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I made this, please feel free to use

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TOM HIDDLESTON as Loki Laufeyson In LOKI season 2

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“Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”

Daryl Dixon + Game of Thrones

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The Promise of Us: Chapter 2

You

You’re running through the woods, the darkness swallowing you whole. Branches whip at your face, clawing at your skin, snagging your clothes, pulling you back with every step, but you keep going, your feet pounding against the ground in time with the wild rhythm of your heartbeat. It’s so dark, too dark to see anything ahead, but you push forward, arms outstretched, desperate to find something—anything—to hold onto.

The world around you feels like it’s closing in, the trees becoming thicker, the air heavier. Your breathing is ragged, shallow, but no matter how hard you try to fill your lungs, the air doesn’t come fast enough. Panic rises in your chest like wildfire, spreading through you as your legs burn with the effort of running.

Then suddenly, you’re falling. The ground disappears beneath your feet, and your palms slam into the earth, the impact shooting pain up your arms as rocks and twigs dig into your skin. You try to push yourself up, but before you can, hands are on you—strong, overwhelming, and suffocating. They grip your legs, pulling you back, dragging you down.

Your heart slams against your ribs, panic and terror blurring your thoughts into a chaotic storm. You try to scream, but no sound comes out—your throat tightens, the air trapped in your lungs. You thrash, trying to break free, but the hands are relentless, pressing down harder, heavy and inescapable.

They’re on top of you now, a crushing weight that pins you to the ground. The hands shift, wrapping around your neck, squeezing tighter and tighter. You claw at them, fingers scrambling to pry them off, but they only tighten, cutting off your breath, making your vision blur. You try to scream again, but it’s useless—the pressure on your throat chokes off any sound. Everything is moving too fast, spinning out of control, and you’re helpless against it, trapped in this suffocating grip.

Your body shakes with the effort, fear twisting your insides into knots, but no matter how hard you fight, the hands stay, crushing, suffocating, pulling you deeper into the darkness.

Suddenly, there’s warmth—hands on you again, but these are different. Gentle. Your breath stutters as the darkness begins to fade, replaced by something softer. You blink, gasping as your eyes flutter open to find Daryl’s face above you, his blue eyes filled with worry. The stars twinkle behind him, scattered across the sky, but all you can see is him. His hands cradle your head, his touch grounding you, bringing you back from the nightmare. Without a word, he shifts, pulling you closer, his poncho already draped over both of you like a shield against the cool night air. He wraps his arm around your back, his other hand still resting on the side of your head, stroking gently, soothing. You feel his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, and slowly, your breath begins to steady, though the remnants of fear still cling to you like shadows.

He pulls you tighter, holding you as close as he can, and you let him, sinking into the safety of his arms, the quiet night settling around you like a blanket. His touch is gentle, grounding, the roughness of his calloused fingers somehow comforting against your skin.

The world feels small here, just the two of you under the wide-open sky, covered by his poncho like a shared cocoon. Your heartbeat finally slows, falling into rhythm with his, but the dread still lingers just below the surface. Even as your body relaxes, your mind races, the memory of the dream still vivid, still too close. You feel like if you close your eyes again, it’ll pull you right back into that suffocating darkness.

“I’m here,” Daryl whispers, his voice low and rough, but so certain. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt ya.”

You nod against his chest, but deep down, the fear doesn’t fade completely. You can’t shake the feeling, that gnawing sense of helplessness that crawls up your spine. You don’t want to close your eyes again. Not tonight.

So you stay there, wrapped in his arms, your cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat as the stars continue to twinkle above. Safe for now, but still holding on, like letting go might pull you back into the nightmare. And for tonight, you let him hold you, breathing in his warmth, never wanting to close your eyes again.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

The next morning, you’re moving quickly, feet taking quick, shuffling but purposeful steps in the courtyard of the prison. You’re huddled back to back with Rick and Daryl, hand weapons drawn, the sound of rattling snarls surrounding you. Your heart pounds hard with the familiar rush of adrenaline. Rick is on your left, breaking rank for a split second to lunge at an oncoming walker in a tattered blue jumpsuit. He swiftly takes it down before returning to your side, hands raised and ready for the next one. To your right is Daryl, his dirt-streaked face so focused you’re certain nothing could pull him out of the moment now. Rick calls to you as he takes down a few strays, and you leap forward, driving your knife up through a walker’s neck, straight into the brain stem. The quickest way.

You’re back next to Daryl, who lunges forward in his own attack, gripping the collar of a walker’s shirt and plunging his knife deep into its skull.

The sounds of Glenn, Maggie, and T-Dog’s footfalls on the cement and grunts of effort echo around you as the group continues pushing forward into the courtyard. Along the fenceline, Beth, Hershel, Carol, Carl and Lori shout and bang on the fences, drawing walkers to them to thin out the ones in your path.

“Don’t break rank!” Rick growls, but T-Dog is already off, grabbing what looks like a plastic ballistic shield. He slams it into a walker, knocking it to the ground with a heavy thud. As the walker falls, Maggie scrambles forward, driving her machete into its skull. Rick’s voice rises with frustration as he calls them back into formation.

It’s quiet for a moment as the group gathers under the shelter of a bridge, moving into the shadow of a nearby tower. Rick quickly glances around the corner before flattening himself against the wall, his arm flinging out to shove you back as well. He raises his hand to signal the others behind him, and in an instant, T-Dog, Maggie, and Glenn press themselves up against the side of the wall. Daryl lingers behind, crossbow up and ready.

The snarls of at least 50 walkers echo ahead, a low, ominous growl that sends a wave of unease rippling through you. You groan internally as your heartbeat surges in your throat. You glance over at Maggie, seeing her gulping down breaths, pressed into the wall as tightly as she can.

And then, from the far corner of the courtyard, comes a sight that makes your heart stutter: walkers in full ballistic PPE—helmets, shields, body armor—lumbering toward you. You swallow hard, trying to steady your breath as more of them turn in your direction. Instinctively, Daryl fires at one, but the arrow merely bounces off the helmet and clatters to the ground.

Another walker stumbles out from a door near you, its face hidden behind a gas mask. Its decayed skin, barely clinging to its bones, bulges grotesquely beneath the mask as it stares you down with lifeless white eyes. You shove hard against it, but the weight of its gear makes it stagger only slightly before it lurches forward again, toppling on top of you.

Red-hot anger and fear blur your vision as you struggle beneath its weight, pushing against it with all your strength. It’s heavy, almost immovable, and your lips curl back in a snarl as you hit it again, your strikes futile against its armor. The only saving grace is the helmet, keeping its teeth from sinking into your flesh.

With all your might, you manage to push the helmet back, just enough to expose its neck. In one swift motion, you drive your knife into the soft flesh, up into the brain, and the walker goes limp. Gasping for breath, you pull yourself out from beneath the body, quickly regaining your footing.

You sprint to catch up with the others, who are still battling their way forward. More walkers, their faces hidden behind helmets, approach, but you’ve already figured out how to take them down. You shove the helmets back, holding them just long enough to plunge your knife up through their jaws, killing them one by one. The others see you, and without a word, they begin to follow your lead, swiftly dispatching the armored walkers in the same way.

Finally, the wave of walkers slows. Daryl and Rick secure the inner fence, trapping another 20 or so walkers on the other side, their black and blue fingers clawing through the chain link, snarling but contained.

“We’re good!” Rick yells, falling back towards a gate that leads up and inside. Daryl moves in front of you, his eyes scanning you up and down. You follow his gaze to the thick smear of black goo coating your front—the walker’s blood from when it was on top of you.

You shrug, offering no real explanation, and follow the others inside.

It’s eerily quiet as you make your way inside the fortress, each footfall echoing around you. Your knife is up, ready, the tension coiling in your muscles. The clang of metal doors opening reverberates loudly, sending a sharp noise through the space that makes you cringe. If anything’s still in here, it knows you’re coming now. But for the moment, all you hear are the light steps of the group moving across the cement floor, eyes wide, scanning every corner, ready to strike.

The room you step into looks almost like a common area, benches and lockers lining the walls. It’s unsettlingly calm compared to the chaos you’ve just been through. Above, you see Rick climb into a tower, the metal groaning under his weight. When he comes back down, you hear the faint jangle of keys in his hands.

Rick moves toward a set of metal bars leading into the cell block, the large letter "C" painted on the opposite wall. The cold, damp air hits you as soon as the door swings open. Cells stretch along the left side, dark and dank, while large windows on the right let in just enough sunlight to give the place an eerie glow. It’s two stories tall, and you crane your neck, taking it all in—the size of it, the silence. At the far end of the second floor, there’s an open space landing before it turns onto the upstairs cell block. 

Everything seems to echo in here, every sound bouncing off the walls, amplified. You wince at the clang of your boots on the rickety stairs as you follow Daryl up to the second floor. Each noise feels like a threat, but you press on, checking each cell.

A sudden growl breaks the quiet, and you jump back, your heart racing as two decayed hands reach out through the iron bars of a closed cell. But Daryl, unfazed, sidesteps the walker, bringing his crossbow up as he shimmies past. You press yourself against the railing, staring at the prisoner who died in his own cage, now doomed to spend eternity clawing at the bars. More snarls rise from the cells around you, and after a moment, you glance at Daryl. Wordlessly, he gives you a nod, and you step forward, raising your knife. One by one, you quiet the walkers, plunging your blade into their skulls, ending whatever miserable existence they had left.

When the top floor is clear, Daryl grabs the walkers by their jumpsuits and flings them down to the first floor, their bodies hitting the ground with a heavy thud. You hear someone dragging them out of the block, and with the upstairs secured, you and Daryl descend the stairs.

“What do ya think?” Rick asks, standing at the bottom, his eyes shifting between you and Daryl.

“Home sweet home,” Glenn chimes in from behind Rick, and you feel a ghost of a smile tug at your lips. You offer a small shrug in response to Rick’s question. His gaze passes over you and lands on Daryl, and with a simple nod, Daryl confirms that the upstairs is clear.

As the group starts to file in, the questions begin: Is this place secure? What about the rest of the prison? Do we sleep in the cells?

“I found keys on some guards,” Rick explains. “Daryl has a set too.”

At that, you feel a gentle tug on a loose strand of your hair from behind. You turn to find Daryl standing there, his eyes already on you. He flicks his head toward the stairs behind him. “I ain’t sleepin’ in no cage,” he mutters, his voice low.

You exchange a brief look, understanding passing silently between you. Without another word, the two of you head back up the stairs as Daryl calls out to the others, “We’ll take the perch.”

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

You hear the others settle in around you, the faint shuffling of people picking cells to lay down their things. The quiet sound of belongings being placed echoes lightly in the air, but it’s all background noise now, distant.

Daryl grabs a cushion from a nearby cell, dropping it on the floor with a soft thud, followed by the clang of his other gear. You sit down beside it, a long sigh of relief escaping you. The weight of the past hour–hell past few months– weighs on you so heavily that the discomfort of the cold, hard floor barely registers anymore.

“I’m so exhausted, I don’t even care,” you whisper, your voice barely cutting through the stillness.

Daryl lies back, stretching out on the cushion as a pillow, his eyes fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you closely, studying your face as though he’s trying to read what’s behind your tired expression. His gaze lingers, softer than usual, and after a moment, he lifts his left arm, fanning it out beside him, silently inviting you in.

Without a second thought, you accept it. You lean down, your head finding its place against his chest and shoulder. The tension in your body begins to fade as you settle into him, his warmth and presence offering a sense of safety that has been missing for too long. His arm wraps around you, and his hand begins to lightly stroke the bare skin where your shirt has ridden up, his touch gentle but steady.

The silence stretches on, comfortable, filled with only the sound of your breaths mingling together. It feels like, for once, you’re allowing yourselves to enjoy this rare moment of quiet security within the four walls of the cell block. The tension that normally hangs in the air between survival and uncertainty slips away, leaving just the two of you, cocooned in a sense of safety that’s hard to come by these days.

Daryl shifts slightly beneath you, still tracing slow patterns along your back. You can feel the slight tremor in his chest as he exhales, and then he moves, turning his head to look down at you. His eyes search your face, like they always do, as if he’s trying to understand something that words can’t reach. There’s something in his gaze—something urgent, almost like he needs to be sure you’re still here, still with him.

He leans in then, slowly at first, his breath warm against your cheek. The moment lingers, heavy and soft all at once. And then he kisses you—urgent but tender, his lips pressing against yours with a sweetness that surprises you. It’s not practiced or polished, but there’s a quiet intensity behind it, like he’s been holding this back for longer than either of you realized. 

Your breath hitches for a moment, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten as you melt into him. His hand slips up your back, drawing you closer as his kiss deepens, still unhurried but full of quiet need. The kiss begins to turn less tentative, as though he’s letting go of whatever restraint had held him back before, eager to finally share a close moment with you. His hand moves up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer, his lips moving against yours with a quiet desperation, like he needs this moment as much as you do.

Over the months that passed between then and now, you and Daryl had gotten to know each other in ways that felt deeper, more intimate. His lips had become familiar to you, like second nature, but every time you pressed into them, it still felt like an electric shock beneath your skin. Kissing him was as far as things had gone, though—circumstances never allowed for anything more.

The constant need for safety, always being surrounded by others, kept you both cautious. The looming threat of danger around every corner smothered any flicker of anything else that might have risen in moments like this. There was never enough time, never enough peace, to let things go further. But in those stolen moments, the connection between you still burned, leaving you craving more, even if the world wouldn’t allow it. 

Your heart beats faster as you press into him, responding to his kiss with equal urgency. His free arm tightens around your waist, pulling you fully against his chest as you shift, turning toward him. His lips part against yours, and you can feel the heat between you building, the tension no longer the kind that comes from fear or survival, but from the undeniable pull between you.

The kiss deepens even more then, slow but full of need, his mouth moving hungrily against yours. His hand slides down your back, holding you firmly in place as your bodies press together. You can feel the roughness of his fingers against your skin, the contrast between his strength and the tenderness of his touch. It sends a shiver down your spine, your breath catching as you lose yourself in him.

Daryl shifts, his other hand slipping to the side of your neck, his thumb brushing against your jaw as he tilts your head slightly to deepen the kiss even more. There’s an urgency now, like neither of you can get close enough, like the time you’ve spent just trying to survive and the unspoken distance between you is finally catching up to this moment, spilling over into the space that connects you here.

You can feel the heat of his breath against your lips, the softness of his mouth giving way to a more passionate rhythm, his desire clear in every movement. His kiss is a mix of need and affection, a slow-burning fire that makes your skin tingle and your pulse race.

Your hands find their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. His grip on you tightens in response, and you let yourself fall completely into the kiss, into him, the rest fading away. 

For the first time in what felt like forever, the walls around you offered enough safety to let the world outside disappear, leaving just the two of you, lost in each other.

note: I don't think I'll continue making summaries & chapter titles, but plz lmk if you prefer them!

And also, I'm so excited to continue writing kissing scenes between these two omg I was trying so hard last story to not do them too often :')

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

Older boyfriend Price who is absolutely DISTRAUGHT over the fact that you don’t care about marriage because you think he’s over it.

Note: this one has no smut but it has mentions of sex and sexual relations so interact at your own discretion. Reader is in mid twenties.

Masterlist

“What the fuck do you mean by you don’t want to?” If Price had been any louder, anyone outside his car would’ve been able to hear him.

It had been a few months into your relationship with Price after almost a year of being friends with benefits. You weren’t sure how your arrangement changed over time but you were glad to be with him as he valued you a lot.

“I mean, think about it. You’re like, what? 40-“

“I’m 37, love”

“Right, yeah, I just think that it doesn’t really matter as long as we’re having fun together. Honestly, I thought you’d agree.” You said before taking a bite out of your burger.

Price could only watch you in shock. Sure, your relationship started on the basis of sexual benefits but when he did think of the future all he thought of was you. Even if you were a generation younger than him, he had never felt such synergy with anyone before. It was a connection of a lifetime - emotional and sexual.

“So you don’t give a shit about marriage because you think I don’t care about it.”

“Kind of. If I’m gonna get married I need my partner to be on board too, don’t you think?” He sighed at your reply. You looked up at him, confused and cheeks full with your dinner as you grabbed the plastic cup of coke.

His heart swelled at the sight. It was like looking at an innocent chipmunk. To think that the same face looked fucked out an hour ago awed him but he couldn’t let himself get distracted by your unintentional seduction.

He grabbed your drink and put it back in the cupholder. You were about to whine but he grabbed your face and pulled you close, noses almost touching.

“You-“ peck “-are the most wonderful thing to happen to me and I’ll be damned if I don’t tie you down with me in the future.”

