. the combination had your entire body trembling, pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you, coiling like a spring ready to snap.

“that’s it,” dean groaned, watching your every reaction like a man possessed, his finger working you over with precision. “so fuckin’ perfect—gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

you were already there, so close you could taste it, every thrust, every roll of his fingers sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“dean— oh my god—” you gasped, gripping onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

he growled at that, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he doubled down—hips slamming into you, fingers rubbing tighter, faster, overwhelming you with everything.

“come on, baby,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “let me feel it—let go for me.”

and then—you snapped.

your orgasm ripped through you, body arching, legs shaking, a desperate, wrecked moan of his name spilling from your lips as waves of white-hot pleasure crashed over you.

dean groaned at the feeling, the way you clenched down so tight around him, the way your body trembled beneath him, and it sent him tumbling right after you.

“fuck— fuck,” he choked out, burying himself deep as he came, his own release spilling inside you as he gasped your name like a prayer.

dean slowly pulled out, a low groan leaving his lips as he watched the way your body trembled beneath him. his eyes darkened when he saw the mess he made—his release spilling out of your wrecked little hole, glistening against your flushed skin.

his smirk was downright wicked as he dragged two fingers through the slick mess, gathering up every drop before pressing them right back inside you, pushing deep, so slow.

“don’t want it going to waste, do we, sweetheart?” his voice was gravelly, teasing, full of satisfaction as he watched you squirm, still sensitive and wrecked from your orgasm.

a whimper slipped from your lips, your overstimulated walls fluttering around his fingers as he gently fucked them into you, as if he owned you—like he could still feel every aftershock running through your body.

“fuck, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your thigh, his breath hot against your skin. “look so damn pretty like this. completely fucked out.”

he finally pulled his fingers free, but not before bringing them up to his lips, smirking as he licked them clean, groaning low in his throat.

“taste so fucking sweet.”

dean’s smirk softened as he took in the sight of you—your body still trembling slightly, chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. your skin was flushed, glowing in the dim motel light, and fuck, if you weren’t the prettiest damn thing he’d ever seen.

but as much as he loved seeing you like this, spent and wrecked from him, he also knew you needed him now just as much as before—just in a different way.

with a deep breath, he leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before slipping off the bed.

“be right back, sweetheart,” he murmured.

you barely had the energy to respond, only humming in acknowledgment as you stretched across the sheets, already feeling the exhaustion settle in.

dean moved around the room quietly, grabbing one of his clean shirts and a warm, damp washcloth before returning to your side.

“hey, baby,” he said softly, brushing your hair back before running the cloth between your thighs, being so careful, so gentle as he cleaned you up. “still with me?”

“mhm,” you mumbled, sighing at the warmth of his touch.

once he was sure you were all cleaned up, he tossed the cloth aside and helped you into his shirt, the fabric drowning you, but he couldn’t help but grin at the way you looked in it.

“there we go,” he murmured, pulling the blankets over you before sliding in beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest.

the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart was soothing, his body warm and solid against you.

“you good?” he asked, voice softer now, rough edges smoothed over with something gentler.

you nodded, nuzzling into his neck. “yeah… ‘m good.”

dean pressed a kiss to your temple, rubbing slow circles into your back.

“get some sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered. “i got you.”

just as you were getting comfortable, wrapped up in dean’s warmth, the motel door slammed open, making both of you jolt.

“what the hell—” dean started, reaching for the gun under his pillow, but then—

“where the hell have the two of you been?!”

it was sam.

standing in the doorway, pissed, arms crossed, eyes darting between the both of you—dean half-naked under the blankets, you drowning in one of his shirts, curled up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

your face burned.

“uh…” you started, scrambling for some kind of excuse, but what could you even say?

dean, ever the smooth talker, just cleared his throat and smirked, stretching an arm behind his head. “y’know, sammy… you could’ve knocked.”

sam’s expression darkened. “are you—? oh, come on!” he rubbed a hand down his face, looking genuinely distressed. “i’ve been out chasing a damn siren while you two were—” he gestured wildly. “—doing this?!”

you bit your lip, shrinking under his glare, but dean?

dean just grinned. “hey, don’t get all worked up, man. we got plenty done tonight.”

“yeah, i bet you did,” sam deadpanned.

the silence was painfully awkward.

finally, sam just let out a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, “i don’t even wanna know.” he turned on his heel, grumbling something under his breath as he walked to his bed, clearly done with both of you.

you and dean exchanged glances before cracking up, muffling your laughter into the blankets as sam shot you both a glare.

“idiots,” he muttered, flopping down onto his bed. “absolute idiots.”

still grinning, dean pulled you closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “totally worth it,” he whispered.

and honestly?

yeah. it was.

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester smut #x reader #fanfic #fan fiction

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 1 month ago

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A/N: Protective!Daryl won the poll by a landslide! So here it is, my babies! <3 Shane was in your face again, but you weren't backing down. "Why can't you just do a damn thing I ask you to? Huh?!" he roared at you. "It's always gotta be some discussion, while everybody else pulls their weight!"

The heat in your chest flared in an angry flame. "I don't remember voting for you as Camp fucking Dictator! And I certainly don't remember volunteering to wash your underwear and sweaty socks while you just prowl around with a gun acting like you're hot shit! I have no problem pulling my damn weight. Give me a job that isn't sexist as fuck!"

Shane sucked his teeth and then stuck a finger in your face, ready with another response, but he was never able to get it out.

Daryl was suddenly crashing out of the brush into camp and his blue eyes locked onto you and Shane instantly. "Hey!" he barked, charging directly over. He tossed down his gear carelessly and rushed Shane, shoving him hard in the chest to create space between you and stepping into it, effectively blocking him. "Get the fuck outta her face, man! The hell are ya doin'?!" he growled, nose to nose with Shane. "Think it makes ya a big man walkin' 'round here, tryin' to intimidate somebody half yer size?"

"Get out of here, Daryl," Shane growled. "This doesn't concern you."

"Nah, I think it fuckin' does. 'M righ' here where I should be," Daryl said. "What're ya gonna do? Hit me? Is that what you were plannin' to do to Y/N? Sometimes ya look like the type," Daryl spat, his broad shoulders rigid.

Shane's eyes narrowed angrily but he apparently thought better of it and let out a frustrated noise before stalking away.

Daryl turned to look back at you, his expression softening. "Ya okay?" he asked, retrieving his gear and slinging his bow back over his shoulder. You nodded. "Guy's a prick on a power trip," he grumbled.

"Yeah," you agreed. "Thanks for that."

"Sure," he said, nodding. "It ain't that ya needed it. But I didn't like how he was in yer face. I know yer plenty good at standin' up for yerself. I just couldn't let him get away with that shit."