Your face heated up. You had swallowed your food not too long ago but your mouth felt like it had gone dry.

With your face in his hands he continued. “I’ll have a rock on your pretty little finger before you know it.” He left a longer peck on your lips this time and pulled away.

What you didn’t know was that he already had a ring for you. It was stored away in a hidden drawer in his desk, waiting to be worn by you.

In fact, he had brought it just a month into your relationship. He wasn’t religious but he knew that a person like you was the blessing of a lifetime.

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Ring Of Fire (Lucifer x Female!Reader) pt.2

a/n: we're taking a turn for the weirder, next chapter will be slightly more comfort than hurt (you know, as much as i know how to write comfort). for now, all we have is darkness and edginess. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (wow that never fking happens on this blog), Soulmates, Emotional Torture, Biting (not the sexy kind), like...a teeny tiny smidge of cannibalism.

Summary: The psychological torment of being chosen for the Devil tips over as he visits you in your sleep.

PT.1

At first, you're not aware that you're dreaming. A strange haze falls over your vision, as if you've just woken up from a devastating fever. Your limbs sway slowly, like you're treading through honey. It fascinates you, the way the light of a streetlamp flickers over your fingers, as you raise your hand. Bare feet on the concrete, your toes contract, pebbles stuck to the skin. The air feels weird on your skin, like liquid pouring over your form in an invisible cascade. It feels real enough, yet so far away. 

You remember falling asleep on Bobby's guest bed, brought down by the events of the night. What were those events, you couldn't remember, but you can smell smoke swirling in your nose and your eyes are puffy with tears. You sniffle, swipe your hand across your face and feel as if by this simple gesture, your skin has been pulled like fresh taffy. Perhaps you have died in your sleep. The thought is, for some reason, incredibly funny to you, and from somewhere far away you can hear a voice, strangely similar to yours, giggle. It echoes through your skull like a church bell, and you groan at the reverberating sound. 

- Crossroads? Really? - you turn around without any grace in your movement, as another voice rings out right next to you.

Your breath catches in your throat and you can feel all the muscles in your body constric, then relax forcefully, as if some invisible strength was trying to keep you docile. 

There he stands. So human, so plain, it tugs on your heart in a way you were not expecting. Lucifer. His hands clasped in front of him, red spots and abrasions decorating his skin in a grotesque display. Sick, your brain supplies, he looks sick, as if he's starting to rot where he stands, and suddenly, in this strange dream the worst possible feeling comes to surface. You pity him, truly and deeply. Normally you'd jot it down to caring for the poor man he has chosen for his temporary vessel, but here, where reality doesn't exist, you can't force yourself to entertain this lie. Your fingers flex at your sides, a need to heal, to help, pushing at them to come forward, to cradle his face like he did to yours.

God help you, you wanted to help this monster.

Then, his words register in your brain, and you finally look around.

You're in the middle of a cement road, somewhere you don't recognize, and sure enough, there is a crossroad. You haven't been to one in such a long time. Not since Dean got dragged to hell and pushed by grief, you were about to do something unbelievably stupid. You remember begging. Actually begging a demon to take your soul, to save your friend, only to be met with a cruel laughter and emptiness so profound, it nearly broke you. Shame washes through you like a sudden wave, and you try to keep some integrity by encircling your chest with your arms. It does you little to no comfort, and Lucifer cocks his head to the side, as if he's in tune with your emotions. 

- Do you dream of this place often? - Lucifer asks, walking around you at a slow pace.

You don't know how to respond. Do you? Perhaps that is the case, perhaps somehow you've always had some sort of connection to the crossroads, where the most wicked of deals were made. Perhaps it was all his fault, from the very beginning. You nod, once, not trusting your own voice, and the Devil flashes you a quick smile, before his expression darkens, as if he's deeply in thought. There are prominent shadows falling over his face, his eyes sunken even more than you remember. 

- I can't find you - he finally looks up at you, and your heart stops just for a second - You're invisible to me, I wonder, why is that?

Castiel, you immediately think, and you have to look away from him at the memory of your friendly neighborhood Angel carving Enochian symbols into your bones. It's almost like you can feel them, beneath your skin, beneath the muscle and the guts. Not hurting, not really. Just, there. A constant reminder, that you're hunted by a being that feels entitled to your very existence. Being, which is currently taking small steps towards you, looking over your body as if you were a piece of prime meat in a display case at a grocery store.

- You're hiding from something you cannot stop - he says, and you feel the coldness of his breath on your collarbones - It's Dad's will after all. 

That, for some reason, wakes you up from your previous stupor. Shaking your head, you try to take a step back, a litany of "no's" spilling from your lips. To that, he frowns, grabs at your shoulders to keep you in place, and with a sudden wave of horror you realize, you can't move. And you want to move so badly, your body feels as if it's tearing itself in half. White fire, cold burning floods you, when his hands make contact with your skin, fingers skimming over the flesh of your arms, dragging down and down, until they grab at your wrists. 

- I don't want this - there's conviction in your voice you were not expecting, because truly and deeply, you fucking hate this situation, this responsibility which has been placed upon you without your knowledge or consent.

Lucifer laughs an airy laugh.

Gently, as if you're a porcelain doll, he brings your hands closer to his face. He maneuvers your fingers, eyes watching with fascination at the way your knuckles move under your skin. The tendons, the veins, he swallows it all with a greedy gaze, and the coldness of his breath makes hairs stand at the back of your neck. 

- I'm not particularly thrilled by this revelation myself - he whispers to your fingertips - I mean, isn't this insulting? To force me to care for a thing I swore to hate.

You shudder at the sudden harshness in his voice, and his hands dig further into the meat of your wrist. Reminding yourself that this is just a dream, you try to steel your nerves, focus on leveling your breathing, on freeing yourself from his grasp. It's harder than you anticipate, trying to collect any sort of self-preservation, while your mind is cradled by the smothering blanket of whatever dream-magic has been placed on you. 

- But then again, I am a child of an absent father - something akin to mirth flashes through his face, and as he looks up at you, eyes gleaming with something you're too scared to decipher, you're convinced you'll never truly escape him - And such a gift... - he sighs deeply within his chest, pressing the scarred surface of his cheek to your palm - Well, who am I to deny it?

Your face twists into an expression of disgust, and with a whine, you tear yourself away, craning your body as far from him as it is willing to go. Which arguably isn't much. His grip on your body tightens, arms digging into you, as he forces a perversion of a hug onto your unwilling frame.

- I've killed for less - he whispers into your ear, and revels in the way your entire body shivers - You're really lucky, and I don't think you quite realize how much. 

- I don't want to be lucky - painted nails dig into the cotton of his shirt, as you try your hardest to hurt him, force him to back up, or just react to your defiance in any other way than patronizing indifference. - I want nothing to do with you, I don't want you.

To that, he humms low in his throat, and you whimper, as cold lips descent upon the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. You can't truly describe the kind of fear he brings upon you, but your entire body seems to surrender despite your best efforts at doing otherwise. Must be magic, you reason. He must've placed you under some kind of a spell, there is no other explanation.

- Don't you think you're being just a tad ungrateful? - he asks, nose dragging along your artery - I mean, here I am, ready to love you, to care for you, to accept you as the gift that you are... - he takes a long drag of your hair, savoring the scent as your knees start to buckle - And you're ready to throw it all away because, what exactly? Because I'm what my Father has made me?

- Because you're a monster, only capable of hurting others - you seethe through your teeth, and immediately get cut off, when presses your bodies tighter together, something worryingly similar to a growl resounding deep within his chest. 

- Is that what you think?

You've made a mistake, immediately you can recognize that. Playing the tough guy in front of the literal Devil, while having no real idea of the supposed bond tying you both together, wasn't your smartest moment. Cold sweat forms on your forehead, when Lucifer extends his hands out, fingers digging into the flesh of your arms. Then, looking at you from that small distance, he gives you a strangely bored look. Like he has seen everything you've done play out in front of him a million times, like he knows all there is to know about you. 

God save you, you hate that look more than any atrocity he has committed. 

- Don't look at me like that - bravery, or stupidity, you can't decide as words leave your mouth in a snarl. - You don't know anything about me. 

- I know all that's important - he counters - I know God made you for me.

He takes a step closer, and suddenly you've grown very tired of this constant dance. His hands massage their way towards your shoulders, where he grips you tight and drags you towards him. You stumble, nearly falling into his chest, but he straightens you out forcefully, like you're some doll he can maneuver all he likes. 

- I know you're rebellious, just like me - his whisper seeps into your very being, as if you've become infected by his gentle tone - You're lonely, just like me.

You want to shake your head no, you really want to, but he keeps you frozen, enchanted by his sudden closeness, and the barely noticable note of vulnerability hidden in his grey eyes.

 Sam and Dean flood your mind. Your boys, your closest friends. The times you've spent together were few and far between, but you cherish them. You truly do. Which is why, your heart breaks at the realization, that Lucifer is right. Despite the bars, and the hunts, and the long drives, you're lonely. Loneliness follows you like a shadow, too ingrained into your bones to ever leave. But not right now, never when he's around. 

- It's okay, you know - Lucifer sighs, leaning down to kiss right between your collarbones - Sooner or later you'll realize, there's no shelter, no hideout where I wouldn't find you. That's true love, babe.

- Stop - a plea slips between your lips, quiet and pathetic, reminiscent of when you've fallen to your knees, begging a demon to bring your friend back.

What you were pleading for this time, you couldn't really comprehend, all you know is, you don't want to do this. You can't do this, and if this really was true love, wasn't he supposed to understand? 

The beating of your hear escalates, when he moves to grab at your face, hands so perfectly fitting alongside your jaw. He turns your head from side to side, as if wanting to commemorate every angle, etch it into his mind. If it were any other man, you'd be over the moon. If he wasn't a threat of catastrophic magnitude, just waiting to end the lives of your friends and everyone on Earth, you would've craned your neck further, given him access. Accepted your fate.

Yet, when his cold lips press into yours, it's so easy to forget why you've been unwilling all this time. He's gotten better at it, you muse, as he kisses your unmoving mouth, trying to pull some reaction out of you. Finally, you gasp, when he traps your bottom lip between his teeth, and bites down hard enough to draw blood. Immediately he takes advantage, thumbs digging into the hinges of your jaw, until you have no choice, but to open up to him. It's nauseating, the way he kisses you, as if he needs to map out the insides of your mouth right this instance. 

Lucifer pulls away so suddenly, for a second you follow his mouth before steeling yourself. Blood trickles down from your bitten lips, and he launches at the small streak. Tongue laps at the skin of your chin, licking off every trace of red, and the sound he makes is downrigh sinful. Then, emboldened by your taste, his hands push upwards, the muscles of your neck straining, as he moves your head back. 

The skin of your throat is exposed and pulled taunt, and your entire body is ready to collapse, when he presses open mouthed kisses along your trachea. Then, as you let out a  whimper, he moves to the side, kissing and licking a line towards your pulse point. He stays there for a moment, dragging his teeth down the cullumn of your throat, hard enough to make you squirm in discomfort. From gentle coaxing, his ministrations took a sharp turn to roughter territories.  

- So sweet - Lucifer muses to himself, taking another whiff of your scent - I could just eat you up. 

Something in his tone of voice startles you. It's not a cute love confession, a cliche line from a romantic movie. From his lips, it sounds daunting, like a promise he can't wait to fulfill. Your eyes swipe downwards, but all you can see is the top of his head, as he dips down to further abuse your throat. He's not gentle by any means, all teeth and no comfort with the way he nibbles at the skin behind your ear. It's pleasurable, or it would be, if it were any other person, or a person at all. 

Then, the air seems to shift, a sinister streak you're not familiar with crawls the lenght of your back, and you tremble like a caught bird in his unwavering grasp. As if sensing the change, his hands switch the hold on your face, supporting the underside of your jaw and chin, pulling up and up, until you have to stand on your tippy toes. 

- Perhaps I should - ringing fills your ears as tears flood the corners of your eyes - Perhaps that will show you, who you belong to. 

And with that, he pulls back. Like a priest raising his cup at the Holy Communion, he raises your head, eyes roaming across the marks he has made on your throat. And then, he dives down, jaw open, teeth glistening in the darkness of the night. 

You can feel it all, as he tears through skin and muscle, sinking into your trachea as if taking a bite out of a ripe apple. Your scream sounds so far away, so muddled, for a moment you can't recognize it's you that's screaming. Then, he pulls back with a sickening, wet, tearing sound, and your voice dies down in a gargle. Blood floods your mouth, spills through your teeth, a waterfall of red soaking your entire front. Through hazy vision you see him chew and swallow, and the sight churns your insides, as you double over, bile quickly making it's way up what's left of your throat.

Except, it doesn't hit the pavement. It lands on the wooden floors of Bobby's guest room. Confusion barely registers in your panicked state, as you roll off the bed, grabbing at the gaping wound in your throat. A wound that isn't there at all. Phantom pain wrenches a series of shouts from you, like an animal caught in a trap. Begging from help. Knowing it will recieve none. The coarse surface of the floor scratches at your thighs, as you push yourself into a nearest corner, tears mixing with sweat on your face. 

That's when Dean rushes in, Sam right after him. Any other day, you'd consider their company a blessing, but right now all you can think of, is what Lucifer has in store for them. How he can hurt them, to get to you. Castiel teleports into the room soon after, and you wish the floorboards would open up and swallow you whole. 

- He was... - you wince, voice creaking like old hinges - He was in my dream.

That's all Sam needs to cross the room and kneel in front of you, gently pulling at your hands, which are still clutching the non-existent wound on your throat. The skin is red and raw, nail marks trail down from under your chin to your collarbones, but there is nothing else.

- I know - Sam whispers, arms encircling you in a warm hug, that just feels like entrapment - I know, I'm so sorry.

Deep down you know, he understands. The weight of being promised to the Devil, the torment he can bring upon a person, the fear. But right now, all you can feel are teeth, and lips, and hands which are too cold to be anything other than a monster.

Castiel has questions, you can see it, in the way his eyes scan the room, fall on your shaking frame, still pushed into a corner. He doesn't ask them, thankfully, opting to gruffly mutter something about checking the wards around the house. Bobby yells from his office, Dean yells back. You try to focus on the warmth coming from Sam's chest. You stay like that for a couple more minutes, before finally, calming down enough to stand up and wipe your tears off your face with a heavy hand. 

- We'll figure something out - Sam supplies his usual response to anything Apocalypse related.

What used to be a hopeful promise, right now sounds more like a hollow echo.

Dean keeps his opinions to himself, chewing on them as he hands you a beer fresh out of the fridge. Only when the liquid freezes it's way down your pipes, you are certain your throat is where it should be. Your brain is coming back as well, rebellion, loneliness, all the traits Lucifer has read from you. They mix with anger, slowly rising within your chest, because fuck that. Fuck him, fuck God and fuck every single entity responsible for your current predicament.

- Yeah - you force yourself to sound convinced - Yeah, we'll kick his fucking ass.

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

Ring Of Fire (Lucifer x Female!Reader)

a/n: again, no one asked for this, but i've been rewatching supernatural and there is something about season 5 Lucifer that just hits the spot for me. this one will be multiple chapters (i swear), a bit on the darker side. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (nothing too scandalous), Soulmates (but not really), follows season 5 storyline, Kinda Depressing, Strongly Inspired by "Preacher's Daughter" by Ethel Cain

Summary: Knowing God has an actual plan for you would be comforting for most people. You, however, seem to be always down on your luck.

PT.2

The foliage is damp with the night's air, water seeping into the fabric of your jeans, as you sit in the low bushes, watching. Smoke still fills your lungs, and grief still fills your heart, Jo and Ellen's faces etched just beneath your eyelids. Tears stain your cheeks, drying slowly on your skin, forming an uncomfortable crust. It's been such a long time since you've experienced loss such as this. One that rips something out of you and refuses to give it back. You must've grown too comfortable since Dean has been brought back, life needed to bring you back down. Your hands hurt from the tight grip you hold on a branch of a nearby tree, nerves locking you in place, as you watch Dean approach the Devil. Except, you're not there anymore. 

It's warm inside Bobby's home, and you've changed out of your past outfit, scattering it on the floor, never to be used again. Still, you can feel phantom moisture on your knees, elbows, on the palms of your hands. Coldness, like nothing you've ever experienced, seeps deep into your bones, taking root within you. No candle, no prayer, no ancient exorcism can cleanse you of the revelations you've seen tonight. Your head feels heavy, when you drop it onto the pillow, as if some weight is pressing you further down, through the comforter, through the bed and the wooden floor. Through all the layers of Earth, until you're right where you're supposed to be. 