You gave Daryl a small smile "I know. Thank you." You studied him as he picked through his gear again and righted things. "Hey, do you think you could teach me how to hunt and track maybe?" you asked suddenly. "Shane seems to think women are only capable of washing clothes and dishes..."

"Ya want me to teach ya?" You nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, 'course. Uhh—not sure how great of a teacher I'll be but—" He looked suddenly bashful and ducked his head.

"I've already learned so much just from going along those few times. You'll be great," you said encouragingly.

"If you say so."

#Protective!Daryl #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x y/n #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles

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seresinhangmanjake · 9 months ago

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His

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Summary: You used to be a Lady, a daughter of a Great House until Feyd took you. Since then, your sole purpose has been to warm his bed, but when Rabban asks about having you for himself, Feyd makes a choice that changes your future.

Words: 2600

Notes: Possessiveness. Grumpy Feyd. I know it's similar to another one of my fics, but I realized that after the fact, so...

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist

You didn’t sleep. Not a wink. You laid in his bed all night, waiting for the man who never came, and your heart didn’t cease its ferocious beats for a second. Where is he? Why isn’t he here? Is he ok? What happened? The sun rises without answers to those questions.

You shoot up in bed when the door eases open. Expecting to find him, you’re disappointed to see instead his harpies enter one after the other. They don’t look at you. One goes about riffling through your dresses in the closet, one heads into the bathroom and you suddenly hear a rush of water filling the tub, and the last of them goes to the vanity Feyd brought in for you, lining up makeup and hair pins that she intends to use on you.

The air about them is poised—an echo of who they used to be before they were turned into pets—as, for the moment, their vile, more carnivorous side lies dormant.

Feyd only allows them to near you a couple hours after they’ve been fed; the peak time between their hunger sated and their bellies rumbling. At any other time, your uniquely foreign scent wafts to their nostrils and they are incapable of holding themselves back. More than a handful of instances—when they’ve managed to manipulate the guards to open their cages with their seductive smiles—they’ve gone on the hunt for you; one time in particular, sneaking into the bedroom in the middle of the night and yanking you from Feyd’s arms with the intention of sinking their teeth into your flesh. Feyd had been so furious he’d cut a finger from each of their hands.

Still, they don’t scare you. You see in them women not entirely unlike yourself: owned, and therefore, changed. Soft are the women who have had the luxury of marriage and child-rearing in the comforts of wealth and beautiful homes—and good for them; how lovely to be soft—but it is the women who have not a choice in their existence that develop a steel shell. And you and the harpies have steel shells. In that way, they are your kin, and you try to subtly express that when you can, even though their allegiance to Feyd can make that quite difficult.

“Where is he?” you ask.

They ignore you, continuing with their tasks, and you huff. Yes, sometimes they refuse to speak with you, and always it seems when you need their words most. In the past, you’ve been tempted to dangle your arm in front of their sharpened fangs in the hope that the offering will encourage their cooperation, but you’ve yet to find the bravery for that. Plus, Feyd would lose his mind. Well, he would lose the rest of it.

“You’ve spoken to me before,” you continue. “Why not now?”

One of them stops and faces you. She glances at her sister who shakes her head.

“Tell me,” you plead.

“We are not permitted to speak with you on the matter,” the other says to your frustration. That is not good enough. Regardless of how he sees you and how you feel, he is the one thing keeping you alive on this lifeless planet and you refuse to go about your days worrying over his safety and what his disappearance means for your fate.

You throw the sheets off your legs and stand.

“I don’t care,” you spit as your silky nightgown falls at your ankles, but then you reconsider your tone. The harpies do not do well with aggression. Being so animalistic, their instincts are easily drawn out, and they tend to attack when attacked, which is not a fight you would win.

You take a calming breath, placing a hand over your heart. “We are the same. He owns us, he clothes us, he feeds us,” you remind them. “On this planet, I am as much your sister as you are each other’s. We all care about him in a way and if I knew what happened to him, I would have the decency to tell you.”

The harpy who drew your bath returns to the bedroom. Having overheard your words, she crosses her arms and says, “With respect, my Lady, we are not your sisters,” she says. “We have never had him the way you have, and he does not feel for us the way he does you.”

Your clenched jaw loosens, lips parting. If you had assumed anything about the relationship between Feyd-Rautha and his harpies, it was that they had once been where you are; that when you came along, they lost their rank and became something alike the handmaids from your home world. You’d assumed that when they warmed his bed, their handmaids were the women who entertained him before them, and so on like a disgusting, perverted pattern. But if that is not the case, then your sense of identity is even more confused. Not to mention, nary a soul has referred to you as ‘Lady’ since you were taken from your family. So why show that respect now when Feyd practically stripped you of the title months ago?

You look to the only one of the three who seems unsure of the situation. She’s biting her lip, worrying the fabric of your unworn gown between her fingers.

“What about you?” you ask her and her head lifts to meet your eyes. She’s the smallest of them—pixie-esque, like you read in fairytale stories as a child—and despite the core of their primal nature, the gentlest. “You want to tell me.”

The harpy by your vanity hisses, but the gentle one does not shy away at the warning. “She has been kind to us,” she tells her sister in the most self-assured tone you’ve ever heard leave her mouth.

The sister snaps back. “He instructed us to do one thing: get her ready for the day and act like nothing is wrong. It was not to tell her what happened.”

You lightly gasp. “So something has happened,” you state, feeling your heartbeat quicken. Your chest begins to rise and fall to match the rapid rate. “Is he ok?”

There are a few seconds of silent pause before Pixie stands a little straighter, setting her shoulders in a strong line. “Our Lord na-Baron was answering for the death of his brother.”

Your head jerks back. “Rabban?” you question, your brow pinching. “Rabban is dead?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“And Feyd is the one who killed him?” That doesn’t make any sense. While Feyd has complained enough for you to know Rabban is a bumbling idiot, he eventually found a way for his brother to serve a purpose. Why would he kill a man when he is no longer the nuisance he once was, you wonder, so you ask, “Why?”

“The Lord Rabban…made suggestions,” Pixie tells you. One of the harpies groans as the other shakes her head.

“What suggestions?”

She bites down and swallows hard, then she says, “He suggested that the na-Baron share you for his own pleasure.”

Instantly, you’re hit with a wave of nausea. Share? Share you? The concept of a foreign woman hopping between men of status is not unusual, but at this point, you assumed if Feyd were going to participate in something like that, he would have sent you off already. Not doing so didn’t even surprise you. He’s too possessive.

“You said he was answering for Rabban’s death,” you say, but answering for that surely wouldn’t have taken so many hours, not when the Baron saw Rabban as a waste of space. “So where is he now?”

—

He doesn’t notice when you step into the training room and you’re thankful for that. You came on a mission to extract more answers out of him, but you don’t mind having a second to admire him sparing against his trainer.

He’s sweaty. You like him sweaty—sweaty and bare-chested and perfectly, effortlessly mesmerizing as aggressive grunts leave his lips. You silently watch their violent dance, your form mouse-like by the door until his trainer looks up and halts to stare at you. Feyd whips around to follow his line of sight, then he sighs and turns back to the smaller man. He mutters something as he grabs the rag at his belt and runs it down his face.

The trainer leaves and Feyd places his knife back on the table among many others. “I told them to keep you away today,” he says dully, monotone, not meeting your eyes as he runs his finger over the blade and fiddles with the hilt. “Incompetent brats.”

“You didn’t come to bed.”

“I was busy,” he responds without letting a beat pass. He continues to avoid your stare and mess with the knives as if he’s never wielded them before.

You slowly step down the stairs into the pit of the room. ��Busy killing your brother?” you ask. The muscles in his back twitch and flex under pale skin as he grips the hilt harder.

“That is none of your concern.” The distance between you lessens until you’re a foot from his back, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Even though you killed him because of me?” you ask. His neck ticks and his head tilts and shifts to adjust to the tension. When he still doesn’t respond, you try another angle. “Why are your harpies referring to me as their ‘Lady’?”

That seems to do it. Feyd faces you, crosses his arms, and leans his lower back against the table. “You think spending one night without me gives you permission to be nosy?”

You don’t give in to his method of shutting you up by aiming to make you feel silly and guilty. Instead, your eyes narrow and you mirror the crossing of arms. “Why am I a Lady again?”

“You just are.”

“Are you sending me home?”

His eyes flash. Blue irises darken a shade. “Don’t be stupid.”

“So I’m a Lady on Giedi Prime?” you ask, dropping your chin to emphasize how ridiculous that sounds.

The edge of Feyd’s jaw sharpens as he clenches his back teeth. “Stop asking questions.”

“Then answer one,” you say.

It’s a shot taken by an untrained hand, as he doesn’t enjoy demands, especially not from you, but you figure you have nothing to lose in the attempt, so you don’t cower under his menacing glare. You wait. And much to your surprise, he surrenders.

He blinks, and when his eyes open, they have softened ever so slightly. Then he says, “You’re marrying me,” and everything from your lungs to your limbs freezes in shock.

“W–What?” you stutter. That makes less sense than Rabban’s sudden death.

Feyd groans and stands straight, his arms falling at his sides. “See what being nosy gets you?” he snaps. “I wasn’t going to tell you immediately, and you had to go and ruin it.”

He grabs a fresh knife and stomps his way over to a dummy, ready to attack something other than you for the insecurity that he can’t completely contain. You’ve never witnessed him insecure, but you know the feeling when you see it—the defense mechanism, the distancing himself, the grumbly attitude.

“I’m not sure I understand,” you press as he slashes and stabs at the soulless victim. “I’m marrying you because you killed your brother for wanting to fuck me?”

With a grunt, the dummy’s head severs from its torso and flies off in your direction. It rolls and rolls and stops just before hitting your feet. The dead eyes stare up at you in silent amusement. Now you’ve done it, they mock.

“I don’t ever want to hear those words come out of your mouth again, do you understand me?” Feyd growls.

Your eyes shoot to his. “The marrying you part or The your brother fucking me part?”

He tosses the knife aside. It clatters against the ground as he closes in on you. His hand wraps around your neck. “Don't test me,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “I will sew your damn lips shut if I have to.”

An empty threat if you’ve ever heard one. He would never harm you, but even if he were going to try, his fingers would need to be squeezing much tighter.

You roll your eyes. “Well then how am I going to suck your cock?”

Something about the tease stuns him. His tense features immediately settle and his whole body eases with his exhale. Glancing at your lips, he licks his own, and you think he might decide to kiss you—after all, it’s been a good twenty-four hours since the last one—but he doesn’t.

You snort. “Didn’t think that one through, did you.”

Long fingers unwrap from around your neck. “You’re not funny,” he mumbles with an odd sense of shame.

“If you don’t find me entertaining, can you maybe take the time to explain all of this better?”

Feyd considers keeping his mouth shut. You know him well enough to know that. However, it’s ridiculous to contemplate since he’s already spilled the bigger news. Nothing could be more shocking than you, after the bed-warming position you’ve held for months, becoming his wife.

“My uncle was going to take you away from me for killing Rabban,” he finally says. “So I told him I've had plans to marry you for the alliance and that's why I refused to share you. Rabban wouldn’t take no for an answer, so he had to die.”

Raising a brow, you say, “The Baron accepted that explanation? My House may be one of the Greats, but we do not offer much for Giedi Prime.”

Feyd shrugs. “My uncle enjoys anything that causes upset. Marrying me means we will always own something very valuable to your family.”

It would likely offend another, but you don’t mind being owned. While the Baron may believe the Harkonnens as a whole will own you, you belong to Feyd and Feyd alone. He’ll never allow anyone to hurt you and now he’ll never have to fight or argue with anyone to stake his claim, which works for you just fine, to say the very least.

“Thank you,” you say.

“For what?”

Your head tilts as you smile. “Caring enough to protect me.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” he says. “I didn't do it for you, I did it for my own benefit.”

Your sweet smile morphs into a smirk. “The benefit being that you get to keep me all to yourself…for the rest of your life.”

With a scoff, Feyd rolls his eyes and crosses his arms again. “Whatever.”

“Feyd…” you sigh, leaning into him.

“What?” he returns in his snarky tone as if he doesn’t want you near, but he doesn’t step out of the bubble of your space.

“I'm happy.”

A pink tinge sneaks onto his pale skin, and he quickly looks away. And before he has a chance to come up with some witty remark to smack you with, you grab his face and press your lips to his.

You hold on to him until he starts to kiss you back, and then he's reaching for you, pulling you close, wrapping his arms around you, and you know you won't be going anywhere for a good long while.

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha #austin butler #dune part 2 #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen x reader #feyd rautha imagine

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 6 months ago

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Unfinished Business

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Serial Killer!Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: talk of beating/raping women and children (implicit, just mention), near drowning/death, car crash

Summary: You’re the most wanted woman in the country, and the BAU finally has you in its grasp. You hunt and kill truly evil people but it doesn’t seem to matter to the authorities if the victims are rapists, killers, and abusers. You’re doing this country a favor and you’re not finished. It doesn’t matter if you’re caught or not. You’re going to find a way to continue your work.

Square Filled: criminal au (2022) for @spencerreidbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

Tick.

If the damn clock wasn’t bolted to the wall, you would have ripped it from the plaster and shattered it to pieces. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be at home snuggling with your dog who you presume is missing you. Your sister knows to take him in if she doesn’t hear from you within twenty-four hours so you have no doubt he will be taken care of.

Instead, you’re sitting handcuffed to a table in the BAU.

You’ve been on the FBI’s Top 10 Most Wanted for three years now for your notorious work in slicing up men and women who deserve it. Every single one of your victims was far from innocent, but the FBI doesn’t care if you’ve been cleaning house. All they care about is the fact you have hundreds of victims under your belt.