It's unfortunate, you thought back then, compelled to reveal yourself from your hideout by one command you couldn't ignore, he looks just like any human. Tall and lean, with a little softness to his body. His clothes were unassuming as well, casual. As if he just took a stroll through the woods from a supermarket. No one told you the name of his vessel, who he was before he said yes, why did he do it. His eyes were ordinary as well. Blue and gray, aged, tired. Human.

It would've been so easy to pass him on the streets, not knowing. He could've been one of the patrons in the countless bars you've visited while on the hunt. Handsome, yes, with an aura of a beaten dog around him, that, in any other circumstances would've made him irresistable to you. You could never refuse a hopeless case, now you supposed you knew why. 

Sam made you tea. It sits untouched on your night stand, steam flowing in dancing ribbons into the ceiling. Somehow, you can't seem to force yourself to drink it, even if you know the intention behind it has been kind. You couldn't eat as well, the smell of cooking coming from Bobby's kitchen reminded you too much of the smell of smoke coming from the exploding hardware store. And his smell. 

Burning coals, cedar wood, jasmine, all of them were pleasant once. Now, you know they will always be stuck in your head with only one association. Lucifer. 

Even thinking of his name brings a wave of shivers running down your back, as you curl into yourself on the bed. Your fingers scratch at skin of your jaw, trying to regain some sense of autonomy. Still, you can feel a phantom of his icy touch, where he grabbed your face like his hands were meant for it. And in a way they were. At least, that's what he told you. 

The demons gathered around the mass grave didn't even react, as you ran out of your cover, pushed to reveal yourself by the sight of Dean's flying body. Because how else would he coax you out, if not through the hurt of your boys? In hindsight, you were glad Dean was unconscious for the most part of this ordeal. After the night's events, it was hard to look him in the eye, you didn't need him witnessing your downfall over your head as well. Sam tried to make his way over to you, feet sliding cautiously through the grass, but suddenly Lucifer's eyes were on you, and you could feel your fate get sealed then and there. 

He clasped his hands in front of him, pursing his lips as he took you in, cowering on the ground, trying hard to find Dean's pulse. 

- You boys brought me a gift - he mused, eyes crinkling with some strange emotion - You shouldn't have. 

One gesture later, you're up on your feet, limbs trembling as he abandoned his shovel in favor of making his way towards you. You're frozen, fear seizing you in a tight grip, and you can't seem to think straight, as you watch him approach. Last day on Earth, you muse, life flashing before your eyes, when he raises both his hands. And then he grips your face, gentle yet confident, and the world around you spins. He's cold, so cold it's unnatural. Your lips fall apart in a silent gasp. 

- Do you know who you are? - he asks in a quiet voice that suddenly makes you understand why he's temptation incarnate - Do you know why you were put on this Earth?

All you can do is stare, confusion creasing your eyebrows. His breath reaches your collarbones, as he lowers his head slightly. You can hear him chuckle to himself. The sound makes you shudder, fear and anticipation mix within your gut. 

- All those years of hunting, struggling... - your life seems so trivial, coming from his lips - It all lead you here, to me. Doesn't that sound lovely?

It doesn't. It most definitely doesn't. Tears of confusion prick at the corners of your eyes, your breathing quickens. Panic settles into your nerves like a paralyzing blanket. Because here stands a threat of magnitude you couldn't even dream of. The Satan, the Devil, Bible's biggest villain. And he knows something about you, that you cannot comprehend. 

- It's really quite pathetic, when you think about it - he muses, hands leaving your face in a flash, as he starts to pace in thought.

Swaying in your place, you risk looking at Sam, his confusion mirroring your own. Dean is still unconscious beside him. There's a thin smudge of blood running down his forehead, and you want to move so badly. You've spent years caring for these boys, being there for them, whenever they needed you. Yet, at this crucial moment all you can do, is stare in horror.  

- My Father's last ditched attempt - Lucifer turns to you with a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes - To give me my own special little bag of worms. To own, to care for, to change my mind. 

- What?

Your own voice sounds foreign to your ears. Lies. Those had to be lies. He's Satan after all, manipulation was his forte. Yes, that had to be it. Just another, messed up way at getting an upper hand over Sam. 

This time, you nearly scream when he advances towards you, his cold hands immediately finding purchase on your face, covering your jaw and your cheeks. He presses against your face so hard, you have to take a step back as he comes closer still. Sam's figure flashes out of the corner of your eye, and suddenly you feel the rough surface of a tree bark digging into your back. 

- You - for the first time you can hear some tension in his voice, something more than cold indifference - You were made for me, Honey. Just like Sam is destined to be my vessel, you're destined to be by my side. To own, to care. - he repeats those words like a mantra, and you want to throw up at how genuine he sounds.

He smiles at your terror. Tears start to flow freely from your eyes, falling on his cold fingers, skipping down his arms in smudges. His hands start to move, a perversion of a caress, as he ruffles your hair. Your head bounces off the tree, and you try with all your might to free yourself out of his grip. Your limbs flail at your sides, and you crane your neck so far back, your muscles start to strain. He doesn't let go, pressing himself closer, one of his hands coming up to grip your hair. Your nails dig into his cotton shirt, as you push against his chest to no avail. 

- No - you whisper, your rejection falling flat against his unaffected stare - I'd never...

- See, but that's the best part - his sudden enthusiasm scares you deeper, than any passive stare ever could. - Unlike Sam...

You backpedal into the tree again, as he leans closer still. His cold breath mixes with your short, panicked ones, and your stomach churns, when he tilts his head in curiosity, as if he's experiencing this intimacy for the first time. And in a way, you suppose he is. Then, his eyes meet yours, gray captivates you, and you hold your breath on instinct.

- You don't have to say yes to me. 

You're not even allowed the decency of taking a gasp of air, when his lips press into yours. It feels beyond weird. He's unnaturally cold, and there is a sort of unpracticed sloppiness in the way he fights for your mouth to fit against each other. Reminding you of your first, inexperienced romances, he smashes your faces together until you feel both sets of your teeth through the flesh. Then, he pulls back just a smidgen, taking in your terrified face. Something flashes through his expression, and he sighs, leaning back towards you, stopping just short of your left ear. 

- Kiss me like you mean it, or I'll make Dean eat his intestines. 

He looks at you, just once, letting you know this is not a game. Your heart stops. 

Dean's unconscious body starts to move by the tree, and never in your life have you felt so helpless. So, when Lucifer unavoidably leans back down, you give him all you've got. Your body arches, hands come up to his hair, and you will yourself not to feel grossed out by the feeling of his cold tongue slipping past your teeth. It's a fight for survival, you remind yourself, as his hands move to your back, rubbing your skin like a horny teenager in a bathroom stall. The short supply of air you've been granted runs out quickly, and as pressure builds in your lungs, you start to push against the Archangel's chest. He doesn't register what you're doing, not at first, confusing your sudden unwillingness as some sort of late attempt at rebellion. That is, until you bang your fist against his shoulder, letting out a muffled scream. 

Finally, he detaches himself, hair even more disheveled than before. You take a heaving gasp of air, as you brace yourself against the tree, your vision swimming ever so slightly. Lucifer watches you, his body hunched over, as if he's observing some middle schooler's science project. There are new tears in your eyes, just waiting to fall. Your hair is disheveled and your lips are puffy from his unpracticed assaults. His right hand comes up to his face, and he bites on his index finger in thought. 

- You really are human - he muses to himself, and with every fiber of your being, you try to explode his head with your brain - That's no fun, you'll break so easily...

- Fuck you - your words make his eyebrows raise, and he straightens out with a flourish.

- Fuck you - he repeats, mocking your tone - Yeah, I probably will - you watch, disgusted, as he sends a wink towards Sam.

Then, he's back to his shovel, back to his mass grave, where he completes the ritual. 

You can't move, not really, even when Sam tugs on your shoulder. Your head runs empty, realization of your current predicament far from registered in your brain. You stay frozen in your spot, when Castiel arrives, taking the three of you back to Bobby's house. Only, when the Angel's hand pushes against your rib cage, only when you feel Enochian symbols burn into your bones, do you lift your gaze. Apologetic doesn't really cover the way Castiel looks at you, and the pity painted on his face drags you down more than any Devil could.  

Sam is the only one to truly understand, when you fall to the floor, shock, anger and dread spilling out of you like a broken faucet. He's the only one that truly knows how it feels to have your bodily autonomy stripped away by the literal Devil. How it feels to have a threat of such magnitude hanging over you, every day. Which is why, he's the one to lift you in his arms, and get you to the guest room, lead away by the concerned glances of the rest of the men. He's the one to make you tea, bring you fresh clothes. He opens the window when the smell of dinner makes you retch. And finally, he's the one to explain, what really happened back on that hill to the rest of the group.

From your fetal position on the bed you can hear Dean curse, throw something somewhere. All the ways he knows, how to show he cares. Despite everything, it makes you smile, face pressed to the pillow that smells like cigarette smoke and beer. You're doomed. There's nothing you can do against God's plan, and you can feel that thought take root in you like an invasive species ready to destroy every crop in it's path. Still, despite it all, a sense of security falls upon you like a decieving blanket. 

- What sort of a messed up game is this? - Dean screams somewhere in the house, you assume it's at Cass, the only one even remotely aware of your destiny. 

The idea, that God made you specifically to be Satan's personal therapist sounds far fetched at best, but given how the last couple of months have been going, you're more inclined to believe in the absolutely worst scenarios. You don't even need to hear Castiel's response. The sound of glass breaking is telling enough. Then, a door slamms somewhere, and the house falls into heavy silence.

You can't think. Can't allow yourself to fall apart more than you've had already. So, you focus on the sound of your own breathing, interlinked with your heartbeat. Steady, alive. Your eyelids are heavy, eyes burn with drying tears, so you close them and sigh. Exhaustion pinns you in place, sinking you into the blankets. Darkness welcomes you like a long lost friend.

Your boys will find a way, they always do. And Lucifer can't find you, not with the wards Castiel has put on you. You'll have to thank him i the morning, you think, and it's the last conscious thought you have, before slipping into sleep, shivering like an abandoned child. 

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

Enabler (Mark Hoffman x Female!Reader)

a/n: y'all missed me? i binged the entirety of the saw franchise while sick and... yeah.. f the police right?

Warnings: Non-Con (like, fr, be warned, be safe), a lazy ass idea for a Jigsaw trap, Workplace Crush heehee, Smut, Strahm's also here

Summary: You've survived a test, made for you by Jigsaw. As your two coworkers visit you in the hospital, Hoffman thinks back to that faithful night of your kidnapping. Cross-Posted on AO3.

Live or die, detective. Make your choice.

The mechanically distorted voice follows you through your journey to regaining consciousness. It's words flicker in and out of existence, as your eyelids flutter against the white light of the hospital room. Your eyes water and you groan, as the mixture of the night's events comes back to you in a wave of nausea and dull pain engulfing your entire body. Your fingers scratch lightly at the crispy white duvet, and you feel every single tendon in your hand flex, earning another groan from you. 

There's a steady sound of beeping present in the room. It makes your brows furrow slightly. It must've been really bad, if they had you hooked up to a heart monitor. You don't really remember just how bad it was, your mind flickers to the moment you slid your hand into the metal box and then... Pain, so much pain, and the smell of blood that follows you like a phantom even in the pristine light of the hospital room.

- Thank God you're awake. - a voice brings you back from beneath the surface, a familiar one, laced with inexplicable worry. 

You force your eyes to open all the way. Bright light attacks your pupils and you can't bring your arm up to shield yourself, even if you tried. Pain, bordering on tearing, floods your system whenever you try to force your upper limbs to work. Tears form beneath your eyelids and you blink forcefully to distribute moisture across your eyeballs. 

There are two men in your room, and even their blurred sillhouettes are enough to let a wave of relief wash over you. 

 One standing by the foot of your bed, towering over the entire space, even with the slight hunch in his back. The other one sits by your side, hands fiddling with the edge of a green blanket the hospital staff must've left for you. Even with the grogginess of sleep still hanging onto you, you immediately notice the sudden lack of his wedding ring, which he usually kept on. Perhaps he's just washed his hands. On instinct, your head rolls over towards the sitting man, and your lips pull back into a tired smile of recognition. 

- Hello ladies... - your voice doesn't sound like a voice at all.

It's hoarse, barely recognizable, sounding more like a huff of wind going through rusty machinery. Still, Special Agent Peter Strahm lets out a puff of air, tension sliding off of his shoulders as if a tangible weight has been lifted from them. Your eyes shift downwards, towards his hands, and you watch as his fingers twitch, so close to grabbing yours, yet deciding against it at the last minute. 

God bless professionalism, you think bitterly, before straightening your head on the pillow and looking towards the other man.

Detective Mark Hoffman watches you intensly from the foot of your bed, his expression unreadable, as he takes in the sight of you. Face almost washed out of any color, sunken cheeks and eyes, lips so close to blue it's almost making him pity you. Almost. 

Then, there are the bandages. Starting at both of your palms, running up and up, all the way towards your elbows, where your skin peaks at him from under the hospital gown. They've managed to stop most of the bleeding, but he can see clear as day, specs of drying blood showing through the cloth, creating a contrast that's strangely hypnotizing. He doesn't want to imagine how your arms look underneath. Doesn't need to, he has seen those wounds first hand. Both after you were rescued... And before that. 

- How long have I been out? - you ask after a moment of silence, your voice regaining a bit of your usual color. 

Mark opens his mouth, but it's Strahm who answers you first. The Detective bites down on a scowl. He was never too interested in literary heights, but even he must admit there is something poetic about the both of them crowding around your bed, while you lay there, stricken by tragedy. It makes him feel ridiculous. You make him feel ridiculous. 

- Two days - Strahm supplies, his eyes flickering around your face, the bed, the medical apparatus - You've been unconscious most of the time, lost a whole lot of blood. 

To that, you scoff, or laugh, neither of them are sure. Of course you've lost a lot of blood. That was the point of the game, wasn't it? To bleed yourself dry. And supposedly some important life lesson was also hidden in there, but after five minutes of pissing blood from your veins into a beaker, you really must've lost it in translation. 

- Fuck... - you sigh, slowly trying to move your muscles under the covers.

You try to lift your hand towards the bedside table, where a water bottle with a straw is waiting for you, but your hand starts to shake so badly, you have to give up. Oh, you hated this. This feeling of helplessness. That's when Hoffman springs to action, closing the distance between himself and the other side of your bed. He snatches the bottle from the table like a man on a mission, and places the straw right at your lips. 

- Thanks - you mutter, eyes connecting with his for a split second, before focusing all your efforts on drinking. 

You don't remember water tasting this good, and as you swallow, you let yourself hum with delight. After a while, the bottle is finished, and Mark dutifully places it back on the table, debating whether to shuffle back to his original place, or to somehow stay here, looming over you as there was no chair for him to sit in. You decide for him, patting the side of your bed and attempting to shift your legs a little, to make more room. He takes the hint and plops himself right next to your foot, his hand coming up to grab at your calf reassuringly. Immediately after that, all reservations seem to leave Strahm, as his hand slides over yours in a warm embrace.

If you weren't so goddamn tired, you would've laughed. Two manly men, fighting like a bunch of petty schoolgirls. Your chest swells with something dangerously close to affection. Quick, someone call for the doctors to bring back professionalism into the room. 

- Do you remember anything from that night? - Hoffman asks with slight tension in his voice.

- Is this really the best time to be asking this? They've barely woken up - Strahm's always close to outrage when Hoffman's around, and you silence him with a slight shake of your head.

- It's fine, I can talk - you mutter, brain already working overtime, as you think hard on every single detail from your recent kidnapping.

- I called you.

Your eyes focus on Hoffman, and you can see his jaw shift under his skin as he swallows. His lips twitch into a small smile, but you can see worry settling heavily over his brows, as he looks over the bandages on your arm, his thumb rubbing circles into the skin of your calf through the blanket. 

- That you did. - and at the time, it almost startled him to death.

***

The puff of smoke you let out flows into the night air of the city, as you lean your head against the cool wall of the restaurant. You're dressed a bit too elegantly, too much like a costume of a successful woman, with skinny heels and too big of a coat. 

Hoffman watches with unreserved fascination the way neon lights illuminate the column of your throat. Hidden in the shadows of his car, finally he can watch you without the confines of his professional reputation restraining him. Only if for a fleeting moment, before he has to put on the mask and fulfill his other duty.

 Still, his eyes glide greedily over your body, dolled up specially for this fancy dinner with your highschool "friends". You've been buzzing around the station for almost a week now, complaining about this particular meeting, and every time you've mentioned it, Hoffman was making plans. All he had to do, was wait until you were ready to leave. He was certain, you would like a long, calming walk after this whole spectacle. You always did those, whenever a particularly hard hitting case appeared. 