You’ve been killing since you were a child because your father got you into it. It started with random strangers on the highway (he was a truck driver and would pick them up). He’d get them talking and if he so much got an inkling that they were less than innocent, he’d kill them. He taught you to wear gloves, clothes that don’t fit you, shoes that were slightly too big for you, to always have a wig on, talk with an accent, and never trust anyone.

He was never caught and died almost a decade ago. Now you’re left to continue his work.

Men who rape. Men who kill for fun. Men who abuse. Women who abuse. Women who kidnap. They’re all fair game. You’re ridding the world of evil one person at a time.

The reason you’re sitting here and not at home drinking wine is that you decided it was best to work with someone to take down a small group of abusers. The group was small, maybe five or six men, but they went out and assaulted women at night and left them for dead. This other person who you shall not name knew your father and reached out to you. He wanted to work with you in bringing the group down and you trusted him enough to agree.

Your first mistake.

Your second is when you gave him the task of finding an easy way out in case something went wrong. Something did. There was another man in the house who called 911. Your “friend” got away. You got caught. When the FBI realized who they caught, you knew you wouldn’t be getting out of this alive. There have been two dozen confirmed victims of yours but you know that number is well into the three hundreds by now.

You’ve saved a bunch of men, women, and children from getting abused and hurt, and there isn’t a thing you’d change if you could do it all over again.

You’ve been sitting in this godforsaken room for nearly twenty minutes. Maybe that’s their tactic. Maybe they want you to slowly go insane so you’ll confess to more crimes. You were born at night, not last night. At best, you’ll get three consecutive life sentences. There is no way you’re going to ever see freedom… that is if you were completely alone in this. There is a reason why your father was never caught. He has friends on the inside that you can turn to, so you know you’ll be okay if you get sent to jail.

You tap the metal table with a perfectly manicured nail when the door opens and a black man walks in with a thick file in his hands. Damn, he’s not the one you were hoping would come in. The one who apprehended you was white, and he had the most beautiful brown eyes. Lean but not too skinny. Curly hair. Such beautiful features.

The man sits across from you and lays out pictures of men you’ve killed over the years. They are unsolved cases but the FBI doesn’t know that you’re responsible for them. You keep your eyes on the man as he lays out six photos of men.

“Where are they?”

“What, no introduction? No, ‘How’s it going?’ I don’t get any of that?”

“My name is Agent Morgan, and you’re going to tell me where you buried their bodies.”

“Bold of you to assume I killed them.”

Agent Morgan takes out six more photos and lays them underneath the men’s portraits. Each of the new photos is of their crime scenes. You left a lot of blood behind but none of it is yours.

“Do you know what a signature is?” You don’t answer. “You like to leave behind a name written in your victim’s blood.” In each of the photos, you can see the name you wrote on their walls or mirrors. “Femme Fatale. No one else does that but you. So, I’ll ask again, where did you bury their bodies?”

“Mmm. Ask me again. This time, add ‘please’,” you smirk.

“This is not a game, Y/N. Tell me where they are and maybe we can work out a deal.”

“I’m already seeing three consecutive life sentences for the murders you’ve already pinned on me. Unless your deal is me walking out of this building without so much as a scratch on my record, I’m not telling you shit.”

Agent Morgan nods and gathers the photos. He’s done. He knows he’s not going to get anything out of you right now. He opens the door to leave but you stop him before he can.

“When you’re ready to come back, bring in the cute one. I have a thing for brown eyes and curly hair.”

Agent Morgan all but slams the door on his way out. It’s an hour before someone comes back to you, and this time, it’s who you want.

“Ah, there he is,” you grin and sit up straighter.

“So, I’m the cute one?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Ooh, a doctor. I’m impressed. You look so young.”

Spencer opens a file and takes out pictures, different than the ones Agent Morgan showed you. They’re of your apartment, more specifically, the room you have hidden underneath your stairs. You have a basement in the house but the stairs to it are located underneath your staircase going to the second floor. The door is only accessed when you pull up the last step of the staircase. You had that installed when you bought the house so that your extracurricular activities can remain a secret.

Inside the basement are records of the men and women you’ve killed, where you’ve put their bodies, future victims on your list, and people you are suspicious of. You hate that they found that, but it doesn’t matter. You have many houses across the country and even one in Europe that all have the exact same information. If your father taught you anything, it’s to keep backups and backups of your backups.

The only difference is that every safehouse has a different list of different men and women. There are a lot of evil people on this Earth, and you’ve only worked in one country. Imagine what you’d find in Europe.

“We know you’ve killed more than two dozen. It looks like hundreds.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know that you’re smart--smarter than you’d have us believe. I know that you like to work alone. With a rap sheet like yours, you can’t trust anyone. It’s the reason you got caught. The one time you trusted another person, they let you down.”

“So, you’re not just pretty, you’re smart, too.”

“You can deny it all you want, but the facts are right here.”

“I’m not denying any of it. I killed them. All of them. You know where their bodies are. You don’t need a confession out of me which makes me think you wanted to see me.” You grin and lean forward as much as you can. “Isn’t that right, Spencer? You just wanted to talk to me.”

“I’m going to make sure you don’t see the outside of a prison for the rest of your life,” he whispers.

“I like it when you talk dirty to me,” you smirk and lean back.

“We will be transporting you to a high-facility prison before sunrise.”

“As long as you’re in the car with me.” Spencer doesn’t say anything and cleans up the photos from the table. Like with Agent Morgan, you don’t let him leave just yet. “I’m not a bad person, Dr. Reid.”

“According to your basement, you’ve killed over three hundred people.”

“Richard Sigler was raping his six-year-old daughter. Her own mother didn’t believe her when she told her about it. Benjamin Cross has beaten and raped ten women over the course of a month. He was about to add an eleventh victim when I caught up to him. Alexis Greene aided her husband in kidnapping three children. I was with my sister’s kids when she tried it with me. She never got to a fourth.” You rest your elbows on the table. “I never hurt innocent people.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything and leaves the room. It’s another two hours before you’re placed in the back of a car with Spencer behind the wheel. Luck must be on your side because you two are alone.

“What, no one else is going to join us?”

“They didn’t need to. It’s a short drive.”

“Lucky me,” you grin. “So, since I’ll probably never have a genuine conversation with anyone else, tell me about yourself.” Spencer doesn’t answer. “Let me guess, you’re a reserved know-it-all. Secret romancer? Kinky in bed?”

“Shut up,” Spencer sighs.

“Ah, so you’re kinky, huh? What are you into? Personally, I love being tied up. Choking is a big one.”

“Like I’m going to tell you what I’m into.”

“You don’t have to. I can read people pretty easily. You’re an open book.”

Spencer tries to focus on the road but it’s snowing pretty hard. He didn’t know there would be a snowstorm soon. He thought he’d be able to drop you off and return to the BAU before it hit. He turns the windshield wipers on but it doesn’t do much for the snow pouring down.

“Maybe we should pull over. Get nice and cozy in here,” you chuckle.

“And give you a chance to escape? No way.”

“I have cuffs on, Spencer. You’re the one in control. That’s one of your kinks, right? Being in control.”

“Okay, right now, I need you to shut up.”

You do only because the car is shaking. There must be black ice on the road, and Spencer is trying his best not to skid too much. Spencer doesn’t look nervous but you can tell by his labored breathing and the slight perspiration on his forehead that he’s nervous as hell. The only reason you are, too, is because there is a giant lake to the right of you, and you’ve seen too many movies where cars skid on black ice and end up in lakes.

“Spencer, maybe you should pull over,” you say seriously.

“Don’t tell me how to drive.”

The streetlights barely give Spencer enough light to see the road in front of him, and the snow piles onto the windshield faster than the wipers can remove it. Spencer jerks the wheel to the right to avoid a pothole when the car is caught on a sheet of black ice. The car spins in circles before plunging into the freezing cold waters of the lake. Spencer’s head slams into the steering wheel and is knocked out immediately. Water rapidly fills the car, too fast for your liking. You take off your seatbelt and squat onto the seat so you can slide your cuffed wrists underneath your feet. You’re very flexible for someone your age, and you’re thanking your sister for pushing you to do yoga.

You hop into the front seat and ram your elbow into the passenger window. When all you get is a bruised bone, you know you have to try something else before all of your oxygen is taken from you. After all you’ve done, you’re going to let something like this take you out. The water has reached your chest now, and you open the glove compartment for something hard to break the window.

This is a cop’s car, so they have the tools needed to break open windows. You grab the small tool and slam it into the window. It shatters immediately, and you quickly swim out of the window into the dark lake. You’re about to swim to the surface when you look back at Spencer. You can’t leave him there. He’s going to drown. He’s innocent.

You don’t hurt innocents.

You swim to the other side of the car and use the same tool on his window. You reach in and grab him only to realize that he still has his seatbelt on. The tool you have is also good for cutting seatbelts, so you slice his lap belt and pull him out of the car. It’s hard since you’re handcuffed but you have to get him out of the lake.

Your lungs burn from not having enough oxygen, and black spots start to form in your vision. No matter what, you have to get to the surface before you pass out. Just when you think you’re going to suck in a lungful of water, you break through the surface. You struggle to keep both your head and Spencer’s above water but you manage to swim to the edge of the lake. You push Spencer onto the ground and heave yourself next to him.

Shit, you’re freezing. You reach into his pockets and see if there is a key for your handcuffs. Again, luck must be on your side because there is. You unlock the cuffs and place one of them around Spencer’s wrists and the other to the very thin light pole next to him. You can’t have him following you. You look at Spencer’s face to see him paler than before with blue lips.

“Spencer!”

You lean over him, place your lips over his, and blow into his mouth. You pull back and start doing three chest compressions. You repeat the process five times before Spencer coughs up a bunch of water.

“Oh, thank God,” you sigh. “You’re alive.”

“What happened? How did you…?”

“Sorry, babe. I gotta go before they realize you’re missing.”

Spencer jerks his body only to realize he’s handcuffed to the light pole. You grin and hold up the key to the cuffs. You toss them over to him but they’re just shy of his feet. If he stretches hard enough, he’ll reach them but only after he gets his strength back.

“No, get back here right now or I’ll--”

“You’ll what? Arrest me?” You take a few steps before turning back to him. “Don’t take this personally. I have a list to complete. Oh, soft lips by the way. If things were different… As much as I like you, I really hope I don’t see you again.”

Spencer sits helplessly and watches you parade off into the night. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see you again but he’ll try like hell to make sure he does.

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fiction #spencer reid fan fiction #spencer reid fan fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst

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impish-baby · 2 months ago

Note

I've noticed you make alot of monster parent fics but what if it was switched :0

Monster reader being feared by others and yandere family just sees them as a baby

Mmm delicious!! This was fun to write, I think if I do another monster reader, they'll be a weird shape shifter thing >:>

Angel's Fables - Little red riding hood - 🐾🪓

"Oh, poor pup, you made such a mess.."

You barely register the cloth gently dabbing away at the blood around your mouth, too focused on the body laying on the floor a few feet away.

You were starving. Hunting is too hard most days, you're clumsy and startle the deer. Frail old humans at the end of their rope are easier picking, if only you hadn't been caught. Wolf fur is valuable, isn't it? A fearful whine leaves your lips as your ears pin back flat against your head.

The women only coos, dropping the hankercheif in favor of stroking your hair fondly. "You were just hungry, huh? It's ok, I'm not mad." She giggles, "We'll have to run you a bath though..I like red, but having blood all over my nice blankets is less appealing." You're still frozen stiff as she guides you to stand up and begins to lead you out of the hut, dread clawing at your chest.

You could bite her, shift, and make a run for it. There's a quiver strapped to her back though, you've seen just how fast an arrow can fly. Maybe if you just go along with her she'll make it painless.

The woman seems as happy as can be in comparison, humming merrily as she drags you along. It'll be so lame if your last moments are to a poor rendition of 'Mary had a little lamb'.

A cottage is apparently where you're headed. It's...quant. That's how you politely call something all word down, right? Rustic charm or whatever.

"See, I think I left some water boiling! You'll get a nice warm bath to clean you up." If you thought the house itself was small, the bathroom is tiny. The tub itself takes up half the room. "You stay right here, ok? Sissy will be right back!" She could just be crazy.

Looking around doesn't turn up anything interesting, you aren't given very long to search though before she busts through the door with a huge pot in tow. "Here we go.." It's at least enough water to fill the tub most of the way, hot too. "You be good and make sure you're not covered in all that dirt and grime." You're given a tiny smirk before she leaves, "I'll make dinner, it's good to know who was stealing all those rabbits from my traps." You hope wolf meat tastes terrible.

#platonic yandere #famial yandere #platonic yandere x reader #yandere x reader #you've got mail! 📨

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drgnflyteabox · 3 months ago

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red ochre [4]

series masterlist previous || part four -> orchil || part five -> kermes

> summary: double-edged swords, field trips, and wolf figurines > tags/warnings: religious & sexual guilt / shame, stockholm syndrome, inner turmoil, suicidal thoughts (minor), violent thoughts, oral (f), dubcon/noncon, stockholm syndrome, reader says "stop" / "no" but johnny continues, reader has some puritanical ideas about sex (virtue, virginity) but shes a nun so give her a break, power imbalance, thoughts of death/afterlife, self hatred, "little" used affectionately not as a size indicator lol

You wake up to the sound of a childs’ babbles the next morning, disoriented and confused - had sister Margery taken in another orphan girl to raise up in the convent? The softness of the bed beneath you betrays your confusion, rocking you slowly into reality as you blearily open your eyes.