Another puff of smoke, and you reach towards the pocket of your coat, fishing out your phone and flicking it on. His eyebrows raise in curiosity, as he watches you dial a number and place the device between your shoulder and your ear. Your hand reaches down to loosen the strap on your heel, and Hoffman is so transfixed by your display of calculated clumsiness, he almost flies from his seat, when his phone starts to ring in his pocket. 

Your number is displayed proudly next to your name, and he blinks a few times, before answering.

- Hoffman speaking.

- It's me - your words are slightly slurred, and from his hiding spot he can see the smile forming on your painted lips. 

- Did something happen? Why are you calling me? - he asks, trying to sound as bored and tired as he possibly can, while fighting off the sudden jolt of adrenaline surging through his body. 

He sees you straighten out against the wall, finally giving up on the strap of your heel. Then he hears the shuffling. And laughter, a short chuckle that sends something swirling in his stomach. 

- I'm fine, I'm fine... I just... - you hesitate, hand coming up to tug at the roots of your hair, before taking a long drag from your cigarette, irresponsible, Hoffman thinks - I just wanted to hear a voice of someone who's not a complete asshole. 

His laugh comes out in a huff, and it seems contagious enough to make you chuckle as well. If only you knew on how many layers you were in the wrong. Perhaps you'll find out someday, most likely not. Not after tonight. 

Still, the sheer notion of you calling him of all people. Calling him instead of your favorite Special Agent even. There's a feeling dangerously close to pride climbing up Hoffman's chest, and he has to swallow it down, before he does something stupid. Which, in this case would be not doing anything. He has to remind himself, why this whole situation is taking place, and all feelings of flattery turn to ash in his mouth. His eyebrows furrow. 

- I take it the dinner isn't going well.

- Oh it's fucking terrible - you shake your head in frustration - I don't really care about what they say, I just want to eat food. Which, as it turns out, is a lot to ask for at a dinner party. 

- Want me to come over? - he asks, hand playing idly with the black synthetic hair of his pig mask.

For a second, you seem to be actually considering it, and Hoffman would lie, saying it didn't make something swell up in his chest again. Dangerous, very dangerous. 

- Nah - you sigh, before throwing a long, disgusted look at the door to the restaurant - Give me permission to ditch them. 

He doesn't hesitate to engage in this short, familiar dance of yours. 

- You have my permission to ditch them.

Another sigh, then a wave of giggles. Your expression in the neon lights looks almost affectionate. Hoffman reaches for the chloroform bottle.

- Thank you - is this a blush Hoffman sees on your cheeks, or is it just his mind supplying what he wishes was true, who's to say - For the talk and everything. I'll see you at the station. 

- Good night, Detective.

He disconnects with one hand, while the other wrestles the mask over his face.

 You don't even notice, when he slips behind you, with a chloroform cloth in his palm. It takes a couple of seconds of wrestling, but it still makes him pretty worked up, in more ways than he has anticipated. There is no screaming, for which he is grateful. Your body is strong against his, as you give him all you've got, trying to shake his much larger frame. Your heel digs painfully into his foot, as you slam it down, and he fights back the urge to scream. You can't hear his voice, it would be too telling. While his one hand presses the cloth to your face, the other tries to contain the flurry of panicked punches you throw his way. 

The way you wriggle against him shouldn't really affect him that much, hasn't affected him with any other victims. But the sheer fact it's you he's overpowering, seems to be enough. He balls the cloth in his hand sticking it further down your mouth, and shudders at the feeling of your teeth dragging against his leather gloves. 

A muffled scream is all that you have left, as your hips buck into his forcefully, hands scratching down his forearms. His breathing heavily behind you, watching with mixed emotions as, finally, consciousness leaves you.

 You fall down in a heap at his feet, to which Hoffman has to admit, he has never felt so powerful. There's blood on your stiletto and a perfectly round hole in his shoe. He grunts in annoyance at the prospect of having to hide a limp for a couple of weeks. 

Getting your lifeless body into the trunk of his car is laughably easy. 

***

- So you didn't see who attacked you? - Hoffman clarifies, and you nod solemnly. 

His hands flex, your leg underneath his palm twitching slightly. Strahm sighs heavily next to you, his head hung low, as he massages your fingers so gently, it's almost as if he's afraid you'll break under his touch.

 You appreciate that, him leaving his bad cop persona on the hanger by the door. Still, between his tactful worry and Hoffman's stressed twitchiness, one of you has to be the stern policeman. And it seems this time the honor falls on your shoulders. So, you wiggle in your place, rising into a sitting position. The suddenly stern expression seems almost foreign on your sunken face, a caricature of a person you used to be. No, scratch that, you still are. This is the one thing you won't allow Jigsaw to corrupt. 

- He's strong though - you say, eyes glued to the edge of the green blanket, as you focus on all the sensations from the night of your attack - Uses chloroform to sedate his victims. 

- Kramer? - Hoffman asks and you immediately shake your head. 

- I can take a dying cancer patient. That man was healthy, fucking gigantic and... - your eyebrows furrow - He caught me by surprise right after we ended the call. 

Hoffman looks like he has something else to say, but he swallows thickly, his palm pressing further into your calf. You try to give him a reassuring smile, convince him, that it's alright. It falls flat against his tense expression, and you know deep down, he feels guilty for not talking to you longer, not checking up on you. He shouldn't, but it's just the way he works. And you appreciate it. 

He's enjoying himself far more than he would've anticipated, listening to you talk about him without actually knowing anything.

He likes the way your entire face scrunches in focus, trying to remember anything of note, while he's sitting right here, right in front of you. Perhaps he's becoming an adrenaline junkie? All thanks to you. Yes, he thinks, eyes gliding over your disheveled hair, you're absolutely the enabler here, and you don't even realize that. 

Even after what he put you through.

His jaw tightens at the thought of you never actually learning from this special, intimate experience he has concocted just for the two of you. Haven't you heard the tape? Or perhaps you're just too goddamn dense to comprehend the lesson. As he looks into your doe eyes filled with pity and misguided understanding, he's beginning to think the latter's the case. 

- And after that? - Strahm is still careful, as if you are some startled animal, and Hoffman huffs through his nose, letting some of his bubbling anger out. 

You visibly shudder, and while on the surface both men have the same, worried reaction, Hoffman feels as if he's ready to run a marathon. You're scared, scarred forever by him, and yet here you sit, unaware. Letting him pet your leg like some goddamn pet. Good thing Kramer doesn't actually know how to read minds, otherwise Hoffman might end up in a trap himself for just thinking about you. 

- I woke up in a chair - you answer after a while, your voice numb and emotionless.

That won't do, Hoffman thinks, eyes burrowing into your skull, as if he wants to drill a hole and look straight into your brain. He wants you crying, unconsolable, changed. That carefree, light persona you've been flaunting before him since the moment you've arrived at his station. He wanted it gone. 

- My legs were tied, and my wrists were hanging down from the armrest. There were boxes underneath, with buttons... 

Suddenly, you head snaps up, eyes fiery and filled with righteous fire none of the men expected. Hoffman thinks, for just a second, that something has clicked in your mind. Something that would unmask his entire operation. The thought excites and terrifies him at the same time and subcontiously, he throws a quick look towards Strahm, who's too absorbed in your statement to pay him any mind. 

- He was checking the restraints when I woke up - there is something in your voice, something that makes Strahm lean closer in his chair, something that keeps Hoffman from breathing too deeply, because deep inside he knows what comes next - I think this whole thing can be psycho-sexual.

There. You can hear the pin drop, as your words register in the men's brains. 

- How...? - Strahm starts, but you cut him off harshly.

- He got hard while tying me up.

Silence. 

Only the beeping from the medical apparatus can be heard in the room. Strahm closes his eyes, bracing himself for the next question he has to ask. Hoffman on the other hand is becoming redder and redder under the collar of his shirt. How far will you go with your story?  

- Did he...? - Strahm swallows, cutting himself off.

Hoffman leans forward, as if he wants to pull the answer from between your teeth himself.

Did he? You're avoiding both their gazes, eyes flickering between your bandaged arms, something darker settling over your features as memories flood you. Did he? Hoffman's hand clamps itself down onto your calf, you can feel all five fingers digging into your flesh. How much will you tell, how much are you willing to share with your darling Special Agent? With him? Hoffman feels his chest tighten, every breath becoming more and more shallow. You, on the other hand, inhale slowly, deeply, then exhale.

- He didn't. 

Hoffman wants to laugh. 

***

He tightens the restraints on your left arm, when you start to rouse from sleep. Your head lolls to the side, cheek pressing into his arm. He freezes in his spot, one hand flying towards his face to secure the pig mask over his features. Silence hangs heavily between the two of you, cut only by the quiet groans coming from your waking body.

 Transfixed, Hoffman watches the way your lips seem to hang slightly open, lipstick smeared, mascara running, staining his shirt, as you all but rub your face against his shoulder. You look lovely like this, so vulnerable, with your face mushed against him. Nothing like the headstrong, strudy woman he's come to know over the short time you've spent at his station. 

Were your superiors aware of what they were doing? Sending some pretty young thing, straight from the academy, eyes still shining with ideals, all the way into the heap of corruption that was his city? And right in the middle of the biggest serial killer case the world has ever seen. They must've known you were doomed to fail. The narrative was never on your side, no matter how hard you tried to deny it. 

- Mmm... - finally, he can hear your voice get clearer, still groggy from the chemicals he has pumped into your neck - Mark...

He nearly jumps at the sound of his name. Thoughts run rampant through his skull, heart beating so hard, he's scared it will fly right out of his chest. Have you recognized him? He made sure to leave all traces of the Detective Mark Hoffman at the door before starting this. It was impossible, he did everything right. 

Your head rolls back against the backrest of the chair, your throat exposed to the world, to his hungry eyes. Your pulse runs rampant through your veins, and Hoffman feels a sudden urge to rip your trachea out with his teeth. Or, press an open mouthed kiss behind your ear, he can't seem to decide.  

- Oh, Mark... - a moan slips from your lips, and this time, he fully comprehends what is happening.

The realization runs past his brain and straight to his crotch. With shaking hands he reaches for a leather belt, and forcefully pushes it into your mouth, causing your eyelids to flutter.

Finally, your eyes start to open. Pretty eyes, he thinks, especially now that they're surrounded by dark stains from your mascara, glossy and unfocused. You writhe in the chair, as if you're waking up from a wonderful nap, arms straining against the restraints when you try to stretch. Then, your body freezes, realization that something is terribly wrong settling over you in an almost visible shadow. 

Panicked, you turn your head towards him. Tears flow freely down your cheeks, and Hoffman flexes his fingers. The urge to rip his mask off, to show you who he really is grows in him like a tumor.

 Oh the look on your face would be something for the history books. Your favorite grumpy detective, your best work buddy. Would the truth about his identity crush you? He liked to think it would. He liked to think it would suck any will to live right out of you. 

He wanted to have that power over you.

Hoffman drinks in your terrified expression like a man parched. The confusion between your eyebrows, the click in your jaw, when you realized you've been gagged, the way your eyes find him in the darkness of the room. It's almost too easy to let himself be enchanted by the way you look, so different from your usual appearance. 

Where is that young profiler teasing him about his gruff exterior any chance they get? He could never decide whether he wanted to kill you or fuck you in these situations, hiding his frustrations behind an exasperated eyeroll, or a smile if he felt generous. 

Right now, he can't decide either, as you begin to move in the chair, tugging at the belts holding your limbs down, scanning the room behind him, You're smart, he knows and despises that with his whole heart. Because if you weren't, he could just write you off as a naive, stupid girl, who doesn't know her place. But he can't, which means everything you've done, you've been doing intentionally, and the thought boils him from the inside. 

Your gaze falls towards the boxes under your hands, the slits in the armrests, where stainless steel blades reflect the light from a singular lamp. And the beaker, right in front of you, ready to be filled. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what you're supposed to do, and you give out a pathetic whine, which Hoffman immediately commits to his memory.

Killing you is out of his hands now. The game has been set, and the outcome rests solely on your trembling shoulders. The second part however... 

His eyes rake across your entire body, taking in the elegant blouse, which is now stained and torn in a couple of places. The tight pencil skirt you've chosen for the dinner, and how it has ridden up your thighs. Your stockings, torn on your knees, where you fell to the floor. And those damned stilettoes, one of which still has his blood on it's heel . Which reminds him...

Hoffman steps in front of your chair, your eyes following him cautiously. He can see thoughts run rampant through your head, searching for a way to get out, trying to determine his intentions, anything that might be helpful.

Well, good fucking luck Miss Profiler. 

He kneels down in front of you, taking a hold of your calf in a manner so gentle he's surprised himself. The leather gloves on his fingers make the task of unclasping the small belt around your leg a hassle, but he doesn't falter. You two have all the time in the world.

Figuratively speaking. He needs to be out of here in half an hour. 

The heel slips from your foot and Hoffman lets out a barely audible chuckle, as he's greeted by neon pink nail polish. 

Professionalism, you would remind him every single time, whenever he even dreamt of coming closer to you. It was infuriating, the way you led him by his nose, coming to work in the tightest of clothing, swaying your hips like the place belonged to you. And then, you would walk past him with a laugh and wink at Strahm of all people, when you thought he wasn't looking. 

His hand splays out all across your calf, a touch so unexpected, he feels your muscles jump under his fingers. All your focus shatters immediately, as his second hand joins the other, running up and down your leg, stopping just short of your thigh. Realization hits you like a ton of bricks, and he follows your line of vision straight to a very visible problem brewing in his trousers. Mentally, he scolds himself for loosing control so easily. 

If Kramer could see him now, he'd shoot him on the spot. 

But then again, maybe not. After all he agreed to let Hoffman orchestrate this entire game, and then allowed him to carry it out, despite his connections to the victim. You could never guess with that old bastard, and for that, Hoffman is eternally grateful. 

Your body twitches in the chair, as he finally drags his hands higher. You squirm, leather gloves feeling foreign on your skin.

He knows, he knows, he wants to coo at you from under the mask, swallowing the urge with a sigh. You can't hear his voice, he reminds himself, almost too enraptured by the heat radiating off of your body.

He continues to massage your leg, fingers hooking into the torn material of your stocking, pulling at it, tearing it further in an agonizingly slow pace. Almost as if he wants to watch closely as the fibers give away. Then, in a sudden change of pace he rips them entirely apart, until they fall in strips of sheer fabric on the chair.

A gasp escapes you, and you spring into action, legs clamping shut in an instant. You're fast, but Hoffman is faster, and he wedges both his hands between your shaking thighs. It takes little to no effort to open you up again, and he leans down, squeezing his torso between your knees. 

Time freezes for a moment, as the both of you watch each other closely. Your chest is rising and falling in rapid succession, as fire begins to brew in your eyes. Hoffman leans even closer, hands skimming just short of your core, as they forcefully drag your skirt up. 

God, he loves this look on you. The heat, the anger, the swirling desire. Because he can clearly see the way you take in his frame, unknown to you yet so familiar. Were you able to decipher some familiarities? At this point he can't seem to care, he's so close to his reward. 

Touch me, and I'll kill you, your eyes scream at him.

If you kill me, I'll drag you down with me, the dark holes of his mask seem to reply.

Two forceful tugs and the material of your underwear tears from your body. Cold air makes you uncomfortable, yes, but it's nothing compared to the stillness of the man before you. He stares, intensely, for a moment completely frozen in his spot. You can hear deep, heathing breaths coming from the rubber mask and wonder what is going through this strange man's head. For a second you're actually worried this will be the end of it. As much as you hated what was happening to you right now, you would hate it much more, if you were left wanting. 

Your worries are disproved in a split-second, as gloved fingers wiggle their way into your core. They take you apart, delicately at first, as if the man before you is trying to commemorate your every nook and cranny to memory. This slow exploration twists into adoration in your mind, as you fight off an onslaugh of shivers deliciously running down your spine. You huff, muscles tensing at the intrusion. Despite your growing wetness, the man in front of you has some real thick fingers, made even bigger by his leather gloves. 

He turns his masked head to the side, and you desperately want to know what he's thinking. Your head rolls back, as you bite down on the leather belt in your mouth. Eyes closing, your mind starts to wander into places you're too ashamed to acknowledge. 

God, you're sick. Thinking about your much older coworker in this beyond fucked up situation. But your mind has already supplied you with images of him rolling his sleeves up. His eyes following you around the room when he thinks you don't pay attention. Lingering touches that burn through your clothing. Oh, how much you reveled in the attention, how you stored all those small moments in your mind, just to bring them up in the privacy of your home. 