Johnny sits at the table, cooing to a baby on his knee. He bounces them as they make sounds, soft happy ones that contrast with his muscles and scars and hair. In your observation of him you think about how a man so coarse-looking could be so soft to lay against, how he could go from sweet to firmer than stone in a moment. How his hands held you down not two days past, and soothed the skin that still ached as you shifted in bed now.

A conflicted series of emotions had risen in you since, and though something had calmed inside you, the primary tide was a pervasive sense of shame and it tended to overpower everything else.

“Who's that?” Johnny says, his voice high-pitched. “Is that my wife?”

He's cooing to the child, but still you burn and twist with too many things to dwell on lest you go mad.

Simon is nowhere to be found, but that's not been unusual in these winter mornings.

“Who's this?” You murmur, sitting up. Your woolen shift is warm, a soft red colour dyed by one of the village women that Johnny told you he'd traded for specially. Red ochre, he’d said, fingering the cloth. A beautiful muted red kind of colour.

A little like dried blood.

“Gaz's bairn,” Johnny says. “His house is gettin’ invaded by some rowdy boys, and the lasses’ are at the river.”

He must see the confusion on your face, because he adds, “boys are gettin’ ready for a hunting party.”

The baby shrieks, clapping clumsily as Johnny lifts a carved wooden toy up to them. He crinkles his eyes, looking between you and the baby. You want to discourage whatever thoughts he's having, so you stand and move to the fire, away from his wandering blues.

“Should I make something?” You don't dare look at him.

“So sweet of ye,” Johnny hums. “The baby eats eggs.”

You nod.

As you steadily become more awake, thoughts begin to cloud your mind.

Guilt is strange; it spreads like a plague, tainting anything you've decided to take some control of. Cooking, chores, talking cautiously with the men or allowing your heart to soften. The poison has grown from your first peak, spreading outward from your core and into your mind, leaving you worse off.

Simon hadn't done anything else, nor had Johnny. You'd cooked them lunch and breakfast, asked for sewing equipment for mending and receiving it promptly after. From Gaz's woman, Johnny had said. She says hello. Any contact outside of Johnny or Simon hadn't once crossed your mind, especially not since having sat on Simon's lap at the feast like a prize.

But you were a prize, a stolen woman, taken to wife. However you spun the narrative it was hard to get past that fact and harder still to get past that it might fulfill something inside you that nothing else could or could've. That perhaps you were tainted, and the taking had been because they saw it in you somehow. Sniffed the false servant of God as you worked, not anything by coincidence but guided by some instinct that told them you were just as bad.

Your little book, the one you missed dearly, the one piece of physical evidence that damned you.

Though God had never spoken to you back, you'd imagined in the convent that when you passed he'd simply show you the blasphemous, lustful evidence of your filthy mind and send you to burn.

Now you knew that He wouldn't have to do that. You'd simply burn without any chance, damned worse now by your treacherous cunt.

“-nun? Where's my little nun gone?” You turn, startled. The eggs are crisp, and darkening by the second.

You hurry to pull them out of the hot fat as Johnny watches you, still cooing and bouncing.

“Sorry,” you slide him a nearly burnt egg. “Can the baby still eat them?”

“Should be fine,” he tears the egg with his fingers, offering tiny pieces.

It's hard, but not too tough or burnt. Just browned, fried and crispy. You wonder if this could count as a sin, how nearly wasting food would weigh against coming on the fingers of a viking heathen.

The hopelessness gets you sometimes, gets you as you try to sleep and in moments like these. What option do you have? Adapt, or what? Sure, it's probably better to take advantage of their lack of extreme violence and make your predicament as best as possible, especially without an escape route and without the strength to fight them.

You feel watched, judged, observed on all sides. Giving in and navigating how to be a viking wife might be better than resisting forever, but the unseen eye of divine judgement and its gaze rests heavily on you. In fact, it's like it seeps into you through your skin and connects with the shame to compound both feelings.

“There she goes again,” Johnny says, but you hear him this time.

“I'm here,” you say. The baby smacks their lips, enjoying the egg despite its texture.

“No ye aren't,” his blue eyes are piercing, cutting through the fog of unease. “Ye getting all worked up again? I better not catch ye out back again.”

You shake your head, though he's right to think that way. Cleansing yourself has been on the back of your mind, not only the holy kind but what they can bring you with a different kind of force.

There's the sprout of desire that's grown bigger and bigger, as if some dry seed had always resided inside you and they had watered it back to life.

“I'm not,” you finally say, though too much time has passed and it's clear Johnny doesn't believe you.

The door opens and you're saved by the interruption. A new anxiety forms as multiple people enter, curling suddenly like a hook. Simon, Gaz, Gaz's wife and Price step in.

“Tyra,” Gaz says. “Where's my little Tyra?”

The baby shrieks again, reaching her hands out. You see the resemblance to both Gaz and her mother now, seeing them up close again. She claps for Gaz, her mother behind him and smiling at you gently.

“How are ye, Kari?”

“I'm well, thank you,” Kari says. She's always so soft, so glowy every time you see her. No wonder Gaz has scooped her up, you think you'd have also planted a baby in her belly if you were both able and a viking. Such thoughts sometimes arrested you at random in the convent, admiring the other women and dismissing them as silly.

You try not to put more weight into them now, as it doesn't serve your predicament.

But still, you admire Kari.

“And you?” her eyes soften.

“Well,” you parrot. There’s no way to explain how unwell you really are - or how your well-ness is causing that unwellness. It's confusing enough for you.

“She's settling in,” Simon says. He's trading looks like Price, whose beard is becoming a little overgrown.

Gaz takes Tyra, who babbles happily. For a moment it's like this place isn't all evil and temptation, but also love and care. It's easy to get lost in the image of Gaz and Kari making kissy faces to Tyra, who is unknowing of the world and happy to be in it.

They don't linger long. There are words exchanged that you don't pay attention to, hands clapped and Tyra kissed goodbye. You learn that she's nearly two, still a baby but getting bigger. Price teases the couple about their next as they leave, making Kari laugh a hearty laugh that fills you with warmth.

It evaporates a little when you're left with Simon and Johnny and silence, the atmosphere changing to something unfamiliar. This boundary you'd crossed with them has left you someplace awkward, with you mostly lost in your head.

Simon is good at getting you out of that space, but he's been gone often since the incident and Johnny's intensity tends to push you further inward.

He comes up behind you, now, and sets his heavy hands on your shoulders.

“She been like this all day?” He asks Johnny, who hums affirmatively.

Simon leans down, lips brushing the top of your head, hands squeezing your shoulders, before he pulls you backwards into his torso.

“Your god speaking to ya?” He asks.

“No,” you say honestly. “He's silent.”

“Silent, eh?” There's a chuckle, then two. They're heathens, you remind yourself. Heathens.

“Lamb, why don't ye spend some time with the wee lady Tyra?” Johnny scoots forward on the bench, touches your knee, smiles.

“Might do you some good,” Simon agrees. “‘specially since we're goin’ on a hunt.”

You pause.

“A hunt?”

Johnny nods.

“I'll be stayin’ behind,” he says. “Watch our little nun.”

Simon finally sits behind you, hands sliding from your shoulders to the softness of your upper arms, still squeezing.

“It's past time,” Simon says quietly behind you. He explains the yearly hunt, the walrus in the right location, the ivory they will sell and the oil they will gain for use. There's a whisper of something there, maybe longing, maybe not. You can't tell, not with his aloofness. He's closed off as a default, but he rubs your arms like he's comforting you and you decide to take it as such.

There's nothing left for you to say, so you just nod. You're still trying to resist taking on an intimate role, a wifely role, something that will make them think you've given up. You haven't yet, you might not. You have options, even if they're unpleasant or permanent.

A shiver passes through you. That isn't what you want. You're stuck, but you have to rationalize: it isn't what you thought it would be.

You've felt good. You feel good now. The remaining pain comes from the twisting, growing shame that slowly turns in a circle and ensnares your insides.

That, and the taking. It still feels unfair, feels wrong. If you think on it too hard you start to feel like a thing, not a person.

Johnny seems regretful that night, a mix of pride and love for Simon warring with his need to stay home with you. He sleeps in the middle, leaving you near the wall and opting to join hands with Simon through the night. These moments humanize them to you as well – to your distress, and to your softening.

They love each other in the way you've seen some of the villagers love each other, in the way that love is universal; it's a little different, because they're different, but it's tender nonetheless.

Love is luck, you think. Luck enough to find someone to be tender with in a world that is hard to live in, that is so utilitarian, so survival dependent.

Simon leaves the next morning with a group of hunters. Price leads the pack of them, slapping the backs of some of the younger ones who for them it'll be their first or second winter hunt, encouraging them. It's a mixed group with both men and women, younger and older, seasoned and green.

You stand beside Johnny at the door, watching the group move through the village until they are gone. Johnny tells you that they’ll ride horses, but they’re further out. Lest we smell the horse shite, he laughs. Got enough on our plate with Si. The joke has a thread of longing in it.

You’ve never been truly alone with either of them, you realize. Sure, a few hours here and there, but never for the days that Simon plans to be gone. Never slept alone with either of them.

Simon has been somewhat of a buffer, even if he’s the one who initiated the incident and carried it out. He balances the infinite well of restlessness Johnny has.

It’s frightening and comforting all at once. For one, you don’t feel like a bug pinned by its wings, even if that means you’re even more anchor-less than before. Simon is solid despite his surliness, and without him to steady the dynamic you worry.

“Ah dinnae know what to make,” Johnny bemoans. He wants to prepare some kind of gift as a surprise. “Already got too many statues.”

“Statues?” you ask, tilting your head towards him.

“Aye,” he nods, moving to a far corner of the house. He produces a little leather pouch, then little carved wooden figurines. One of them is a wolf, the other a bird.

“You made this?” you take one delicately in your hand, as if it would break. Statues, he said. They’re cute, clearly having been made with care.

Turning the wolf in your hand, you admire the polished shine of the wood.

“Aye,” he says again. “Si’s got too many.”

He spends a portion of the day puttering about, stoking the fire, sharpening various tools. You can’t tell if he’s restless because Simon is gone, or if you hadn’t noticed his restless nature as much because Simon was his outlet.

An urge rises in you, that screaming urge you know more intimately than anything else, awakened and restless like a hungry beast – it stirs as Johnny stokes the fire, crouched and with his back to you.

The only way to go if not out is in and you won’t. Push him in, you think. If you want out, push him in.

But you won't. There’s darkness at the core of you to be sure, but not that kind of darkness. Not the kind both he and Simon are steeped in. Violence, sadism maybe.

That would make you the other side of the coin.

The same swirling pattern of thoughts plague you even as Johnny serves you fish and more turnip for dinner, even as he pulls you into bed for that night and wraps himself around you.

You want to kick. To scream. To have a fit. Some insane, perverse fit; something that would have earned you an exorcism or an execution in the village. These thoughts come unbidden to you as you try not to feel the grasp of Johnny’s hand to your waist, nor the scruff of his beard on your throat.

Your identity has shifted, already. You aren't dead inside, not anymore. Not hoping for some outer force to take you away.

An outer force has taken you, and now you wrestle with the ramifications on your spirit.

It's unclean now, surely. But hadn't it always been?

Hadn't you willed this?

Happy faces appear in your mind. Kari. Tyra. Gaz. Price. Johnny. Simon is too hard to read, but the way he treats Johnny is enough to convey some kind of contentment.

And then the look at breakfast. The baby. Johnny’s gentle cooing, his attention. Simon’s hands squeezing you, reassuring you.

They contribute to the degradation of your spirit, to each rend of the glue that has held you together since first consciousness.

You try to hold onto the fear from before. Their words from before – behave and we won’t kill you. Does that still apply? Are you still under an ever present, looming threat? Were they only trying to get you moving?

Some part of you shudders to realize that it doesn’t feel that way. Even when they had sprung it on you to marry you, you hadn’t felt the same mortal fear as when they had absconded with you.

No, it had been hurt. Disappointment. The fear had shifted with your identity, staying present but becoming unfamiliar.

The you that they had taken was unfamiliar too. She’d have never built snowmen, nor ground her pussy into the hand of a viking and relaxed into another’s hold as you are now.

You wanted to live, you think. Even then.

A couple days pass. Johnny finally finds a suitable enough gift for Simon, a double edged blade he’s carving and sharpening.

The sight of it makes something tighten in your chest, so you avoid looking at it.

Between you both, it’s less awkward than you worried about. You come to a different understanding of him, one that comes from watching his independence without Simon. They truly do fit together, you think. Complement each other.

What about you? Are you here for them to have other options? A cunt, you think crudely. Something that gets wet without extra effort, something easy. You’ve certainly not made it hard. The thought puts you in another stink, frowning down at the pair of linen summer pants you’d found and started to mend.

“What’s this face ye got on?” Johnny steps up to you, setting the heavy blade on the table, and sitting.

You don’t speak, you just sew. Are you just a womb? Is that it?

“Awe, lamb,” he leans forward, hands finding the tops of your thighs and leaning on them. “So sour.”

When you still don’t respond, he reaches to take your sewing. You lose some bearing and prick him with the needle, frissy that he’s trying to take you out of your ruminations.

Provocative.

“Och,” he waves his hand, then laughs. “Prickly, are we?”