Perhaps you deserve to be put in trap, perhaps this is your lesson. Discovering the depths of your depravity. 

With a deep sigh, Hoffman pushes his finger in, as far as it can go, and your hips nearly fly off the chair, bucking into his palm. The sound you make bounces off the walls of the room, surrounding him in an echo of your cracking voice. Then, he starts to work you, adding a second finger until you wail through your gagged mouth. His entire arm is put to work, body pressing incredibly closer, as he soaks in your face twisted in pain and pleasure. 

This is so much better than what he imagined. And he has had quite the imagination, from the moment you appeared in his life. All the times he would zone out during a meeting, letting you talk to Strahm about a new discovery in the case, while he let his mind wonder. It was torture, pure and simple. There were points where he couldn't be left alone in his office without his pants tightening. Horrible, awful feelings, all of which were your fault. 

His fingers curl into you, and for a second you swear you can see stars flying across your vision. He notices the sudden change, and doubles the efforts at hitting thet exact spot over, and over again until your legs start shaking. His leather-clad thumb presses tightly into your bundle of nerves, bordering on overstimulation. While his right hand brings you closer to your release, his left one grabs every inch of flesh it can find, fondling with your breasts, squeezing your throat, playing with your blushed cheeks. The rubber of the pig mask is cold against your collarbones, as the man presses his weight to your front, as if he wants to bury himself into your chest.

No one can hear your screams, no one except Hoffman, and he commits every note to memory. Then, your voice snuffs out completely, as your entire body tenses so much, he's actually concerned you'll free yourself from the binds. Your release sneaks up on you and seizes your body in a sudden chokehold. For a moment, you can't breathe, teeth grinding against each other. God, it's been an embarrassingly long time ago since you've had even a resemblance of an orgasm like this one.

Hoffman feels wetness cover his entire palm, coming towards his arm. You're breathing heavily, when he slides his fingers out of you, the leather gloves shining with a souvenir of your altercation. He straightens himself above you, knees cracking as he does. Then, for a moment he just stands there, his shoulders rising and falling heavily, as he huffs under the mask. With heavy eyelids, you watch, as the man lifts it ever so slightly. Your vision is blurry, but your stomach still does a flip, when you see an outline of his tongue darting out to taste you. Then, the mask is back all the way on, and the reality of your circumstance becomes clear once again. 

To his credit, he gives you a couple of minutes to gather yourself, as much as you can in this situation. Cold air makes you squirm in your spot, as you feel the stickiness of your release coat your thighs. Then, the man produces a small casette player from his pocket, presses start, and throws it between your still open legs. He's out of the room before the recording even starts and you're left alone to fight. Or to die. 

***

- When I've put my hands in the boxes and pressed the buttons, knives came out from the armrests - you recount, voice steady despite the chills running up your back. - I had to fill the beaker with my blood, then the restraints would give away and the door would open. 

- What was your lesson about? - Hoffman asks, a certain smugness to him, one, that makes you shift in your seat. 

For a second you were worried, that he deduced what has truly happened from your expression. Perhaps he could read minds, and he discovered you've been thinking of him, while getting off on Jigsaw's apprentices hand. You had to physically shake your head to banish the thought. It was hard enough to look him in the face without impossible scenarios looming over you. 

- The tape hasn't been recovered? - you ask with a tightness to your voice.

- It has, but I haven't listened to it yet - a lie. 

A big, fat, fucking lie, and both him and Strahm know it. The other man turns to him with clear confusion, but Hoffman doesn't bother even acknowledging him. He's too invested in that delicate, blooming fire, which starts to eminate from your eyes. The same flame he has seen back in that room, where you looked at him like you wanted to devour him whole. And you don't even know it.

- He said - you swallow, and Hoffman follows the movements of your throat greedily. - He said I was an enabler, that I bring out the worst in people - another swallow, your gaze never faltering, and Hoffman feels his mouth run dry - That I revel in other's misery. 

- That's not true - Strahm jumps towards you, ready to reassure, to be the gentle hand you undoubtedly need.

- I stabbed the fucker in the foot with my stiletto - your voice breaks, and Strahm pulls away with an unreadable expression.

- And one more thing...

Hoffman turns fully towards you, hands running up and down your calf, as if he's trying to massage the memories back to your brain, make you think of how you fell apart on those exact fingers. The thrill of having you here, so close to the truth is unlike anything he's ever felt. 

- I know what he smells like.

Admittedly it's a small thing, an inconsiderable detail, that will most likely help no one. Still, the sheer tone of voice in which you've said it forces Hoffman to make a detour to his house, between the hospital and the police station. There, he takes a black garbage bag and throws away every single piece of cologne he can find in his house. 

Except one. A small sample he remembers using that very night. He stores it in his cupboard, right next to his bed, a small reminder of what has transpired between you both. Balancing his work life and his secret identity has never been easy, but now... He's almost tempted to throw it all away if it means looking into your tear stained eyes again. 

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

Cat and Dog | Mark Hoffman x Reader

Summary: the sexual tension between you and Hoffman is greater than the hatred you feel for each other

Warning: NSFW Smut 18+, violence, rough sex, degradation kink, puller hair

You were a local police detective and were trying to solve murder cases involving the serial killer Jigsaw. This was the second body you and your team found that week. You felt frustrated because you couldn't solve all the puzzles in that scene and someone was having fun watching you rack your brains.

That someone was Mark Hoffman, your co-worker, or rather, enemy. You hated each other more than anything, it was like a cat and dog in the same room, the two of you in the same room don't last more than five minutes and then you start arguing always, but it never turned into something physical because Hoffman was bigger than you and you were a woman, yes, of course.

The five minutes of peace ended as soon as he entered the room where you were making some notes about the lists that Jigsaw had left at the last crime scene, it was night and everyone had already been released and gone home, except you and him who decided staying up late.

“Having difficulty, Detective Y/N?”

That voice filled the room and you rolled your eyes. Damn, he is so annoying.

“I don't think that interests you, Hoffman. Weren't you in charge of the other case?

You turned around, crossing your arms when you saw the detective with a smile on his lips.

“Actually, the boss put me on both cases in your place, I don’t think you’re doing a good job, Y/N.”

He spoke with fake sadness and you were furious. How did they take you off the case without communicating and put him in your place?

"What? How do they remove me and put you in?"

You got up from your chair and stood in front of him, face to face, confronting him.

“Who knows, if you hadn’t done a good job, I wouldn’t have taken your place, right? ”

“Honestly, you’re an asshole, Hoffman!”

“If I am the asshole, then you’re the dumb bitch.”

The loud noise echoed throughout the room and you felt your hand tingle, your immediate reaction was to slap Hoffman in the face, who was shocked, then his expression became aggressive. Hoffman grabbed your arms and pushed you against the wall, where he had his face almost glued to yours, your arms were held in the air with one hand while the other held your face, squeezing your cheeks tightly and making you look at him.

“Do it again and you’ll be a dead woman!”

He was furious and you were strangely enjoying it. The atmosphere of tension and desire was present every time you spent a long time alone in the same environment. Mark let go of your face and licked his lips, you had really gone crazy, and you only realized it when you joined your lips to his.

You couldn't hide it anymore, you wanted so bad be fucked by him. His strong arms, his angry expression, everything on him makes you feel so attracted. He put his hand on your throat, squeezing it, slightly choking you.

To your surprise, he didn't deny it but continued, his free hand roaming your body while tongues danced. Mark squeezed your thigh tightly, eliciting a moan from you, which made him smile. You squeezed your legs together feeling your arousal appear. You was so excited.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

His husky voice whispered in your ear, making all your hair stand on end, you agreed. Hoffman's hand went to your blouse where he opened it, leaving your bra exposed. Then he went to your skirt, where he lowered it, leaving you in just your underwear. He took off his blazer, throwing it on the floor and took you to the table, where he threw all the papers on the floor and pushed you against the table.

He went to the door and locked it, closing the curtains and soon came back. Hoffman squatted behind you and squeezed your ass, pulling down your panties and spreading your buttocks. Before you could respond, you felt his tongue invade your core, letting out a loud moan. His tongue went over all your parts, smearing them as much as possible. He nibbled and sucked your clit, making your legs tremble, while slaps your butt many times, until get red and painful.

“H-Hoffman, I...”

You couldn't complete it because a scream escaped, you had just cum in Hoffman's mouth, who did the job of cleaning everything with his tongue from top to bottom. He stood up again and pulled your hands away, knotting his tie, tying you up.

"Shut your fucking mouth, cunt."

Oh yes, him being so rude to you was such a turn on. You would like to be insulted more often by him after this. You heard the zipper of his pants unzipping, waiting anxiously. He brushed his member a few times on your pussy before thrusting himself completely inside you, he was bigger than you imagined, before you could get used to it he began to make quick and sudden movements.

It was as if he was taking out all the anger of months in a single fuck, he moved extremely fast, making the sound of your bodies hitting each other and your loud moans mixing in the environment. Hoffman grabbed your hair back and began depositing hickeys on her clean neck.

“I hate you, girl. But you're so hot.”

He spoke with so much anger and you just smiled sarcastically. Suddenly he pulled out of you and pulled your arms, throwing you against the ground and spreading your legs, leaving you completely exposed just to him.

“I hope you have a painkiller in your bag, you’re going to need it.”

He said before thrusting himself fully inside you again. The night would be long.

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

ઇଓ Request Rules and Masterlist ઇଓ

𐙚 Most of my stories contain adult, violent and nsfw themes. If you don't like, please don't read.

𐙚 English is not my mother language. You can correct me, i will be grateful!

𐙚 I write only female reader.

𐙚 I don't write anything containing ddlg/age play, but i write some "taboos" like non-con/dub-con smut.

𐙚 I write for: The Boys characters (Homelander, Billy Butcher and Soldier Boy), Saw characters (Adam, Amanda, Mark, Lawrence and Peter)

𐙚 I don't write with underage characters, male, ftm/mtf, neurodivergents (its not prejudice, but i feel like im not the ideal person to write something delicate like this.)

𐙚 Please, feel free to give me all of your ideas! The box is always open!

ִֶָ࣪☾. MASTERLIST

SAW FRANCHISE

MARK HOFFMAN

𐙚 Nightmares (Fluff)

𐙚 Curiosity (Smut 18+)

𐙚 Cat and Dog (Smut 18+)

𐙚 Little Help (Smut 18+)

𐙚 Playing Dangerous (Smut 18+)

𐙚 Jealous jealous jealous boy (Part 1 - Angst, sad)

𐙚 Jealous jealous jealous boy (Part 2 - Smut 18+)

𐙚 One Piece For Each (Smut 18+ - Threesome with Strahm)

𐙚 Secrets ( Angst, fluff, sad)

ADAM FAULKNER-STANHEIGHT

𐙚 You are enough (Fluff)

𐙚 Best Thing In My Life (Fluff)

𐙚 Roomates (Smut 18+)

𐙚 Nocturnal Panic (Smut 18+)

𐙚 Mama's boy (Smut 18+)

𐙚 Careless Whisper (Fluff)

𐙚 Sweet Mouth (Fluff)

AMANDA YOUNG

𐙚 Headcanons 1 (Fluff)

HEADCANONS

𐙚 What are they like in bed? (Smut 18+)

PETER STRAHM

𐙚 Rough Lovers (Angst, Smut 18+)

𐙚 One Piece For Each (Smut 18+ - Threesome with Hoffman)

THE BOYS

HOMELANDER

𐙚 Vought Party (little smut 18+)

𐙚 Caught (Smut 18+)

BILLY BUTCHER

𐙚 Midnight Date (Smut 18+)

SOLDIER BOY

𐙚 Doctor Y/N (Smut 18+)

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

Adam Stanheight x reader? Like how Lawrence describes his daughter & wife, have Adam describe his relationship with the reader.

Hope you like it, anon! <3

Best Thing In My Life | Adam Faulkner-Stanheight x Reader

Summary: You carry Adam's baby and the position of the best thing in his life

The time in that bathroom seemed like it would never end, Lawrence and Adam were still trying to understand what they should do to get out of that trap without physical harm. They had already understood that they needed to cut off their own leg that was trapped in chains, but where would they get the courage to do something like that? Lawrence looked at the photo of his family tied up there, helpless, not knowing what he could do to help Alison and their daughter.

“I feel horrible that i can’t help them. Alison and Diana are everything to me. I know i made a mistake cheating on Alison, but i love her since we met years ago. She is the woman of my life.”

The doctor lamented, he didn't even have enough water in his body to shed tears.

“I wonder if they did something to Y/n like they did to them.”

Adam said leaning against the wall, inside he was in pure despair, but he tried to hide it as much as possible, he didn't want to appear weak, no matter how weak he was.

“Y/n? Your relative?”

He asked.

“Something more than that. She is the best thing in my life. Is my girlfriend. I don’t think they would have the courage to do anything to her.”

“If they did something to a child like mine, why wouldn’t they do it to your girlfriend?”

Lawrence asked and Adam ignored his rude question.

“She is not alone. She's pregnant, carrying my baby. I was dedicating myself so much to photography to support both of us and him or her.”

Adam ran his hand over his face, starting to cry. Lawrence was silent for a few seconds before sighing, he was a little shocked now, Adam is gonna be a dad, just like him. If they were close to each other, they would definitely have hugged each other at that moment.

"I'm so sorry."

“I... She was the best thing that ever happened to me. I was bullied a lot in high school for being introverted, she was a new student, in the first week without even knowing me she helped me and stopped them from hitting me. She started hanging out with me and even though she was teased for being pretty and hanging out with a "weirdo" like me, she never stopped. After that i started to look at her like the wonder woman of my dreams, we've been together for 7 years and counting, in fact i was planning to surprise her and ask her to marry me, until i ended up here. She probably came home and saw everything set up, but she didn't saw me there. ”

He explained with a sad face.

"Don't worry. We’re going to get out of here and you’re going to see her again. I want to see my family too. Alison and i are not what we used to be, but i know she still loves me as much as i love her, the feeling may have cooled, but our love for Diana can overcome everything. My little girl is such a miracle in our life, she is so smart and curious. Just like her mother when was a teenager. I'm so proud of my baby”

Gordon said smiling, Adam started running his hands through his jeans looking for something, until he took a photo out of one of the pockets and showed it to Lawrence.

“Look look, at least he didn’t take that from me.”

Lawrence couldn't deny it, she really was very beautiful and had a magical smile that could easily charm anyone who passed by her. The photo showed her and Adam together holding a pregnancy test in one hand and a photograph of an ultrasound in the other hand, smiling extremely happily as a couple in love should be.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She is the love of my life, she is everything to me, she is the thing i am most grateful for having in my life. My family never supported me in being a photographer, unlike her who always helped me despite all the judgments. Being with her every day makes me happier and warms my heart, it's like im in paradise and she's my goddess. ”

Adam said smiling silly caressing the photo, the blonde laughed.

"Do not laugh. Lawrence, im really scared i'll never leave here and i won’t be able to see her again.” He admitted, frustrated.

"Ok ok, we going to get out of here, we’re going to find a way to do this, you’re going to find your wife, even if i leave first and come back for you.”

"You promise?"

“I promise you, Adam.”

Final note: please, reblog if you liked! 💖

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

Something New.

prompt : You tell Mark you feel bored with your sex life during an argument. He shows you why you should never speak down on him again.

warnings : 18+ audiences. Degrading. Dom!Mark Hoffman x sub!reader. Slight edging. Daddy kink. Age gap relationship. Power dynamics. Restraints. Hair pulling. Face-slapping. Subspace is implied. Aftercare, it gets softer at the end I promise he’s not a bastard in this one after. Victim play mentioned like once. Cursing. Use of the word cunt and cock when referring to parts. Porn without plot almost. Haven’t written smut in months, bare with me. Breeding. Alludes to squirting.

‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿

You really didn’t know exactly what had gotten yourself to this point. Didn’t know what possessed you to let such an insult slip past your mouth, even if deep down you knew you meant it. But god, you wished you didn’t. Your words got you here, your arms sealed into a knot tied to each bedpost, legs spread open and bound to stay that way, no Mark in sight.

You had no idea how long it had been until you noticed a familiar frame loom in the doorway, arms tight against his chest as a menacing chuckle escaped his lips.

“You really thought you could doubt me and get away with it, hm?” His voice is rasp. Deep. Just enough for his words to hit you in ways that it should’ve, enough to draw his point across. You didn’t answer, just looked in his direction, your eyes sparkling in fear of what he had planned to put you through.