He forces the fabric from your hands, squeezing your hand until it opens with the needle and thread. You make some kind of irritated sound, like a growling cat, still half in reality and half in your mind.

“Ye’ve been stuck,” he pokes your forehead. “Stuck here, eh? Let me fix that.”

And then you’re pulled up to your feet, steered to the bed, and pushed before you can adapt.

“Simon’ll have’tae forgive me,” he murmurs. You’re sat on the edge, looking down at him with a frown.

“What-” you make a strange, caught off guard squeaking sound as he pushes you by the shoulders, lifting the edge of your dress.

“Sh,” he says sharply. “Should’a done this days ago.”

“Wait- don’t-” you slam your knees shut, trying to sit back up. Something sharp you can’t name explodes outwards from your chest, sharp spikes pricking your lungs and your heart, twisting.

Your struggle is mostly futile, though it’s easier that Simon isn’t here. Your arms flail, your legs scoot you away up the bed.

“Noo-” you try again. Your fear stems mostly from the uncertainty of what he’ll do, of the fear that he’ll steal the last true thing you have; your virtue.

“Relax,” he strong-arms you into lying down, arms crossed at your chest and his huge hand keeping them pushed down.

He positions himself parallel to you, replacing his hand with his bigger knee, his face right where he wants it.

“Ye should’ve asked me, lamb,” he murmurs, then kisses the hair above your pussy. Your stomach tightens, breath coming out in strained gasps from the combined weight of his knee and your shame.

You’re wet.

“I won’t smack ye if I don’t have tae,” he says. His hands rub up your hips, then your thighs, before coming up to your pussy and spreading your lips open.

Your clit strains in the open air, a cool breeze from the gaps in the door making it jump. He watches for a moment, cruelly, listening to the sound of your laboured breathing.

Then he dives in, tongue first. Because of the angle, his tongue dips down towards your hole while his lower lip catches your clit, making you gasp.

“Let me,” he hums, pauses. “Let me take care of ye, lamb.”

And God, he does. Johnny licks over you like a starved man, sucking your labia before flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit again as sounds come out of you like someone is pounding a fist into your chest.

He slurps your wetness obscenely, using his fingers to scoop whatever leaks from your hole as best he can and bringing them to his mouth to suck clean. He murmurs fervently about how good you taste, how he can smell the desperation from you.

“So neglected,” he sucks the wetness from your hair, even. “Forgive me.”

He’s talking to your cunt again, leaving you trembling against the bed and tightening, tightening, rising, rising–

He stops.

You damn near scream, but the sound gets trapped where he’s still putting his weight on you.

“I’m gonnae move, and yer gonnae stay right there all sweet for me, aren’t ye?” he turns to look at you, and though you can hardly see him you nod.

He lifts off, making you grunt involuntarily, then switches positions so he’s on his hands and knees nearly on top of you.

“Open those legs,” he says. Leans down to kiss your sternum over the fabric of your dress. “Let me ease yer mind.”

You can feel yourself falling further from grace, but God help you – you open your legs.

Johnny keeps eye contact as he slides down, getting on his stomach with those piercing blue eyes cutting through you.

When his mouth touches your cunt again, you feel yourself start to shake, growing more insane by the second. His tongue touches your hot, swollen flesh, dragging wetly against everything sensitive. He’s like an animal, you think. A heathen. No wonder these people have not seen God’s light. No wonder it does not reach here.

Something so sinful, so good, couldn’t possibly exist in the puritanical world you’d been taken from.

God, you think again, body twisting against the sheets, is this really what they kept from us?

“Please,” you cry out. Please stop? Please continue? It’s a plea for more than just Johnny, more than God. It’s a question that burrows deep in your mind and begs you to understand yourself, to untangle, to feel and release.

And oh, you’re breathing, breathing in, breathing in perhaps for the first time in your life. You wrench his hair in your fists, uncaring, screaming into the cold winter afternoon without a care. Your back arches, tilting your cunt further into his face, legs straining, gushing. Blood rushes in your ears, deafening you, once again turning the world into a small point where you can neither hear nor see.

All you can do is feel, ride, undulate. This is that fit you’d wanted earlier, it’s some insane hysteria, some sin that feels like ecstasy.

Your nipples tighten, stimulated by the chill of the air and the scratch of your woolen dress. Your peak is maddening, drawn-out and pushed further by Johnny’s lips suctioned around your clit and sucking in hard.

The moment you truly finish, when the stimulation turns to discomfort, you release his hair and push at his head.

“Stop,” you gasp. “Stop it.”

He doesn’t. His hands find your thighs, holding you open, running his tongue from your clit and then piercing it into your hole. His nose rubs on you, and though tears spill from your eyes you grind into it, crying for him to end it.

“One more,” he grunts.

“No,” you moan. Then you peak again, mouth open in a silent scream and eyes screwing shut, the fusion of sharp, near-painful pleasure and actual, overstimulated pain brings you a climax you could have never imagined of on your own.

You weep again as he pulls away, feeling raw and tender.

Boneless.

You wake in the middle of the night bundled and in both furs and arms. You’re pleasantly sore, pulsing a little still between your legs where Johnny’s thigh keeps you company. He’s so warm, so comfortable, that it’s easy for you to fall back asleep.

You wake again in the early morning, so early that the light of dawn hasn't yet breached the cabin.

Johnny snuffles behind you. Nose on your shoulder, hands migrating to rest just below your breasts.

“Mmmlamb,” he murmurs.

Your muscles are heavy, still. Weighed down with relaxation. It's true that you had gotten worked up, and that his actions had helped. You don't find any shame, not now. You've found a rare pocket of respite.

Simon is due back in a day or two unless there are extenuating circumstances. A winter storm, maybe. Or an errant predator.

What would life look like if he never returned? It’s an uncomfortable thought. You’re still on the edge of how you feel, teetering between extremes, but you rely on them both for survival.

Where could you go? Even when you’d ran, the plan had been borne of heart, not mind. Without Simon or Johnny, you’d be in a terrible precarious situation.

Without Simon permanently? You weren’t sure.

You very slowly extricate yourself from Johnny’s arms, sliding out of bed and into the cold air. The fire is just coals, so you add a few pieces of wood and stoke it for the day. In the dark, you can see the reflection of the fire in the sword Johnny had left on the table.

You pad to it, staring, curious and afraid. It looked orange from the fire, only darker. It looked like your beautiful red ochre dress, your blood dress.

You reach your fingers out and stroke along the blade, breathing shallowly in the dark.

Dawn breaks.

#Johnny's mouth🤝hitachi magic wand #sorry this took a while #nun finally gets her pssy ate<3 #she deserves it #this chap is very johnny-heavy #someone get him brown eye contacts please he's scaring the nun</3 #soap x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #ghoap x reader #cw dubcon #cw noncon #18+ mdni #red ochre

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