It’s not long before he deeply sighs at the lack of any sign of response or acknowledgement of his presence, making his way over to your tortured form, a light slap stinging your cheeks. You gasp in response finally, his strong hand gripping your chin and forcing your eyes to peer up at him.

“Fucking look at me while I’m talking to you.” He spits venom from his lips, his eyes are a slick black, his pupils expanded to its max in a look that could never be mistaken as anything other than a desired hunger. He creates a stronger grip onto your jaw, shaking his head in faux disbelief at your actions. He pulls your face closer to him, his knees bent down in a laced mocking tone, as if you were nothing but a victim in that moment. “Speak when you’re spoken to, slut. We don’t have all day.”

You swallowed your pride, letting yourself morph into your permanent role. Nodding your head slowly and winced as his grip got impossibly tighter on your jaw.

“No. Use your fucking words. You can’t be that stupid.”

You could’ve sunk into a puddle of desire and need right there, practically leaking against the sheer fabric of the only material that was clung to your body. You had never seen this side before and while you were more than grateful that you managed to force this state out of him, you were all the more frightened that you pushed him to the point of no return when it came to your sex-life.

You finally brighten up the courage to open your silken lips, searching his eyes for any sign of your boyfriend’s caring nature when it came to you, but your search returned with nothing of the sorts. You swallow down a gulp that you were sure could’ve been heard due to the crisp environment.

“Yes.. daddy.” You hesitate. Not sure that that would’ve been the appropriate response. You knew that Mark had always been hesitant when it came to going out in public with you, he always thought he looked a bit too old to be with you, like a creep. But here he was in the same breath and the same mind, acting as if he was a dangerous predator stalking his prey.

Your words elicit a throated growl, black eyes continuing to peer down at you in your helpless position. He lets go of your jaw finally, letting your head fall roughly back onto the pillow without a care in his being. He himself probably had no idea in the slightest as to why he’s okay with being called daddy when he was already insecure in himself for snatching you up while he could. Maybe it was the way that anything sounded pretty coming from his angel, he’s sure that was it.

He pats your face as your reward, rubbing the soft flesh where his slip still lingered upon your face his thumb caressing your cheekbone. “Sorry, my angel.” He mouths down at you. You could tell he looked hesitant to continue seeing the handprint he left upon you but one look at your current state makes his gaze harden to its past form.

He starts to nonchalantly hum against the shell of your ear, his hand slowly making its way down your body. His pace was constant though, hand pressing firm onto your skin as he traces your helpless body. He stops once he gets close to your abdomen, smirk resting along the corner of his lips as his hand resumed slipping under the restraining lace fabric before ripping the flimsy material down the middle. His finger immediately hooks itself onto your wetness, slipping down to collect some on his finger, trailing his finger up your body again and forced it past your eager lips.

He doesn’t have to tell you what to do, you’ve seen too much of this move from him to know that you shouldn’t ignore it or freeze up when he presents himself. You wrap your lips desperately around the slick digit, using your tongue to sink it deeper into your mouth down to his knuckle.

“Fuck. You’re such a messy whore.” He belts out, his other hand swiftly taking his belt out of the confined loops, rushing his jeans past his ankles, kicking them off before his boxers fell swiftly behind. “All mine.” He grits his teeth, keeping himself tight-lipped.

He almost rips his finger from your mouth, moving slowly to crawl onto the bed and loomed over your smaller frame, sitting up on his knees as he admired you all spread out for him. He knew it would have been possible to keep your legs open for him, he naturally had that effect on you he caught on, but he figured the nature of learning a lesson would’ve been so much better and to his benefit.

You stare up at him, your doe eyes sparkling with faux innocence as he tangled his fingers through your hair, gripping onto a healthy amount of your hair with a deep smirk. He knew he had every and all control of you and your body he already couldn’t get enough of, he was fully up to taking advantage of this one moment. He rubs his tip against your cunt, groaning at the feeling of you still being wet, maybe even more than before. You shifted against your restraints, trying to buck up your hips in a desperate attempt to force him to slip inside, your actions answered with a grip on one of your hips to force you back down against the bed.

“I set the pace, not you. Understood?”

He didn’t give you much time to answer, he didn’t need one to the question anyways, he was setting the pace of the night rather you’d like it or not. He was the one that gave permission, not you.

It didn’t take him longer to give into you, though. Maybe it was a combination of how you already looked disheveled below him and those pretty eyes of yours but he could never say no to you even for a second. He forces his length inside of your aching cunt in one swift motion, wetness covering and enveloping around him. He possessively growls once more at your heat as a lethal result.

“Always fit me so well, don’t you? Like my own personal slut.” He grits his teeth and keeps his eyes locked on yours from below, nonverbally forcing you to keep contact. You wouldn’t dare break such a thing anyways, especially if he acted like this when provoked.

“Daddy.. please move. Need you.” You whimper into the air, hands pulling against your restraints once more in an overwhelming urge to rest your hands on his back to pull him closer to your body. You always needed to touch the few times you have had sex, he knew that. He knew you itched, yearned to use any way you could to get what you wanted. Suppose that that’s why the permanent smirk on his lips spreads to a motion that’s unrecognizable.

He hums in a mocking tone, tsking at the desperation leaking out of your every pore. “I said.” He starts in a low voice, whisking at your restraints to press them harder against your wrists, you whimper at his movements, eyes flickering to his cold ones.

“I set.” He pulls himself all the way out and shoves every inch back in.

“The fucking.” Harder.

“Pace.” The last word rumbles around near the bottom of his throat, his body leaning down so his mouth was leveled near your ear, causing him to curl deeper inside of you as he snapped each thrust.

“Behave, doll.” He whispers soft against your ear, pulling your weightless body right up against him. He starts to thrust into your tight walls faster, watching in amazement at how you took him so well every single time, mesmerized by the way your cunt practically swallows him whole.

He drinks in your noises from below him, every tiny purr begs him to just go faster until his pace is near brutality. You had no choice but to take it all, desperately needing to snap your legs shit due to the friction. You had always been sensitive when it came to any form of sex with Mark, he knew exactly how to reach you to that point in a matter of seconds, with just one touch you melted in his hands, every single time. If he was honest, it’s what kept his energy so high when it came to doing anything sexual for his most prized possession.

His thumb trails down your sides to press against your throbbed clit, rubbing circles that matched with the motion of his thrusts the faster he became. Your back arches off the mattress and a high-pitched gasp tears from your lips when he hits just where you need him to, squeezing onto his cock as your body depended on his touch to survive. He drinks the angelic sight and this time lets your hips buck on their own to push back onto him and match every one of his thrusts.

He can read your mind and movements in a matter of seconds, hissing at the feeling of your walls clamping down on him. He tried to regain his composure but he can’t control how he bottoms out right there at the feeling of your warmness.

His hand wraps around your throat with a strong force in his haste to get himself back under his own control, squeezing around your neck but still careful not to bruise you quite yet.

“Hold it. You don’t cum until I do.”

You nod frantically at his demanding words, your eyes squeezing shut as you tried to keep your focus on anything other than his movements. The obscene sounds of your slick echoing at each and every thrust. His rasped groans spitting from his chest as he picks up his pace for the final time. You can tell he’s brought himself closer to the edge, using you as nothing but his own personal toy as he ruts in and out of you.

Your mind is numb at this point the more that you’re forced to hold yourself in, your hands folding into fists. Nails digging into your skin and coloring your knuckles white. Your skin is a shade lighter, your mind beginning to float away as your body slips more into a stiff-like state, like a rag doll at his disposal.

“That’s it. That’s it. So good for me. Fuck.” He rambles out nonsense, words fuzzy and sounded faint as soon as the vibrations manage to hit your ears, eyes rolling back into your head at the pressure.

Lucky for your state, it isn’t a long wait until you feel him tense, hands flying to your small hips to keep him fully inside of you, the feeling of hot painting inside of you in slow strokes. Your body gives out fully before you even have a chance to free yourself with a right mind, letting yourself go with a shake to your thighs.

Mark watches with attentive eyes, in awe at your body as it reacts in a way he’s never seen before. Your eyes are glued shut, nose scrunched up at your release. He pulls himself out of you to see the whole show, your thighs continuing to shake and your hips bucking up to chase a high that far washed over you by now. He knows what is happening, he isn’t that oblivious to think that you’re fully down to earth with him, he actually researched before he actually got rougher.

He didn’t bother bringing you down from your space just yet, he read that it was best to keep you floated for a few minutes after and not tear you down off your faux reality yet. Instead, he just preens at his pretty little angel who did so good for him, undoing the hooks around your leather cuffs, his other hand catching your elbow so your arms wouldn’t snap back to your sides. Next is your leg restraint when your thighs have finally calmed down, a swift motion throwing them to the floor.

After a few long minutes of waiting, watching closely to make sure you were okay, your eyelashes flutter opened as you look up at him with wonder. Memories rush back to your mind of the night at hand but he left you barely any time to remanence before he wraps his arms around your hips and collapsed on the side beside you on the bed.

He pulls you towards his bare chest, thumbs rubbing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thighs, just where you wouldn’t be sensitive from the motion.

“Next time, let’s not question my abilities, baby doll.”

Your silence after his words is enough to celebrate his small victory.

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a/n: repost repost come get your repost. i hope it isn’t too weird, first time writing smut in a long while :)

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

tonights thought? letting adam hit it raw for the first time.

you two had been dating for a little while, and you’re well on birth control, but you’ve still been using protection up until now in your relationship. but… it’s his birthday, and you wanna give him something he’s always talked about

its no secret adam has always wanted to. even when he’s got a condom on, he’s always mumbled thoughts of breeding your pussy, stuffing it with his cock until you’re full and he’s spent. even so far as complaining about his lack of feeling close to you.

you’ve already got him on board with birthday sex, but when you grab his wrist as he goes to grab a condom, he swears he’s done for.

and you can never forget the sound he makes as he slides in for the first time. a strangled moan that almost makes you pity him. his voice breaks, hands gripping the sheets as he tries to hold back from immediately fucking into you

you were already planning on letting him- but when he gets close, and starts begging you to let him cum inside? how can you deny him?

“please, please can i cum inside you? it’ll- fuck, it’ll feel so good, baby, i need to, please- fuck, please let me cum in you. i jus- i just wanna see you full, shit, please, baby?”

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

I was honestly sad of what happened with Shane, heartbroken even, but I can't wait for the new part of their lives! I love, and don't doubt, how Daryl will stay with her through everything 🥹🥺🖤🖤🖤🖤

The Promise of Us: Chapter 1

(I promise I really did try to stop myself from posting this and have patience but I just couldn't do it!!!)

You and the group, exhausted and starving, search for safety in the ruins of a broken world and find potential refuge in an overrun prison. Amid the constant danger, your bond with Daryl grows, though you remain haunted by the trauma of the last night on the farm.

You

You remember again what true hunger feels like after all this time—the gnawing, aching, painful twisting in your gut that threatens to distract you.

The third house of the day looms before you, a crumbling relic of a life long lost to the apocalypse. You tighten your grip on the knife, holding it up by your ear, moving silently as you creep through the back door. The mudroom greets you with the scent of mildew and decay, and the cracked tiles beneath your feet crunch softly, though the noise feels deafening in your heightened state. Snarling comes from somewhere deeper inside the house, faint but unmistakable. You can tell it isn’t the kind of sound that means the walkers have noticed anyone. It’s that idle, low growl they emit as they wait, like predators with no purpose other than to react when prey comes near.

Your heart rate quickens, but you stay calm, methodical. You’ve done this enough times to know better than to let panic creep in. Months of jumping from house to house, exhaustion clouding every move, not sure what lies around every corner. You learn to push down the fear after a while. It never fully leaves you, but it’s manageable now. 

From another part of the house, you hear bodies thump heavily to the ground—silent but unmistakable. The thud is followed by a brief pause, then nothing. 

Moving into the kitchen, you carefully step over the broken dishes, upturned chairs, and scattered garbage littering the floor. The mess seems like a reminder of how quickly life had fallen apart. People left in a hurry, abandoning everything in a desperate attempt to survive. You glance at the countertop where a calendar still hangs, frozen in time on a date that no longer matters.

The kitchen is eerily quiet, with only the occasional creak of the decaying house keeping you company. Taking a breath, you cross the room, your eyes trained on the door ahead. With your knife raised, you brace yourself and throw open the door, immediately jumping back, ready for whatever horror might come charging through.

Instead, your breath catches when a pair of familiar blue eyes meet yours, an arrow aimed directly at you. For a second, you freeze, heart leaping into your throat.

Daryl lowers his crossbow just as quickly, his lips curling into a faint, teasing smile. Scoffing, you follow him as he turns to go down the hallway. You stay close behind, eyes fixed on the back of his head, watching the way he moves with quiet precision, his crossbow back up at the ready. Always careful. Always ready.

As he leans into the doorway of what looks like a bedroom, you catch a glimpse of something unusual. A large bird—a magnificent owl—perches in the window, its enormous yellow eyes staring back at you, wings slowly spreading wide in an attempt to intimidate.

Without hesitation, Daryl raises his crossbow again and shoots the bird, the arrow landing squarely in its chest. It slumps forward, dead before it even knew what hit it.

“A meal is a meal,” Daryl says, already yanking the arrow free and pulling feathers from the owl’s body in preparation.

“Hear me complainin’?” you quip back, though the idea of eating owl doesn’t sit well in your stomach. At this point, though, you’re beyond picky. Anything that fills the gnawing void in your gut will do.

As Daryl works, the sound of a can opener interrupts the silence. You glance over to see Carl, looking young and exhausted, fiddling with the opener on a can of dog food. The others sit around him, watching him mess with it, looks of hollow resignation on their faces. Before he can get it open, Rick strides over, his jaw tight with frustration, and snatches the can from Carl’s hands, tossing it aside without a word. There's a strange tension in the air, the kind that always lingers after too many days without food, without safety.

The group’s exhaustion weighs heavily on you, making everything feel slower, more oppressive. You look around at the forlorn faces of those around you. Lori sits with her hand resting on her stomach, her head tilted back in momentary reprieve. Hershel sits nearby with Beth and Maggie at his side, while Glenn sits with his eyes cast down, his hand wrapped around Maggie’s. T-Dog stands at the window, his eyes scanning the outside world with quiet vigilance. As you glance at him, your gaze shifts past his head, and that’s when you see them—walkers, moving with their lazy, inevitable purpose, shambling closer to the house. T-Dog catches sight of them too. He turns back to the group, his voice low as he makes a quiet “psst,” a signal that instantly grabs everyone’s attention.

In a heartbeat, the atmosphere shifts. Instinct takes over. The exhaustion that had weighed on everyone moments ago disappears, replaced by the sharp edge of survival. Everyone moves quickly, grabbing what they can, the unspoken understanding that you need to leave—now.

Outside, the vehicles wait like lifelines, ready to go. You swing your leg over the back of Daryl’s bike, the familiar rumble of the engine vibrating through you as he revs it up. The wind whips through your hair as he takes off, his back solid in front of you, but there’s no time to relax. Not now. Not with so many so close. A few miles down the road, when everyone seems sure nothing is around, the vehicles stop and people clamber out. Carl immediately goes on watch towards the back, Beth taking to your right, Carol off to the front left. 

Once everyone’s on their feet again, you find yourself standing by Rick and the others, a map splayed across the hood of the Hyundai. The sunlight beats down on you, hot and relentless, as Maggie, Glenn, and T-Dog huddle around the car.

“We got no place left to go,” T-Dog says grimly, eyes scanning the map with no real hope.

Maggie is the next to speak up, her voice tight with worry. “When the herd meets up with this one, we’ll be cut off… We’ll never make it out.”

Daryl’s voice cuts through the tension, practical as ever, looking to Glenn, “What’d ya say, about 150 head?”

Glenn squints in the sun as he looks over, trying to calculate. “That was last week… could be twice that by now.”

The words hang heavy in the air as the group exchanges uneasy glances.

There’s more conversation around the map, tension rising with every passing second. Hershel points to a spot where a river cuts through the terrain. “This could delay the walkers some,” he says, his voice steady but tinged with concern. “Might buy us a little time.”

You shift your weight, leaning against the hot metal of the car as sweat trickles down your spine, soaking into your shirt. The end of summer has brought an unbearable heat in the day and cold nights, and the relentless sun beats down on all of you now. It makes everything harder—thinking, moving, even breathing. The heat feels like it’s closing in, amplifying the suffocating sense of being trapped, surrounded on all sides by herds of the dead.

Your eyes drop to the map, though the lines and roads are starting to blur. It feels like you’ve been running in circles, from one house to the next, never finding enough supplies, never feeling safe for more than a few hours. Every turn feels like it just leads you back to the same dead end—hunger, danger, exhaustion.

As a plan starts to come together, people split up and take a moment to relax by the cars, getting their things in order. 

“Hey,” Daryl growls, his voice breaking through the fog of your thoughts. He’s looking straight at you and Rick, the two of you still hovering in front of the car. “While the others wash their panties, let’s go out and hunt.”

Rick and you meet eyes then, and you nod along, your stomach giving a sharp reminder of how little your lunch had done to fill the void. 

“That owl didn’t exactly hit the spot,” you mutter, heading for the trunk of the car where your rifle rests. Your fingers close around the cold metal, and you feel a strange sense of relief. At least with a weapon in hand, things feel a little more certain, even if it’s just an illusion.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・

The train tracks are rusted and overgrown, tangled with weeds and vines from months of neglect. Each step you take along the old rails echoes softly in the still air, the sound barely noticeable over the distant rustle of the wind through the trees. The three of you walk in silence, your eyes constantly scanning the woods, ever-alert for movement—whether it’s game or danger.

The forest feels endless around you, dense and shadowed, the overgrowth reclaiming what was once human space. There’s a quiet tension in the air, the kind that never really leaves anymore, always lingering at the edge of every moment. Your fingers brush against the cool metal of your rifle, ready for anything.

Then, the trees break suddenly, the thick wall of branches and leaves giving way to an open clearing. The sight ahead stops you in your tracks.

A large, imposing structure sits just beyond the clearing—an old prison. Its tall fences and watchtowers rise like dark silhouettes against the sky, but what immediately catches your attention is the movement inside. Walkers. Dozens, maybe more, stagger and shuffle aimlessly within the prison yard, their moans faint but distinct, even from this distance. The chain-link fences seem to hold them in, for now, but the sight is enough to make your skin crawl.

“That’s a shame,” Daryl grunts, squinting as he assesses the situation, his eyes scanning the yard filled with the dead. He tightens his grip on his crossbow, frustration clear in his voice. 

You nod silently in agreement, the potential of a fortified structure like that being overshadowed by the sheer number of walkers roaming the inside. The idea of clearing it out seems impossible.

But Rick remains silent. His gaze is fixed on the prison, his jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, you catch a glimmer in his eyes—a twinkle of something…hope, maybe. Or determination. It’s the look he gets when he’s already starting to formulate a plan, even if the odds seem stacked against him.

You exchange a glance with Daryl, sensing that Rick might see something more than just a lost cause in the wreckage ahead.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・

You press your weight against the fence, the chain link rattling under the force as you shove your knife through an opening, right into the skull of a walker. Its snarl cuts off abruptly as it slumps to the ground, but you barely register it. You’re already moving again, feet pounding against the ground as you run through the middle walkway between yard and forest. Daryl stays up front, his torn leather vest flapping in the wind, the angel wings on his back catching the light.

“It’s perfect,” Rick whispers, his eyes scanning the prison yard as you all pause, “If we shut that gate, stop any more from coming in, we can clear the yard.” His voice holds a quiet certainty.

“I’ll go,” Glenn offers, stepping forward, but Maggie immediately shoots him a glare, shutting him down. Glenn stands his ground, though. “I’m the fastest. I can do it.”

Rick’s eyes shift to Maggie, Beth, and Glenn. “No, you, Maggie, and Beth, draw as many as you can over there.” He points toward the far side of the fence around the corner, “Pop ‘em through the fence.”

“Daryl, head back to the other tower,” Rick continues, calling out names and assigning positions, while you stand quietly, waiting for your role. Steady adrenaline keeps you going, buzzing with something inside you. There’s no space for fear, excitement, or even hesitation. This is just survival.

Daryl catches your eye, his gaze quick and searching. It’s a silent check-in, a wordless connection. You give him a short nod, enough for him. Then, he’s off, running toward his position.

One by one, everyone scatters, moving to their designated spots—ready to lure, shoot, and take down walkers. You watch them go, your focus sharp, every movement rehearsed in your head. The gate is key. If it stays open, there’s no winning this fight.

Rick looks around, watching them all head off, and then his eyes land on you. His lips quirk up in the corners, eyes almost apologetic.

You breathe out a chuckle, half rolling your eyes at him, “I’ll run for the gate,” you moan sarcastically, realizing your fate.

“I’m right behind ya,” he chuckles, standing by the fence. It’s such a strange thing– seeing him smile now. Like all his prayers are being answered today.

You hear the others calling for walkers, the sounds of knives piercing skulls and bodies hitting the ground inside the fence. Lori stands by the gate, her face tense as she takes a deep breath, looking at both of you for a moment, then pulls it open just wide enough to let you and Rick through.

You move quickly, quietly, gun raised, knife ready in your other hand. The air is thick with tension, but your movements are automatic now—practiced, efficient. You let your gun fall to swing around your torso by the strap to slash your knife through walker’s heads, a few finding you and Rick more interesting than those along the chain link fencing. Gunshots ring out nearby, and you see bodies falling, but you don’t let it break your stride. Rick is right beside you, both of you sprinting for the main gate. You hear a snarl coming up behind you, but when you turn to take it down, it’s already falling to the earth with an arrow in its head. You look up across the yard and see Daryl in the guard tower, his eyes on you. You throw him a quick nod again, thanks , and take off.

When you reach the inner fence, you quickly tie a cord to secure the entrance, your fingers working fast as Rick kicks down a walker that got too close. Without missing a beat, he pulls you toward the center guard tower, and you follow him up the narrow stairs, your breath steady despite the chaos below.

At the top, you finally pause, glancing down at the sea of walkers in blue jumpsuits. Their lifeless movements seem almost surreal from this vantage point. When you look over at Rick, you notice something that catches you off guard—a smile. A genuine, wide smile spreads across his face, a rare sight these days. He lets out a short, breathless laugh, almost disbelieving, and before you know it, the two of you start shooting down the walkers below, one after another.

One by one, they hit the ground. The smiles on everyone’s faces are priceless. For the first time in months–months, you hear laughter. A small part of you recognizes this rare moment of relief too, letting your tense shoulders fall in celebration. Daryl is waiting for you when you reach the bottom, moving toward you with a quiet kind of confidence. Without saying a word, he hooks an arm around your neck, pulling you close so that your head fits into the crook of his elbow. He kisses the top of your head, a gesture that feels grounding, steady. 

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・

Later that night, everyone is gathered around the firepit, the orange glow flickering against tired faces, and you and Daryl are stationed on watch atop a truck that was flipped onto its side to block the gated entrance out of the field. Your legs dangle down by one of the tires, your rifle resting across your lap. You sit quietly, feeling the weight of the night but enjoying the quiet– just the rhythm of breathing and waiting. Daryl’s footsteps sound behind you, pacing back and forth along the metal of the truck, eyes sweeping the area, always alert.

You watch Rick make his rounds, occasionally catching sight of him when he passes through the inner fence. It’s almost mechanical now, his path well-worn as he loops around again and again. He’s passed three times already. For a moment, the space feels surreal—so much room to breathe, and yet the tension still lingers just beneath the surface.

A hand appears beside you, and you glance down to see Carol’s face, her eyes alight with a small smile. Daryl must have noticed her at the same time, because he leans down and helps her up onto the side of the truck with a grunt of effort. 

“It’s not much,” she says, handing you and Daryl a few scraps of meat, “but if I don’t bring you anything, you won’t eat at all.”

You give her a quiet nod of thanks, accepting your share. The meat is dry, but it’s something.

“I guess little Shane over there’s got quite the appetite,” Daryl grumbles between bites, nodding toward the group around the fire. You immediately avert your eyes, your fingers tightening slightly around your lap. You try to drown out the conversation, forcing yourself to focus on anything else—the distant crackle of the fire, the rustling of the trees outside the fence—anything to stop the memories from creeping in.

You can hear the teasing tone in Carol’s voice, “Don’t be mean,” but as she continues, she gets quieter–serious, “Rick’s gotten us a lot farther than I ever thought he would. I’ll give ‘em that.”

Daryl grunts in agreement, chewing on his food.

“Shane could never do that,” she adds quietly, her tone shifting.

The name catches you off guard again, and your stomach twists, though you try to push the feeling away. You gulp down what’s left of your food and squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to stifle the wave of nausea creeping in.

“What’s wrong?” Daryl asks, his voice low, though Carol doesn’t seem to notice the look on your face as she rubs her neck. But he’s not talking to you, he’s looking at her. You manage to open your eyes after the wave of uneasiness passes, and look up at them.

“The rifle,” Carol mutters, her hand gripping the side of her neck, “The kickback—guess I’m just not used to it.”

Daryl finishes licking the last of the juice from his fingers, then invites her over with a simple wave. He puts down his crossbow and begins kneading her shoulder, working out the tension in her muscles. You sit there, watching, feeling almost like you’re observing from the outside. His hands move with practiced ease, and Carol smiles back at him, teasing warmth in her eyes.

She turns her head, grinning. “Wow, Daryl, that was pretty romantic,” she says with a mischievous twinkle, “you hitting on me now? One girl not enough for ya?”

“Pffft…” Daryl rolls his eyes, clearly ignoring her, though a flicker of a grin crosses his face. He’s about to dismount the truck when he adds, “I’ll go down first.”

Carol, with a playful smirk, looks to you and winks, “Even better!”

A twinge of humor finally breaks through, and you can’t help the laughter that escapes you as you chuckle with her. Daryl’s face flushes brick red as he helps Carol down from the side of the truck, his hands gripping her sides briefly before letting go the moment her feet hit the ground. She heads off towards the group around the fire, leaving the two of you.

You go to get down yourself, but he stands in front of you, his arms up, waiting. “I got it,” you say, waving him off.

“I know,” his voice quiet, but his fingers twitch to beckon you down. You give him a small smile, and allow him to take you in his arms as you make your way down to the ground. His hands remain on your sides even when your feet find the grass below, and you find yourself holding onto his elbows for support, both of you lingering in that space.

There’s an unspoken moment between you, the air thick with something unsaid. You hang there, waiting for what he might say next, aware of the quiet tension settling in his features.

“You know,” he begins, his worried expression breaking into a small smile playing on his lips, teasing, “I’m still all yours,” 

“Good to know,” you murmur back, not really sure what else to say, but your lips twitch up playfully at his flirting. The way he’s looking at you makes it a little easier to be present, even if just for a moment.

Daryl’s lips quirk into a grin, satisfied with your reaction, even if it’s brief. He shifts, moving to walk along the side of the truck next to you, the two of you side by side now.

“Can’t have anyone thinkin’ I’m strayin’,” he teases lightly, his tone playful but gentle, almost like he’s testing the waters.

You glance at him again, another small laugh slipping out, even if you don’t fully feel it. It’s enough to lighten the mood, and for now, that’s enough. He takes your hand, his rough calluses a comfort you’d come to love scraping your skin. He tugs you forward, towards the group. Where you could hear Beth singing.

But since it has so ought to be 

By a time to rise and a time to fall 

Come fill to me the parting glass 

Good night and joy be with you all 

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・

Daryl

She hadn’t smiled in months. 

Not a real smile, anyway. Sure, he’d gotten some laughs out of her, but they weren’t the kind that came from within– a true, belly laugh. It was more like a quick puff of air, almost like a scoff, like the sound escaped before she could even stop it. But those smiles, the ones that used to light up her whole face– Gone. He missed that. He missed the way her eyes used to shine when they’d tease each other, trading jabs and grins like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Now, her smiles never touched her eyes. They were always distant now, like her mind was a million miles away. And damn if that didn’t tear him up inside.

It had been months since they’d felt any real safety, and maybe that was part of it. Being on the run, never knowing if you’d have a place to sleep or if walkers would come through at night—it wore on everyone. Constantly watching your back could drain a person’s spirit, and he figured maybe that had something to do with the change in her. But deep down, he knew better. This wasn’t just about the lack of safety. This was about that night on the farm. What Shane had done. What she had to do. Daryl hadn’t been there in time to stop it, and even though she survived, something in her had changed.

Daryl wasn’t good with words. Never had been. And when it came to asking her what was really going on, he figured he didn’t even have a clue where to start. He didn’t want to push her—didn’t know if he should. But every time he caught her staring off into the distance, or going through the motions like she was just surviving, it hit him like a gut punch. Something was broken inside her, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

So, he did what he always did—he stayed. Quiet, steady. Right by her side. If there was one thing he was good at, it was being there. Being solid when everything else fell apart. He didn’t need to know the right words, not really. Words had never mattered much between the two of them anyway.

He wasn’t gonna give up on her. Not now. Not ever.

But damn, he missed that twinkle in her eyes. Missed the way she used to jab him in the ribs with her elbow, flashing him that teasing smile that made everything feel lighter. He wondered if that part of her was ever coming back, or if the world had taken it from her for good.

He glances over at her now, sitting a few feet away, the firelight dancing along her features, fingers idly tracing the edge of her gun. She looks lost in thought, far away from him, from the fire, from the group. He isn’t sure how to reach her, but hell, he was gonna keep trying, even if it meant standing next to her in silence for the rest of his damn life.

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

table of contents

Summary: After the farm’s devastating fall, you’re forced to confront not only the dangers of the open landscape but the emotional weight that presses down on you day and night. The distraction of survival left little room to process the pain and guilt that now linger beneath the surface, but when the group discovers the prison, the urgency to survive finally eases, and the flood of emotions you’ve buried starts to rise. With the adrenaline gone, you’re left to face your grief, guilt, and shifting dynamics within the group. Relationships are tested in the wake of loss, and your inner struggle feels heavier than ever. Yet, through it all, there’s one bond you can always rely on: Daryl. Steady, unwavering, and your constant in a world of uncertainty, he might be the only thing keeping you grounded as you fight through the fog of grief and find your way back to yourself.

warnings: canon typical violence including walker deaths and gore, mentions of depressions and ptsd, (canon) character deaths, violence against mfc

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

PART II

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Epilogue

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

Such a rollercoaster of emotions!! 🖤🖤🖤🥹Kudos to you! 🫶

The Ruins of Us: Epilogue

Crickets chirp around you, the warm fire casting red and orange light across the faces of those gathered. Along the highway, Rick had made the decision to camp for the night due to the lack of gas after a long few days of travel. No one really wants to do it—being out in the open is dangerous—but exhaustion has caught up to everyone. There was no food, no gasoline. The cars were running on fumes when everyone Rick decide to stop.

Hershel's hands gently press against your ribcage, carefully assessing your injuries, but despite his gentle touch, every breath still sends a piercing pain through your torso.

“Unfortunately, the only thing we can do is let them heal on their own. It’ll take a few weeks,” Hershel says quietly, his voice barely above the crackling of the fire. You nod, wincing as you pull your shirt back down and lean against the rough bark of a tree.

Daryl appears from the dark, quick and purposeful, throwing more wood into the fire before coming to sit behind you. He places a steady hand on your shoulder, guiding you forward just long enough to slide behind you, offering his chest as a more comfortable place to lean. His arms wrap around you, his legs on either side of yours, and you let out a soft sigh as you relax into him, the familiar scent of leather and wood replacing the acrid smell of smoke. You close your eyes, feeling at ease again.

“We’re not safe with him,” Carol’s soft voice breaks through the quietm making your eyes flash open again. She’s sitting beside the two of you, her face etched with worry. “Keeping something like that from us… how can we trust him?”

You knew the group was upset about the news Rick dropped on everyone. The virus–whatever made the dead come back alive, hungry for human flesh–was inside everyone. It didn’t take a bite or a scratch. Anyone would turn once they died. Maybe it was the shock still numbing your senses, but you hadn’t been surprised by the revelation. It should’ve been devastating, knowing that everyone was doomed to become one of them, a walking corpse. And yet, that truth seemed to settle quietly in the back of your mind, waiting for the right moment to break you under its weight. One day, you’d crack from the pressure of it all. But for now, you could only push it aside, another harsh reality in a world already brimming with them.

She looks into the dark before locking eyes with Daryl. “Why do you need him? He’s just gonna pull you down.”

Daryl’s reply is simple, “No. Rick’s done all right by me.”

Carol’s eyes narrow. “You’re his henchman,” she says bitterly, her tone making you scrunch your nose, but she continues, “And I’m a burden. You deserve better.”

Daryl’s gaze sharpens, and he looks at her carefully before asking, “What do you want?”

She hesitates for a moment, searching for the right words. “A man of honor,” she finally says, almost as if she’s unsure of the answer herself.

“Rick has honor,” Daryl shoots back, his voice rough but steady. He pulls you closer, rubbing his hands along your arms to fend off the chill in the night air.

Then you hear Maggie pipe up, “I think we should take our chances,” she’s looking to Glenn, Before he can respond, Hershel’s firm voice cuts in, “Don’t be foolish—there’s no food, no fuel.”

Suddenly, there’s a rustling in the darkness. Beth lets out a small yelp, her eyes wide with fear.

Daryl’s head snaps toward the sound, “Could be anything—raccoon, opossum—”

“Walker,” Glenn finishes grimly. The others are standing now, hands finding their weapons. There’s a quiet panic, people thinking we need to leave, the sound causing more chaos than relative to the situation.

“The last thing we need is people running off in the dark,” Rick says sharply, his voice full of authority. “We don’t have the vehicles. No one’s travelin’ on foot.”

Another branch snaps, and everyone holds their breath. Carol, visibly on edge, demands, “Do something.”

“I am doin’ something!” Rick snarls, his frustration boiling over, “I’m keepin’ this group together–alive,” he pauses, his weight shifting with intensity, “I’ve been doin’ that all along, no matter what. I didn’t ask for this. My best friend is dead because of me. I planned it. For you people,” his lip is curled, teeth bared as he reveals the truth to the group. Everyone looks over to you for a brief moment, taking in your reaction. You try your best not to flinch at his words, but Daryl’s grip tightens on you, protective, hackles raising. But the group is silent at Rick’s admission–scared, shocked… They didn’t know the whole story, but Rick was taking the blame. Even though the true guilt sat in your chest like a brick.

Rick continues, “You saw what he was like–how he pushed me, pushed everyone,” he pauses to look at you, “how he compromised us–how he threatened us.” 

His eyes remain on you, and you meet his gaze unflinching. 

“The Randall thing was staged, he wanted to kill him himself, we all knew that. But he went for Y/N, attacked her. Left her with no choice. It was supposed to be me, but I didn’t get there in time–so she had to act in self defense–look at her! Look at her neck, people. She has broken ribs, a cracked jaw for Christ’s sake!” His one hand holds the gun in its holster, the other points as he gestures to you, guilt lacing his voice.

Your pulse is skyrocketing, and you refuse to meet the gazes of the other’s as they take in your appearance. The bruises had fully set in on you, dark purple and blue fingerprints on your neck like a horrid necklace, and the side of your face where he punched you swollen and red. Your eyes are narrowed on Rick as he continues, “He gave us no choice,” he spits, “He was my friend, but he went after her. I was supposed to take care of him–I knew he was coming for me next.” Carl’s soft sobs carry through the air, and Lori pulls him in close, her eyes brimming with tears as she tries to comfort her son.

“My hands are clean–and so are her’s,” he growls, and pauses for a moment.

Looking to the ground with heated eyes, he says with heavy emotion, “Maybe you people are better off without me–go ahead!” he points into the darkness, “I say there’s a place for us, but maybe it’s just another pipe dream. Maybe I’m foolin’ myself again. But go ahead and find out yourself–and send me a postcard!” His voice is filled with anger, the heaviness of the last night on the farm weighing on every word, “Think you can do better? Let’s see how far you get.” Everyone stood still, breathing in deeply.

“No takers?” he quips, “Then let’s get one thing straight. You’re staying? This isn’t a democracy anymore,” he looks to Lori then, her eyes wide at the man before her. Before he walks away, he looks over at you and Daryl once more, then disappears into the dark.

You felt the air shift then–things were never going to be like they were–the farm had been a temporary refuge, but safety is an illusion now. You close your eyes, leaning into Daryl’s warmth, feeling everything you have lost and still have to fight for. Things were going to be very different going forward. Rick had changed because of that night.

But the thing was–so had you.

notes: THANK YOU! To all of you who read, commented, liked, reblogged! I haven't written fan fiction in over 10 years, let alone write anything, honestly. It means the WORLD to me to see all of you enjoy my work.

So truly truly truly: from the bottom of my heart, thank you!

Keep liking, reblogging and commenting <3

love, AR

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

This was all just SO good!! I wasn't ready for it to end :( 🥺🖤🖤I can't wait to read the other series!

:D this was SO damn awesome, I loved every seconds of it!

The Ruins of Us: Chapter 37

Summary: After barely escaping the chaos, you wake to find Daryl holding you close, both physically and emotionally anchoring you as everyone processes the aftermath. In a quiet, tender moment away from the others, the depth of your connection with Daryl finally surfaces, leading to a raw, shared vulnerability between you.

no warnings apply

You’re awoken again by the loss of the lulling sound of the motorcycle beneath you. You aren't sure how long you’d been out, but as your heavy eyes begin to open, the ache of your body protests any sense of movement. The sun is out now, and you can tell it must be early morning. You can feel the coolness of the air against your skin, but time has blurred—how long had you been driving to get here?

The engine is off, and through the fog of exhaustion, you see Carol swinging her legs over the bike to dismount. The shift of her weight makes Daryl’s grip on you tighten instinctively, keeping you steady against him. His hand is warm against your back, his fingers gently rubbing small circles in an attempt to comfort you as you stir in his lap, your chest still pressed tightly against his. It must’ve been the only way Merle’s old bike could manage to hold the three of you. 

His foot kicks out the stand, and as the bike settles into place, you hear the distant sounds of footsteps approaching—voices, familiar and relieved, echoing around you.

Daryl’s other hand, the one not resting on your back, reaches out to shake someone else’s, and you hear the low rasp of Rick’s voice as he approaches.

“How is she?” Rick asks, concern threading through his words.

You don’t hear Daryl’s response, but you can feel the small nod he gives, his body shifting slightly beneath you as Rick’s footsteps recede. Only then does Daryl pull back a bit to get a good look at you. His eyes are full of worry, scanning your face, taking in the bruises, the cuts, and the strain that still lingers in your expression.

Your eyes meet his, the fog of sleep slowly clearing from your mind. “Dare…” you whisper, your voice hoarse and weak.

“Everything’s alright,” he reassures you, his tone rough yet soft. “We made it to the highway. Everyone’s here.” One of his hands comes up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so gentle, but there’s a deep pain in his eyes as he continues to look at you, taking in the bruises beginning to form on your jaw, the marks around your neck. His thumb brushes lightly over the tender skin, and you can tell it hurts him to see you like this.

“Come on,” he says quietly, the tenderness still there as he shifts beneath you. He rises slowly, careful not to jostle you too much, pulling your thighs tightly around him until he steps off the bike and sets you carefully on the ground. The moment your feet touch the earth, the sharpness of the ache in your body makes you wince, but Daryl is quick to slip your arm over his shoulders, steadying you as you lean against him for support.

You both make your way toward where the group is gathering. The faces are familiar, but the sight of their smaller numbers hits you like a punch to the gut. Lori, Carl, Rick… Hershel, Maggie, Beth, Glenn, Carol, and T-Dog—all standing around the cars. The weight of their collective grief is palpable. Your chest tightens, even with the relief of being back together after the chaos at the farm. A deep sadness settles over you as you glance over to the note left for Sophia, the small pile of food still there, untouched and waiting. It feels like a lifetime ago. 

Rick’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Where’d you find these guys?” he asks, his tone hopeful as he looks at Daryl.

“Well,” Daryl half-smiles, though the weariness never leaves his eyes, “these guys’ tail lights zig-zagging all over the road—” he shrugs, “figured he had to be Asian drivin’ like that.”

You can’t help but scoff, smiling even through the pain.

“Good one,” Glenn retorts, unimpressed but managing a smile.

Daryl’s expression fades back into seriousness as he glances around the group, taking in the scattered faces. “Where’s the rest of us?”

“We’re the only ones who made it so far,” Rick says grimly.

Lori stands from hugging Carl, her voice small, “Shane?” she looks at Rick, then her eyes flicker to you, the front of you covered in deep brown and red stains.

You look up into her eyes, your chin trembling, and shake your head. Lori’s eyes search yours, then flicker to the ground, collecting herself.

“Andrea?” Glenn asks, shock plaguing his expression.

“She saved me then I lost her,” Carol explains, looking around hopelessly.

“We saw her go down,” T-Dog says quietly.

“Patricia?” Hershel asks.

Beth’s quiet voice pipes up that she had been taken down too. She asks about Jimmy, but Rick explains he was in the RV when it was overrun. The realization of how many have been lost settles heavily over the group, the air thick with grief. The stillness presses down, suffocating in its weight.

More questions arise, murmurs of Andrea’s whereabouts, but Daryl senses your growing exhaustion—the way your body trembles against him, barely able to hold itself up. Without a word, he slips his other arm under your armpit, gently lowering you to the ground beside a car tire. You don’t resist. Your body is screaming for relief.

“‘M gonna find you some clothes, okay?” Daryl rasps softly, brushing his thumb over your shoulder before rising. “Gotta get these off.”

You nod weakly, your mind swimming in a haze of pain and exhaustion. As Daryl walks off, Rick approaches, kneeling down in front of you, his eyes filled with concern. The others begin to disperse, and you’re left with him—your eyes barely able to stay open, but you feel the weight of the conversation hanging between you. The one you know has to come next. His eyes are soft, but the heaviness of everything you’ve been through—everything that’s been lost—is etched in the lines of his face. You can’t meet his gaze at first, too tired, too much guilt that’s been gnawing at you since last night.

Rick’s quiet for a moment before he speaks, his voice low and gentle. “Y/N... what happened? With Shane?”

Your breath catches in your throat, feeling like a brick sits on your chest. The memories rush back—Shane’s hands on you, the fear, the feeling of sinking the knife into his chest. You swallow hard, your body beginning to shake as you try to find the words. “I... I didn’t tell you,” you start, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry, Rick. I didn’t mean to go behind your back. I just thought... If I could get Randall out, maybe I could stop everything from falling apart. Thought maybe you’d notice in time.”

Your voice cracks as you look at him. “I didn’t mean for it to go so badly. I’m so sorry.”

Rick shakes his head, his expression pained but understanding. “You did what you thought was right. You were tryin’ to protect us all,”

Tears well in your eyes, and you try to blink them away, but the guilt burns in your chest as you can’t bear to look at him anymore, “I didn’t tell you. I should’ve waited... should’ve told you the plan before I acted. Shane... he killed Randall. He came for me. He had it all planned. First me, then you. I had to run, Rick. I didn’t know what else to do. All I could think about was getting out of there alive...”

Your voice trails off as your chin trembles, the words getting caught in your throat and only managing to whisper now, “I didn’t want to kill him, Rick. I swear, I didn’t. But I had no choice.”

Rick's eyes soften even more, and he reaches out, placing a hand under your chin to gently pull your face to look at him, “You had to survive. You did what any of us would’ve done.”

You shake your head, tears falling now, the pressure of everything pressing down on you. “I just didn’t want it to end like this.”

Rick lets out a breath, his hand still steadying you. “None of us did. I should’ve been there. I should’ve stopped it before it got this far.”

You look up at him, and for the first time, you see the guilt on his face too—the burden he’s carrying, the decisions he’s had to make. The regret of not dealing with Shane like he had wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” Rick continues, his voice strained, letting his hand fall back to his side, “You shouldn’t have had to do that.” 

The two of you sit in the silence that follows, both of you carrying the weight of loss, regret, and the hard choices that had to be made. There are no easy answers, no real absolution—but there’s an understanding between you.

Just then, Daryl returns with a pile of clothes in his arms, his eyes flicking between you and Rick. He can see the tears in your eyes, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he crouches down beside you, his touch gentle as he hands you the pile.

"Got these from one of the cars, I think they’ll fit,” Daryl says gruffly. “Figured you could use somethin’ clean.”

You nod, sniffling as you wipe at your face, accepting the clothes from him. Daryl gives you a soft look before rising to his feet, standing beside Rick.

Rick stands up too, letting out a sigh as he looks toward the rest of the group. “We’ll make it through this,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “We have to.”

You know Rick’s words are meant to reassure you, but they also carry the weight of what’s ahead—more loss, more danger. Before he leaves, he says softly, his eyes looking over your body then– the cuts, the bruises coloring your skin and the unmistakable fingerprints around your neck, “I’ll have Hershel take a look at you,” 

All you can do is nod. You’ll take it one step at a time.

Daryl kneels back down beside you as Rick makes his way back over to the others, his eyes flickering over your bloodied, torn clothes, and he frowns, concern etched deeply into his features. You try to sit up straighter, but the pain shoots through your ribs, making you wince. Immediately, Daryl’s hands are on you, steadying you with a firm but gentle grip.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek as he leans in to help you sit up. “Ain’t gotta rush.”

His hand lingers on your back, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of your shirt, as if he’s afraid to cause you more pain but also reluctant to let go. He brings you up gently to take you behind some of the overturned cars to change behind what little privacy they offer.

“Let’s get you outta these,” he says quietly, his voice rough but tender. He reaches for the hem of your shirt, hesitating for a second as his eyes meet yours again, searching for any sign of discomfort. 

You nod faintly, giving him silent permission. There’s no awkwardness between you, just a quiet intimacy, born from the countless times he’s cared for you in moments like this—whether it was bandaging cuts from hunting trips or lifting you out of danger.

As he gently lifts your shirt, you feel the cool air brush against your skin, and despite the pain, there’s something calming in his touch. He’s careful, slow, his calloused fingers grazing your sides as he pulls the fabric away, revealing the aftermath of the blows you took beneath. His jaw tightens as he takes in the sight of you, the bruising on your ribs and the scrapes across your skin.

“Daryl…” you whisper, your voice hoarse, trying to reassure him without saying the words. You were here, after all. In one piece. Alive.

He doesn’t answer right away, his focus on you, his expression dark with worry. His fingers trail lightly over the growing deep purple and red, not enough to hurt, but just enough to make you feel the depth of his concern. You can see it in the way his brows furrow, the way his lips press into a tight line. He’s angry—angry at Shane, angry at the world for putting you through this.

“‘M fine,” you manage to say, your hand reaching up to brush against his arm, trying to offer him some reassurance again. But you both know that’s not entirely true.

Daryl shakes his head, his fingers coming up to your face, his finger and thumb taking your chin with a tenderness that sends a flutter through your chest. “Don’t gotta say that to me,” he mutters, his voice low, almost gruff. “You ain’t gotta be tough all the time.”

His words are soft, but they hit something deep inside you. You’ve always been strong, always pushed through the pain for the sake of the group—for him. But right now, with Daryl, you don’t have to be.

He takes the clean long sleeved shirt from the pile and helps you into it, his hands careful and steady as he pulls it over your head. The fabric is warm against your skin, a stark contrast to the chill in the air. As he adjusts it, his hands linger on you for a second longer, his thumbs brushing over the fabric, grounding you.

You glance up at him, feeling the tension in his posture—the way his eyes flicker over you, protective but also… something more. There’s something unspoken in the way he looks at you, something that’s been building between you for a long time. He works quietly, sliding the new jeans up your legs, steadying you as he does, after discarding the heavy, blood caked pair. Once you’re dressed, he grabs a water bottle and a rag he found, wiping the smeared blood from your face and hands. When he’s finished, he tosses the supplies into the back of the car without much care, his focus never fully leaving you.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears it. He always does.

Daryl shifts slightly, his fingers resting on your arms, his eyes meeting yours. His expression softens, the worry in his gaze giving way to something warmer, something that makes your heart skip a beat.

“I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “Not ever again.”

His words are a promise, one that settles deep in your chest. You reach up, your hand trembling slightly as you cup his cheek, your fingers brushing against the rough stubble along his jaw. You can only imagine the amount of things he must be feeling seeing you like this. If it had been the other way around, and you were tending to him, you didn’t think you’d be able to keep it together like he is. For a moment, he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut as if he’s savoring the connection between you in this quiet shared space away from everyone.

When he opens his eyes again, the intensity in his gaze takes your breath away. He’s always been guarded, careful with his emotions, but right now, with you, there’s no hiding what he feels.

“I–Daryl, I need you,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

“I’m right here,” he breathes, “ain’t goin’ anywhere,” his voice rough with emotion, the words carrying something that settles deep into your chest. He cups your face too, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that makes your heart race.

Before you can react, both of his hands are on you, pulling you in as his lips press into yours with a raw, desperate need. The kiss is intense, consuming, as if he’s pouring everything he’s never said into that one moment. He’s still so gentle, so careful with your fragile state, but he holds you with eagerness. His grip tightens, and you melt against him, your fingers clutching at his shirt as if holding onto him will force time to stop here, to pause for just this moment.

The world blurs at the edges, everything fading into the background as the two of you stay locked in an embrace, the kiss deepening with every second. Neither of you pull away—neither of you want to. His breath, his touch, the feel of him against you is enough to keep you anchored to this moment, to each other.

And as his hold on you tightens, you realize you don’t need anything else. You realize for the first time in a long while, you’re not alone.